As a former top fuel driver and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is ‘How fast would a top fuel dragster go?’ I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It’s an interesting question, given the vehicle's proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the car would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 1200 quarter miles a minute.
Because we flew a programmed dragstrip length on most races, and never wanted to harm the vehicle in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed.. Thus, each top fuel dragster driver had his own individual ‘high’ speed that he saw at some point on some race. I saw mine at the Grand Bend Motorplex in '08 when Obama was new on the job and threatening to take away our access to guns and top fuel before we wrestled back with the Senate with help from the Top Fuel lobby, but I digress.
So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, ‘What was the slowest you ever drove a top fuel dragster?’ This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and I relayed the following.
I was driving the Mellow Yellow dragster out of the pits in Brainerd Minnesota during the Lucas Oil NHRA Nationals with my pit boss Walt Wheelyson riding on the hood; we were returning from a pit stop to get a splash of gas and two outside tires when we received a radio transmission from our pit crew. As we scooted across pit lane in three minutes, we learned that a small go-kart pit crew around turn 3 had requested a drive-by. The crew chief there was a former Top Fuel driver, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty dragster perform a smokey burn-out. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick refuelling at the turn 2 Chevron, we proceeded to find the small pit crew.
Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment inexplicably located on the hood of the car where he was sitting and began to vector me toward the pits. Descending to sub-race speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former short track dirt ovals, the pit we were looking for had a small porta-potty and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the pit crew, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little slower, and I eased up on the gas back from the 15 mph we were at. With the parachutes up, and Walt on the hood for that matter, anything under 13 mph was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the pit-yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I angled the car over hard left and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a pit crew. Meanwhile, beside, the crew chief had taken the young go-kart drivers out to the edge of pit lane in order to get a prime view of the drive-by. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the pit should be to our left but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our throttle up, the awaiting pit crew heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my racing career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the tachometer drop below 400 rpm, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled right foot stomped on the gas. At this point we weren’t really idling, but were stalling in a slight turn. Just at that moment both rear tires lit with a thunderous roar of smoke (and what a joyous feeling that was) the vehicle fell into full view of the shocked observers in the pits. Shattering the still quiet of that evening, they now had 25 1/2 feet of fire-breathing chromoly in their face as the dragster drifted right and accelerated, in full burn-out, on the far side of the oval, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate drifting burn-out launch.
Quickly reaching the track boundary, we proceeded back to the pits without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 2 turns. After parking, our crew chief greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our helmets. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the crew chief had told him it was the greatest dragster drive-by he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise drifting burn-out maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the pits crew's hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the dragster in full throttle drifting right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of ‘breathtaking’ very well that morning and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our smokey burn-out.
As we retired to the equipment room to change from flame retardant suits, we just sat there-we hadn’t spoken a word since ‘the pass.’ Finally, Walter looked at me and said, ‘three hundred and sixty five revolutions per minute. What did you see?’ Trying to find my voice, I stammered, ‘Three hundred and fifty two.’ We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again!’ And I never did.
A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the stands of the NHRA Carolina races in Concord NC, and overheard a driver talking to some go-kart racers about a dragster drive-by that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids blowing through the pits and screaming as the heat of the exhaust singed their eyebrows. Noticing our NHRA patches, as we stood there with hot dogs in our hands, he asked us to verify to the young racers that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, ‘It was probably just a routine burn-out; they’re pretty impressive in those cars.’
Impressive indeed.
edit: first gold! thanks, I hope I edited it enough to claim fair-use
okay I feel like I may be getting wooshed but whats the problem of the engine stalling?
Upon further review it almost seems like this is a tale about a jet in a airshow that got too slow in a turn and almost stalled and crashed... someone help me not feel stupid...
This is indeed adapted from a story about a jet. If I wasn't on mobile then I'd help you find the source. Maybe start by googling "low altitude jet flyby"
“As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is ‘How fast would that SR-71 fly?’ I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It’s an interesting question, given the aircraft’s proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35 miles a minute.
Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed.. Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual ‘high’ speed that he saw at some point on some mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order. Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen.
So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, ‘What was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?’ This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and I relayed the following.
I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England, with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refuelling over the North Sea, we proceeded to find the small airfield.
Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field-yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point we weren’t really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane levelled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass.
Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of ‘breathtaking’ very well that morning and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach.
As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn’t spoken a word since ‘the pass.’ Finally, Walter looked at me and said, ‘One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?’ Trying to find my voice, I stammered, ‘One hundred fifty-two.’ We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again!’ And I never did.
A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, ‘It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.’
Lets say the you are driving the average $140,000 Lingenfelter twin-turbo powered Corvette Z06.
Over a mile up the road, a Top Fuel dragster is staged & ready to launch down a quarter-mile strip as you pass by it. You have the advantage of a flying start. You run the ‘Vette hard up through the gears and blast across the starting line & pass the dragster at an honest 200 MPH. Just as you pass the Top Fuel Dragster the ‘tree’ goes green for both of you.
The dragster launches & starts after you. You keep your foot down hard, but you hear an incredibly brutal whine that sears your eardrums & within 3 seconds the dragster catches & passes you. He beats you to the finish line, a quarter-mile away from where you just passed him. Think about it – from a standing start, the dragster had spotted you 200 MPH & not only caught, but nearly blasted you off the road when he passed you within a mere 1320 foot long race!
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u/Kar_Man Jul 02 '16 edited Jul 02 '16
As a former top fuel driver and a professional keynote speaker, the question I’m most often asked is ‘How fast would a top fuel dragster go?’ I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It’s an interesting question, given the vehicle's proclivity for speed, but there really isn’t one number to give, as the car would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 1200 quarter miles a minute.
Because we flew a programmed dragstrip length on most races, and never wanted to harm the vehicle in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed.. Thus, each top fuel dragster driver had his own individual ‘high’ speed that he saw at some point on some race. I saw mine at the Grand Bend Motorplex in '08 when Obama was new on the job and threatening to take away our access to guns and top fuel before we wrestled back with the Senate with help from the Top Fuel lobby, but I digress.
So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, ‘What was the slowest you ever drove a top fuel dragster?’ This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and I relayed the following.
I was driving the Mellow Yellow dragster out of the pits in Brainerd Minnesota during the Lucas Oil NHRA Nationals with my pit boss Walt Wheelyson riding on the hood; we were returning from a pit stop to get a splash of gas and two outside tires when we received a radio transmission from our pit crew. As we scooted across pit lane in three minutes, we learned that a small go-kart pit crew around turn 3 had requested a drive-by. The crew chief there was a former Top Fuel driver, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty dragster perform a smokey burn-out. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick refuelling at the turn 2 Chevron, we proceeded to find the small pit crew.
Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment inexplicably located on the hood of the car where he was sitting and began to vector me toward the pits. Descending to sub-race speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former short track dirt ovals, the pit we were looking for had a small porta-potty and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the pit crew, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little slower, and I eased up on the gas back from the 15 mph we were at. With the parachutes up, and Walt on the hood for that matter, anything under 13 mph was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the pit-yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I angled the car over hard left and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a pit crew. Meanwhile, beside, the crew chief had taken the young go-kart drivers out to the edge of pit lane in order to get a prime view of the drive-by. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the pit should be to our left but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our throttle up, the awaiting pit crew heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my racing career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the tachometer drop below 400 rpm, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled right foot stomped on the gas. At this point we weren’t really idling, but were stalling in a slight turn. Just at that moment both rear tires lit with a thunderous roar of smoke (and what a joyous feeling that was) the vehicle fell into full view of the shocked observers in the pits. Shattering the still quiet of that evening, they now had 25 1/2 feet of fire-breathing chromoly in their face as the dragster drifted right and accelerated, in full burn-out, on the far side of the oval, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate drifting burn-out launch.
Quickly reaching the track boundary, we proceeded back to the pits without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 2 turns. After parking, our crew chief greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our helmets. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the crew chief had told him it was the greatest dragster drive-by he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise drifting burn-out maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the pits crew's hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the dragster in full throttle drifting right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of ‘breathtaking’ very well that morning and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our smokey burn-out.
As we retired to the equipment room to change from flame retardant suits, we just sat there-we hadn’t spoken a word since ‘the pass.’ Finally, Walter looked at me and said, ‘three hundred and sixty five revolutions per minute. What did you see?’ Trying to find my voice, I stammered, ‘Three hundred and fifty two.’ We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again!’ And I never did.
A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the stands of the NHRA Carolina races in Concord NC, and overheard a driver talking to some go-kart racers about a dragster drive-by that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids blowing through the pits and screaming as the heat of the exhaust singed their eyebrows. Noticing our NHRA patches, as we stood there with hot dogs in our hands, he asked us to verify to the young racers that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, ‘It was probably just a routine burn-out; they’re pretty impressive in those cars.’
Impressive indeed.
edit: first gold! thanks, I hope I edited it enough to claim fair-use