“Trouble on the Turnpike”
A Story from Kyle Tucker
Northeast Pennsylvania, Autumn of 2014
With their big wins, close losses, and exciting photo finishes, racing teams are full of great stories. This one happened to Kyle Tucker and his race team in October of 2014, miles away from the track. They were in Pennsylvania for an autocross event at Pocono Raceway. The event started on a Friday, and on Saturday evening, Kyle and his team decided to head a few towns over to grab some dinner. Across from the restaurant was an indoor go-kart track, which after many bets and goading around the table, they had to check out after their meal.
It was nearly 10 PM when they finally peeled themselves away from the karts. They hit a nearby gas station for fuel, then piled back into Kyle’s 1965 Chevrolet Chevelle to head back to Pocono. The Pennsylvania Turnpike was quiet at that hour. With custom suspension and large wheels wrapped in BFGoodrich g-Force COMP-2 tires, the muscle car was a delightful driver. One of Kyle’s colleagues even fell asleep in the back seat. He was awakened abruptly around 11 PM when a loud screeching noise came from the car. In the rear-view mirror, all Kyle could see was a wall of hot orange sparks.
Muffler issue? Exhaust? Kyle — who built this car and knew it inside and out — ran through the possibilities as he pulled onto the shoulder. The group, now wide awake, rushed out of the vehicle to inspect it. The muffler was fine. Tailpipe was, too. The car softly rumbled in front of them, still running. No noise. They looked at one another, puzzled.
“Gas.” Someone pointed to the empty spot where the vehicle’s gas tank should have been. In slow motion, the group turned behind them to see a dark hump of metal on the road, maybe a quarter mile back. Just then, a Ford Econoline van came around a bend, headed right for the tank, recently filled, that they’d just left in the center of its lane. It might as well have been a land mine.
Time slowed as this new, potentially deadly, reality sank in. The men waved their hands, praying the driver might see them and stop. But it was nearly midnight and quite dark in the mountains. They braced for impact as the van hit the tank. Again, it dragged along the pavement, showering the highway in sparks and fuel. But someone, somewhere had heard their prayers. Against all odds, none of those sparks lit. The driver, hearing the screeching noise, pulled over ahead of them, put his van in reverse, saw a lump of metal was the issue, and drove off into the night. None the wiser.
The Chevy sputtered into silence as its fuel line ran dry, snapping the group back to the present. Their collective sighs of relief were white wisps in the brisk October air. They laughed, dumb-struck by their own luck. After the due celebration, they turned toward their new problem: getting a middle-of-the-night tow on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. While waiting for the truck (which showed up hours later) they inspected the mangled gas tank. It had been installed on the Chevelle rather recently. They concluded that a failed strap was the culprit. And, again, they thanked the stars above that it had taken no victims.
Kyle thanks them again, for good measure, every time he fills up his tank.