We “old-timers,” (damn, I hate that!) often like to harken back to things we miss. The way racing has been going lately, I miss almost everything. But in October my thoughts go to Langhorne (Pa.) Speedway.
It’s hard to fathom that so many race fans never got to see “The Horne.” It was a weird place. Saucer-shaped, a mile in distance and covered with oily dark clay. It had ruts sometimes as big as Cleveland. There was an area called “Puke Holllow” because drivers felt they could toss their cookies when they drove over it.

Built in 1927, Langhorne was notorius. Aside from Indianapolis and the original Legion Ascot, it was the biggest widow maker. It was kind of a dump with poor creature comforts, but once the green came out you forgot all that and you were in for a day of hard racing.

Built in 1927, Langhorne was notorius. Aside from Indianapolis and the original Legion Ascot, it was the biggest widow maker. It was kind of a dump with poor creature comforts, but once the green came out you forgot all that and you were in for a day of hard racing.
I often have wondered how could anybody in an open-cockpit race car ever think of racing there. It even took away Jimmy Bryan, the greatest one-mile dirt driver, ever.
It was heaven for me. It was less than 100 miles from home. It’s “sister” track, Trenton (N.J.) was even closer. For a couple of years those two tracks ran five Championship Trail races between them. Now in the Northeast, we have nothing except for Watkins Glen (N.Y.). I prefer wheel-to-wheel racing.
I saw my first NASCAR Grand National race there in 1954. Herb Thomas won in a Hudson Hornet. The next day, that race was my “Show and Tell” project in my fourth-grade class.
I was lucky to see Fireball Roberts at Langhorne. I learned what a controlled slide was. He and Paul Goldsmith ran a 150-mile race side by side.
Later, the National Open for modifieds earned my interest. About 200 cars of all shapes and colors used to show up. I remember trying to hear Ted Webbe on the P.A. as I dutifully jotted down qualifying times.
The 1963 race was memorable as for the only time in my life I slept in a car. I learned a lot from that experience. I found that once was enough.
The actual highlight of the 1963 race was the driving of Budd Olsen. They started 60 cars in the 100 miler. Many had won guaranteed spots at tracks all over the country. They ran a 20-mile consolation race, which added two cars. Olsen made the show despite spinning in the consi.
Olsen started last and drove Dave Piscopo’s No. 39 to second behind Dutch Hoag, The Open’s all-time winner. That was something to see.
The next year I loaded up my movie camera and stood near the first turn ditch.
It was quite a view. Especially, when Carl Van Horn hit Jack Reinhard’s stalled car right in front of me. It was a frightening impact. Carl recovered to race again and “enjoy” my film. Freddy Adam nosed out Kenny Shoemaker, Bill Wimble and Bill Murdock in a four-car battle to the checkered flag.
Promoters Irv Freid and Al Gerber paved the track since USAC’s champ car trail was transitioning to a pavement-only series. In 1965, we were greeted with a circular asphalt track. They did change the shape somewhat, but the track was a set-up headache.
When the modifieds signed in that October, most of the entries were the dirt trackers that raced before. They struggled to keep these high-profile cars in line. The race was moved up to 150 miles.
The 1965 Open was the biggest screwed up mess I have ever seen. It was also the first major race I covered for NSSN.
Because of the real possibility of many caution laps, they made it a 150-lap green-flag race.
Trying to keep track of this through all the carnage was impossible. The only source was the infield scoreboard, as always 40 laps behind. They also used to assign car numbers in case of duplicates by whitewashing the new number on.
Many cars were unrecognizable.
After a very long delay due to cautions, red flags and a little rain, they figured Bill Slater won. He very well may have, but maybe he didn’t. I still have the clipping of the story I wrote. It looked pretty good, even though I hadn’t the foggiest idea what had gone on. Neither did most others.
The remaining Opens were pretty good. Freid and Gerber had signed a five-year lease in 1965. So, when Merv Treichler beat his cousin, Roger, in 1970, we figured that was it.
However, the furniture store owner who bought the land insisted on a traffic light on Route 1, so Langhorne got one more year.
Roger Treichler made up for it by winning the final race on Oct. 17, 1971.
We drove away from The Horne for the last time, very sad. The place had quite a history.
I wonder if the easy-chair department of the furniture store wound up by Puke Hollow?
That would have been very ironic.