My maternal grandfather, William Adair Cox (“Grandpop”), used to take me and my brothers to various events in and around downtown Dallas. One of them was the running of the Soap Box Derby. For those unfamiliar with the Derby, I will summarize. It is a downhill racing contest held annually since 1934. Wooden cars made and operated by children roll down a ramp and on to the finish line, getting there in 30 seconds or so. The cars race in pairs, and gravity alone speeds them on their way. Dallas was, and I suppose it still is, one of many cities holding Soap Box Derby tournaments. The winners moved up to the national championship at Derby Downs in Akron, Ohio.
This rather wholesome enterprise peaked in popularity in the late 1950s and early 1960s, about the time I tried—and failed—to get involved. There have been more than a few scandals in the history of the Soap Box Derby wherein children, usually in connivance with adults, cheat to make their cars go faster. The results of the 1973 race, won by Jimmy Gronen of Boulder, Colorado, were overturned when he was found to have an electromagnetic device in the nose of his car which pulled him downhill at a suspiciously fast rate.
So back to Grandpop and the Dallas version of the Derby. After witnessing the color and excitement of the race—in 1964, I am guessing—I expressed an interest in taking part. He generously bought the official wheels and axles to be used in a car I would build. The rules were clear about the involvement of parents and other adults; they could offer advice or answer questions, but all work had to be done by the kids who were to pilot the cars downhill on race day. I was given a set of instructions on how to go about making my Soap Box Derby car, and that was when the problems began. There was no way in heck I could understand or follow those directions. The terminology went over my head, and I lacked both the tools and expertise to build any such car. Let me add that there was a fairly rigorous inspection system to be sure the cars were safe and up to certain standards (and to check for cheaters like the aforementioned Boulder boy).
I gazed at the instructions time and again, and failed to even make a start. This polished, aerodynamic contraption was to have bulkheads, brakes and a steering mechanism, with cables and pulleys. I found the whole process exasperating and wondered how many other boys and girls were doing it on their own. I was puzzled as to how a car could be made without the active help of an adult, but of course that was against the rules. Who, besides a budding mechanical engineer, could have pulled it off? Certainly not me.
The axles and wheels remained in our garage for three or four years, during which time Grandpop died. The guilt I felt was immense. I had let him down, or so I thought. In fact, he had never said a word about it and may have even forgotten about my plan to enter the Soap Box Derby. I finally found another kid who was willing to buy them for $5, getting them out of my sight and guilty conscience. I gave the money to his widow, Grandmother Cox, and apologized to her for having failed to follow through.
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