Word: straightaways
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Pinkerton men waited until Jockey Eddie Arcaro had ridden C. V. Whitney's filly, First Flight, down the six-furlong straightaway in a near-record 1:08 3/5. Then one of the agents stepped up to Baldy. "How would you like to talk to Mr. O'Grady at the Pinkerton Agency?" Blurted Baldy in hurt indignation: "Pinkerton? O'Grady? What am I? A bookmaker?" But he was not indignant enough to want to meet O'Grady-he vanished through the nearest gate...
...shifting gears. From 15 miles east of Pittsburgh to the outskirts of Harrisburg, the four-lane super-highway has no intersections, grade crossings, pedestrians, stoplights, or fixed speed limit (except in its 6.7 miles of tunnels). Going through instead of over the rugged Alleghenies, it has no miles of straightaway, no grade steeper than 3%, no curve requiring a reduction in speed...
...fact, attendance has been known to drop after a fatal accident. Critics of the sport have overlooked its obvious, uncomplicated charms. It is fast, hotly competitive, requires skill and nerve and, like most crowd-pleasing American pastimes, involves lots of noise. When half a dozen cars whine down the straightaway inches apart and fling into a screeching slide around a curve, the drivers brush lightly against the wings of death. But as in a tight-rope act, danger is the attraction, not death...
...harum-scarum stuff without spoiling the thrills," Schindler says. With the development of the brutish little Offenhauser motors, midgets today seldom hide under the cowl outboard motors or souped-up Ford engines. Modern midgets have hit as high as 142 m.p.h. on a straightaway. On the small tracks, the doodlebugs have a ceiling of about 75 m.p.h., since chauffeurs have to negotiate a new curve every four or five seconds...
...amazement of 15,000 track fans at Madison Square Garden, the Reverend Gil Dodds* bolted straightaway into the lead. Their Iron Deacon, the greatest miler the U.S. ever produced, usually waits a lap or two before showing his heels. As he sped around the board track, his arms flailing like windmills, Dodds heard a heavy-set man in a tuxedo chanting out the time to him: "Twenty-point-five . . . twenty-two," and he knew he was running well...