"I have," says Illustrator Arnold Roth, "a son who digs drag racing." Which explains, as well as anything, how Daddy happened to go to the drag strips. He soon discovered, as only Roth does, his own wild, new scene of color, sights and sounds. All that vroom, vroom, vroom set off the satirist in Roth (he has already destroyed football and done in baseball). Now, if the sport feels it can stand this sort of thing, here is Roth at the races.
Esthetics (says Roth) are important: anything that stands still is painted, decaled and waxed. It is an Uffizi Gallery with chrome and hair.
Dragging men and their machines blend into one personality as they crouch at the straightaway, ready for a noisy run to fame and glory.
As the machines rev up—and they are forever revving up—the roar of power rises throughout the land so vividly that one can (well, Roth can) see it. At left, a rail drag driver shows how to overshoot the chute.
This is the American drag dream—the bad guys have lost, and the good guy kavooms off into the sunset with glory, trophies and the prettiest girl race fan in the tightest pants.