#6 Sons of Speed Tenn Jam 2024

 

Tennessee wasn’t in the plans for May. TMMR was just a thought, and Tenn Jam wasn’t even on my radar. With CMA Fest already locked in for June, a lack of funds and planning had me choosing carefully. If my pockets and the Bronco could’ve handled it, I’d have loaded up the dogs and stayed a whole damn month

Back in April last year, my newfound soul sister, Mary, asked if I’d be interested in coming out to help her score the races for Sons of Speed. I’d never scored a race and wasn’t sure what that consisted of, but I was absolutely curious. A month went by, and the idea had been forgotten when Chuck called to see if I’d be making it out to be a part of his pit crew. I wondered if a cheap flight would be in the cards. Another message later that week from Mary was the sign I needed to lock in my decision. I needed to get my ass out there. With a place to stay graciously offered by Chuck’s friends and a just-in-case backup tent provided by Mary, I had my sleeping arrangements on lock. The race was only two weeks away. I managed to scrape some cheddar together and found a round-trip flight to Tennessee for under 400 bucks. May 22nd was the day.

I was introduced to Sons of Speed during Bike Week in Daytona earlier this year. I touched base on it briefly in blog #2 but failed to really explain what it was all about. Sons of Speed was founded by Billy Lane, the main man behind Choppers Inc., a legend in the motorcycle world and well known for his appearance on good ol’ Discovery Channel for his head-to-head Biker Build-Off challenge against Indian Larry back in 2003. Billy went on to pave the way for reviving the era of vintage motorcycle racing. This particular event takes place three times a year, held during Daytona Bike Week and Biketoberfest, hosted at the New Smyrna Speedway, and for Tenn Jam at the Tennessee National Raceway. Tenn Jam is an event where Sons of Speed is also joined by a hooligans class, which participates in a separate race. The raceway is a fast 1/3-mile clay oval set within the countryside of Hohenwald. Home of grassroots racing, this dirt track and its atmosphere host Sons of Speed perfectly. The people this event brings in from all over the country is something fucking special. If I only had a few words to describe this event, they would be, “It’s rad as fuck.” But we all know how much I like to talk—and now, apparently, how much I like to write. So here’s the lengthy, over-explained guts of it all.

Over the years of traveling, I managed to kick the fear of flying I had right in the ass. This flight, however, led everyone on it into some weird type of silence. The turbulence handed to us as we were approaching Fort Worth could only be described as if someone loaded me into an unbalanced washing machine and left me there to spin and die. Zoning out with my AirPods in, I caught the pilot’s voice for a brief moment, “We have about 45 minutes left of circling before we have to choose another airport to land.” The fuel capacity was low. Apparently, while I was deeply absorbed in writing the One Moto blog and also desperately trying to ignore the spin cycle, I completely tuned out anything and everything announced over the loudspeaker. All I could think was, I’m going to miss my fucking connecting flight. Great.

Miraculously, we were cleared to land. I had about 30 minutes to refuel myself, take a piss, and run to my next plane. Chuck had started his end of the journey and was on his way to the airport to pick me up. Making my connection and leaving Dallas, the pilot announced that the only plane cleared for takeoff was the one I was so fucking thankful I was on. A small break in the weather and the divine timing of it all saved me from being stuck in Texas. What a fucking blessing. Landing in Nashville, after yet another turbulent flight, I was nothing but grateful to be on solid ground. Pee… bags… Chuck. Where the fuck was Chuck? He said I couldn’t miss him. Blowing by everybody in a big-ass black truck with an even bigger black trailer in tow, he looked like some sort of undertaker, with the only pops of color coming from his most commonly chosen attire—tie-dye. I hopped in, gave hugs, took selfies, and we were on our way. Arriving at about 9:30 p.m., after accidentally taking the scenic route, we pulled up to a house on a country road about two hours away from Nashville and 20 minutes from the raceway.

The Airbnb reminded me of the Winchester Mystery House with its random windows, doors, and shotgun rooms. The kitchen window was made of stained glass and probably would’ve looked beautiful had it not been blocked off by another room addition, surrounded by even more expansions. You could tell the structure in the center was initially much smaller in its original form. Outside, the field was engulfed in darkness, but the sky was lit up with stars—some I’m sure I’ve never seen before. I was told that in the morning, there would be cows.

Tracy and Richard, our amazing hosts, traveled from Arkansas, making sure they brought the shine. We settled in at the dining area around a cardboard case filled with mason jars. Some with liquid amber in color, some with clear, and some with hints of red—each one labeled with Sharpie marker written on its lid. We tasted all the flavors Richard created. As one of Chuck’s protégés in training, Richard did not disappoint. From candy apple to peach cobbler and, of course, apple pie. Drinking out of glass jars with my new friends and Chuck, partaking in another spontaneous adventure in a new state, had me all smiles. After a few sips of each, we decided to be responsible and save the blurry vision for another day and call it a night.

I woke up early Thursday morning and walked outside. I was now able to see the property in its entirety. Green grass, a beautiful sky accented with huge fluffy white clouds, and one single, little, baby white cow in the distance. I envied that cow. Even though he may end up as dinner one day, at that moment, he looked happy, content, and free.

We hopped in the truck and hit the road. Passing farms, rivers, and driving over small bridges, I placed my hand out of the window in the warm Tennessee air and let the wind flow through my fingers. The greenery—something that escapes my part of California in the summer months—was fresh and vibrant. These little moments that make me feel like a kid again are what I call one of my “why’s” or reasons that I write. To be able to read this later and come back to a place where I can let my brain movies play out forgotten memories filed away from ADHD is some sort of superpower. Did I say I love this shit?

We approached downtown Hohenwald in search of a place to eat. Lacking ample street parking, we decided to put our asses right in front of the courthouse—a place I’d say is absolutely suitable for an outlaw vintage motorcycle racer and the only place large enough to accommodate the undertaker’s rig. We found a cool little breakfast joint called the Southern Skillet, where the servers were sweet, and the biscuits and gravy were fuckin’ killer. With it being one of the only two options in town other than fast food, I’d gladly take it over Hardee’s or McDonald’s any day.

Continuing en route after fat, full bellies, we turned off onto a dirt road at the raceway and rounded one side of the track to find our place in the pits. We pulled right up next to Michael Lichter’s van—who I was happy to see again after meeting him at Rocky’s block party in Daytona—and parked next to Carey and Derek from Empire Cycles. Choosing his own spot as always, Chuck staked his claim and took off to look for his two-man crew he calls the Gerbils.

These Gerbil fellows had designated riding names that included Shovelhead, Panhead, and Flathead. I was told very little about these guys but heard of their possible rivalry with the Hamsters. Their slogan of “Gerbils Rule and Hamsters Drool” made more sense as two young boys, probably not older than twelve, rolled up on a couple of pit bikes to give Chuck a hard time. These young men definitely took a liking to Chuck and his colorful personality. The rapport these kids had with him is something that would make anyone smile.

Chuck unloaded the Deuce, and I was able to back out Deliverance from the trailer onto the carpet placed underneath the easy-up. A bike that held up to its name, Deliverance was purchased by Chuck in February 2018. The following month, he started racing for Sons of Speed for the first time in New Smyrna. It was a custom build designed for the Ohio Mile by Brew Cycles and has since set five records held by the East Coast Timing Association. This 1948 Flathead showed up and showed out again for this particular weekend, but you’ll have to continue reading to see how.

We unloaded, and the infamous yellow fuel can took its spot at the front of the tent. I was able to place my signature alongside so many other racing legends and acquaintances now turned family. I glanced over and noticed Gary’s name boldly staring back at me, as if he was saying hi from above.

Now, back to Deliverance. Never having kick-started anything larger than my 150 dirt bike, I hopped on to give it a go. It was a complete fail. Dammit. A few more attempts from Chuck and me, feeling a little defeated, under-stimulated, and in need of a break, we hopped on the Deuce to take a lap through the pits, around the track, and see who we could find. We saw familiar faces and made some rounds, which gave us enough of a break to head back and fire that bitch right up. Success.

Deciding to take a stroll, I walked the perimeter of the pits and spotted Mary on the end, down by Coe’s tent. On my way to her to get our crew wristbands and lanyards, I noticed a British bike underneath a tent with a big banner that read Weems Motor Co. The bike was black and silver with the words Dolly Mongrel painted on the tank. It had bike parts Frankensteined together from Norton and Triumph to JAP. It even had a Matchless speedometer. I needed to find out who built this and figure out what was up with this bike. Having a Matchless myself and finding out how little most people know about it, I was excited to talk to anyone who didn’t say that I “shoulda got a Harley.”

I was fortunate to talk with Michael Lange for a bit as he caught me gawking at the bike. He assured me that Weems was the man and would have a boatload of knowledge for me, as he was “the British bike guy,” and my hunt for him would continue later. Michael, who built his first bike at only sixteen, has been featured in Easyriders magazine as well as many other publications and was also racing this weekend. We talked about his very own Matchless, and I felt a bit of belonging as I was able to share a little about mine. I was able to enjoy the stories of yet another legend and connect with another person who could appreciate my rare British find.

Back at Chuck’s tent with my crew pass in hand, in rolled Barbie, pulling up in a white truck with her main squeeze, Eric, and their little doggie, Julie. As soon as she spotted me, she immediately jumped out and gave big hugs. With plenty of time for catching up, they headed down to their base camp at the opposite end of the pits, which later gave me plenty of reasons to walk back and forth throughout the weekend.

Around 3 p.m., the track was open for practice. We’d been awaiting a storm, and practice laps were held off until we were sure it would pass. The weather had been predicted not in our favor, but we were pretty stoked to be spared. That red clay had been hard-packed and was ready to accommodate vintage motorcycles ranging in age to almost 100 years old, to newer, faster bikes ridden by the hooligans. I watched as the racers cautiously entered and gathered their bearings, testing out their freshly tuned machines and acclimating to the slippery red dirt.

During practice, somewhere between my tenth walking lap back and forth through the pits, I decided to stop and introduce myself to Dolly Mongrel’s owner. Jared Weems, an incredibly talented individual with tons of knowledge that he loved to share, along with the love he has for British motorcycles. Weems runs a YouTube channel where some of his content includes interviews of his fellow builders and racers. Hosting tons of shop talks, he gives loads of information on builds along with events he’s attending and races he’s involved in. He was set to race the Dolly Mongrel against Billy Lane and Jason Brooks in the Peashooters heat, a race where three vintage motorcycles, racing together for the first time, will be marked down in history.

As we talked, I couldn’t help but notice another bike just outside the canopy. Dubbed “The Judge” and a champion of many kickstart competitions, it was a previous steed that in its earlier time belonged to a member of the Galloping Goose MC. A member who decided to sit outside of a courthouse until they let him take the bar exam, becoming a lawyer, then a judge, and obtaining a first for any member of any MC to accomplish this feat. If you ever run into Weems, I highly recommend you ask him to tell you the story of how he happened to acquire this motorcycle and the history behind it, as he’s a much better storyteller of it than I.

He gave me some pointers on my Matchless, recommended some tools, and offered some manuals, which I am eternally grateful for. Now, I’m another step closer in the right direction for my build.

 

9 p.m. hit, and so did we. Riding into the warm Tennessee night on the back of Chuck’s Deuce with that huge orange moon above made the closing to the night almost perfect and pretty fucking spectacular. We rode into the dark, the only vehicle on the path, and alone in my thoughts, Chuck suddenly ducked.

An instantaneous SMACK shook me right back to reality. What the fuck was that? A fucking grasshopper? It felt like a fucking marble hitting me and exploding on my forehead. Now completely stunned and wide the fuck awake, we rode on. We howled like wolves at the sky—something that I absolutely love Crazy Chuck for. Being our ridiculous, insanely unique, feral selves, getting hit with bugs under an orange moon was probably one of the best times I’ve had in a while and another memory burned into my brain—a close to a great day.

Of course! Here’s the continuation with only punctuation, spelling, and grammar fixes.

Awaking the next morning, I was informed about Chuck’s alien encounter in the middle of the night. He talked of writings on the wall and how “they” came for him. What in the fuck was he talking about? At this point, the name Crazy Chuck wasn’t exactly a cute title—it was starting to seem like something that might need deeper consideration.

 

I walked into his room and was encouraged to look at the wall behind his door. Holy shit. Definitive paint stripes, vertical and strategically placed, added to the Winchester Mystery appeal. The best part? The note written on binder paper, taped to the lid of the toilet, requesting management due to it being backed up from an alien birth. I cried from laughter. This has got to be the funniest shit I’ve heard and seen. The buildup was pure gold. At this point, I’m not sure if Chuck was better at making moonshine, racing, or being a straight-up comedian, but whatever it is, I’m here for it.

 

Shower. Coffee. Cows.

Joining the little baby was a herd. All brown cows and close to the fence. I’m not foreign to farm life or even being in areas of large acreage with wide-open spaces, as it’s something I aim to have one day. Waking up to that scene in the morning solidified it.

My exploration of the East Coast has brought out many wants and feelings that are deeply embedded in my DNA. My father, born in Pennsylvania and primarily raised in New Jersey, eventually settled and then passed in Jacksonville, Florida. I was fortunate to visit a handful of times and have always felt a deep sense of peace and belonging to this side of the country. Maybe one day, this California girl will be convinced to become a full-time transplant—or at the very least, I hope to be a snowbird.

 

We headed into town, but the Skillet was closed, so we fueled up at Hardee’s just long enough for the rain to roll in. Wearing shorts and a hoodie, I hung on and soaked it all in—literally. Riding in the rain is just as magical as riding under an orange moon, especially when it’s with someone you trust.

We pulled into the speedway entrance and headed down the row. This is where I met JB. I remember seeing him in New Smyrna but never got the chance for a formal introduction. We snapped photos with Barbie, and he shared his techniques and tips on his infamous black-and-white portrait shots.

Jason Theurer and Mad Stork showed up just in time. We did a mini photo shoot as Mary did a drive-by and handed off my case of Miller to start the day’s festivities. Hopping along with my champagne of beers in hand, I happened to spot my newfound friend from Milwaukee—someone I will have endless fun fucking with.

 

Rusty was on the bill to race in Daytona for Bike Week, but after coming down with cat scratch fever (yes, it’s a real thing), he wasn’t able to make it, being unreasonably sick. He was here for Tenn Jam and ready to join the hooligans for Saturday’s race.

Heading down the row yet again, I ran into one of my absolute favorites. Eddie Phillips—a stunning photographer and avid skydiver—gave big hugs, shared hilarious stories, and made time to catch up.

Photos upon photos are captured by men like Eddie, Jason, Mad Stork, and Michael Lichter. They document these events and the people in a way that paints a picture far beyond my words. Not only are they hardworking and extremely talented individuals, but they are also just good fuckin’ people with great energy to be around.

Ed Harriger, Blair Snipes, Barry Campbell and Vonwit make it to every event and capture tons of footage to share with anyone who can’t make it out. Adding visuals to anything and everything you’ll read on this page, I highly recommend giving them all a follow.

I made sure to snag a photo with Coe, purely to show how ridiculously tall this man is compared to me, before I made my way to lunch. Pastor Jim and his crew put together a huge spread of food for all of us, preceded by a prayer. I sat with Barbie and Michael as we ate and talked. Michael handed out some of the photos he took, printed onto postcards. They’ve now found a place in a Harley frame that I’ve been waiting to find a purpose for. One of the photos that stood out the most was of a man camped next to his motorcycle. Propped alongside was his prosthetic leg. A photo that brings out emotions and sparks curiosity. It was a true expression of art and storytelling on a single piece of paper that spoke without words.

 

The rain delayed practice until about 4 p.m., giving me plenty of time to slam a few of my champagne bottles and partake in some more moonshine with Tracy.  We watched some more mini races in the pits, with Michael Lange on a dirt bike and Luke Atkinson on his Vespa while Michael Lichter ripped back and forth on The Judge. The simplest of things that brought even the onlookers so much joy. How I feel for the people who will never know what it feels like to ride on two wheels.

With Mary as my wingwoman for the night, we found our way to the fire pit where Weems and his brother, Mike, were posted up. I sat next to JB, and we all shared stories of lost loved ones, past relationships, and meaningful inflection points in life.

I was honored to accept a gift from Weems—a tribute rag made in remembrance of a woman named Katie and her battle with cancer. We talked of Mike’s grandchildren and how much they meant to him and shared stories of adoration for our families. It was the kind of deep conversation and bonding that takes place only when a fire pit, some beer, and good fuckin’ company are present.

Everyone was ready to call it a night when Mary and I decided to see what the hooligans were up to on the other side of the fence. A few of them showed up late and were camped just outside the entrance. We hung out by a seemingly pathetic but warm fire and caught up with old friends.

eBay Jake pulled up in his van, and my blurry vision had me wishing it was an ice cream truck. Not having any ice cream but the next best thing, Jake handed me one more beer.

After drinking quite a bit, I decided to head back to the trailer JB offered me to crash in for the night. JB had a room with his fam and had no problem setting up the cot for me, as I opted to stay at the track after declining a ride home with Chuck—possibly avoiding more grasshoppers to the face.

Grateful I had two options, including the tent Mary brought for me, I was even more ecstatic to be off the ground.

Per my usual, I awoke at about 3 a.m. to see a man about a horse. Tired as hell and trying to fight it, I dragged my ass to the bathrooms.

Man, was I glad I went when I did.

Ten minutes later, the skies opened and unleashed what seemed like a week’s worth of held-in aggression. Hail and wind hammered the trailer so hard I thought I was going to tip over. The sound of that shit was wild and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little frightened.

With the trailer door anchored halfway shut by a wire hanger I happened to find, I laid there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, when all of a sudden—out of nowhere—Whaaa-bam!

Something hit the side of the trailer.

All I could envision was me flipping over inside, and everyone having to dig me out in the morning after sinking into the mud. What in the actual fuck was that?

Refusing to get up and investigate, I was able to finally pass out.

Of course! Here’s the next section with only punctuation, spelling, and grammar fixes while keeping your original style intact.

Running on little sleep, still on the cot and groggy-eyed, I could hear people rustling around outside.

Wha-bam!!

Again?! Fuck! Glad I don’t have a sensitive heart!

It turned out to be Luke and Scotty, a couple of my favorites from the Hillbilly Mafia. Part of the noise I heard from the night before was a canopy blowing over and hitting the side of JB’s trailer. The rest? These two boys wading ankle-deep in mud and hail, trying to keep the easy-up from flying away.

“Wanna go get breakfast, Nicole?”

Hell to the yes.

I hopped in the back of the truck, riding bitch on our way to the only other breakfast joint in town.

Hitting up the buffet, I sat with Luke, Scooter Bob, and Big Al. Feeling a little hungover from the night before, I smashed down some eggs and shared the story of how I almost died last year. It was nice to connect and get to know these gentlemen just a little bit more.

Luke was someone I met at Rocky’s block party in Daytona after my first Sons of Speed attendance during Bike Week in March. Graciously letting me charge my always-almost-dead phone in his truck that day while I awaited an important phone call was the moment I knew the Hillbilly Mafia had my back.

A great start to the day with full stomachs and eternally grateful for coffee, we headed back.

At the track, I hit the pits with Barbie. Snapping photos and playing catch-up with one of the most influential women I know was exactly where I was supposed to be. We took a group shot with Thelma and Jenny, two of the few badass females who race with the men in Sons of Speed.

Man, I wish.

If you ever get the chance to see these ladies in action, I highly recommend you don’t forgo it. No matter where or what place Jenny is on the track, the smile on her face only emphasizes how much she absolutely fuckin’ loves this shit. And Thelma, with her black hair waving behind her as she cruises by, passing her competition—she’s a force. I admire these two for putting any ounce of fear they might have away, riding side by side with these legendary men in one of the most fun and friendly competitions you’ll ever see.

Friends that turn into family. A love and passion for motorcycles that magnifies everything.

What more is there to life than this?

Now, I’ve never scored a race in my life, and saying that I had no idea what I was doing would probably be an understatement.

 

Mary, Barbie, and I—all running wild with a mild case of ADHD and definitely some time blindness going on—were almost late to the party.

We rushed to make sure we had all the racers written down for reference and created our heat sheets. We took our place at the finish line, where a cutout in the fence made for the best spot to perch and watch.

As the first heat was about to start, I could feel the adrenaline building up in me as the racers followed Coe around the track on the pace bike.

The only rule, and one that will never get old hearing from Steve Coe, is “Don’t pass the pace bike.”

As Coe turned off to let the racers finally start their heat, I realized how unprepared I was.

Holy shit.

My brain took a minute to process. I also think I forgot how to write for a brief moment.

I definitely underestimated how fast these guys were going, and it wasn’t until I had to write their damn numbers down as they were passing the finish line that I realized I was not doing my job right.

Thank god Mary has done this a time or two and had the numbers Barbie and I needed to fall back on.

It wasn’t until race three that I finally figured it out.

Something finally clicked. The confusion left, and more adrenaline kicked in. Each race, with my hat nearly blowing off from the gusts of wind rushing up from the bikes passing by, just fueled that feeling even more.

This shit was so rad.

Handing over our papers after each racing class with a very tiny break in between, I could say that this was the fast-paced, adrenaline-filled shit that I longed for.

Tom Banks was our flag guy for the day, adding to the fun to be observed. In the center of the track were all of the amazing photographers capturing footage, while behind us, a crowd gathered on the bleachers.

The sun started to set on the final race day as the adrenaline of the event slowly faded away and transpired into reflection and celebration.

Chuck, placing first in the Legends class on Deliverance for the first time racing Sons of Speed, took his well-deserved victory lap. Holding the checkered flag high, it waved behind him, flapping in the wind.

It was the perfect closeout to this magic-filled weekend.

In the Hot 61 class, Michael Lange delivered a win and again dominated in the Hot 45s. Mike Bellomo on #105 in the Stock 45 class, while boss man himself, Billy Lane, carried the lead and locked in the win for the Peashooters class. Rusty Carvalho gave it his all in the Hooligans class, finishing strong in 11th place among a fiercely competitive, faster-than-shit Hooligans race.

Other racers left their marks on the track for the Hooligans class, but unfortunately, I was unable to track down their scorer for the stats, so Rusty’s solid 11th place is all you get.

Goodbyes were exchanged between friends who now felt more like family. I packed up tents, trailers, and stories to take home.

Though Hohenwald offered no cab service to take me back to town, I didn’t mind. Unable to make it to Nashville to hang with the boys, it gave me one more evening to hang out with Chuck, Tracy, and Richard—an incredible group of people—before heading out on my flight in the morning.

Sunday came too quickly, as it always does. Parting from my East Coast people always leaves me with a sense of sadness, but it is quickly replaced with gratitude and fulfillment.

These people fill my cup, as I hope I do in return.

If you’ve ever found yourself knee-deep in red clay, beer in hand, watching century-old machines tear up the track, you already know—there’s nothing like it. And if you haven’t? Well, it’s about damn time.

I was invited to score again and officially put on the books for Speedtober in Daytona for Biketoberfest. Since then, life’s been a blur of races, road trips, and unforgettable moments. We’re now in March, and I’m way behind on storytelling like always—but for good reason. Since Tenn Jam, the Virginia City Roundup, Born Free 15, and the High Seas Rally have all taken place.

Seeing as how my creative writing has me running behind schedule (again), I’ll make sure to recap these adventures in short form soon and shout out the people behind them.

Meanwhile, Mama Tried in Wisconsin just wrapped up, and I’m currently en route to Florida with my two road dogs, Casey and Bear, for another Sons of Speed.

Daytona Bike Week—here we come!

Spoiler alert: The Matchless made it to Wisconsin, Barbie unveiled her sculpture for Chuck Garric, and Local Brand launched its first collaboration limited edition T-shirt drop. Available for online orders March 15th

 

All the badass local spots and businesses from this trip are listed below—check them out and show them some love. Want to keep up with the next ride? Follow along on Instagram @localbrandclothingco for the latest updates, wild rides, and behind-the-scenes exclusives.

Locals Mentioned:

• Moonshiner Crazy Chuck: Instagram: @moonshinercrazychuck

• Barbie the Welder: Instagram: @barbiethewelder | Facebook | Website

• JB Can’t Stop: Instagram: @cant_stop_vintage_racing

• Michael Lichter: Instagram: @michaellichterphotography | Facebook | Website

• Carey Maynell: Instagram: @careyjmaynell

• Derek: Instagram: @empirecycleshop

• Billy Lane: Instagram: @choppers.inc | @sonsofspeedvintageracing

• Michael Lange: Instagram: @michaellange1877

• Jared Weems: Instagram: @weemsmotorco | Facebook | Website

• Mike Weems: Instagram: @michaeldweemsjr

• Pastor Jim: Instagram: @pastorjimobrien

• Jason Theurer: Instagram: @jason_theurer

• Mad Stork: Instagram: @mad_stork

• Rusty Carvalho: Instagram: @rusty_978

• Ed Harriger: Instagram: @edzo58

• Blair Snipes: Instagram: @blair_snipes

• Vonwit: Instagram: @vonwit

• Barry Campbell: Instagram: @barrycampbellphoto

• Eddie Phillips: Instagram: @eddierapidphoto

• Luke Atkinson: Instagram: @hillbillydemafia

• Tom Banks: Instagram: @tom_banksbrothersmc

• Mike Bellomo: Instagram: @mikebellomo

• Jason Brooks: Instagram: @jeremyjasonbrooks

• Scotty Beall: Instagram: @tailspin500

• eBay Jake: Instagram: @ebayjake

• Thelma Rangel: Instagram: @sunshine3240

• Jenny

• Mary Spearing

• Steve Coe

• Scooter Bob

• Big Al

• Tracy and Richard Darby

 

Local Places:

• Tennessee National Raceway: Facebook

• New Smyrna Speedway (New Smyrna, FL): Instagram | Facebook | Website

• Virginia City, NV (Virginia City Roundup): Instagram: @vcroundup

 

Events:

• Born Free 15 (California): Instagram: @bornfreeshow | Website

• High Seas Rally (Cruise): Instagram: @highseasrally | Facebook | Website

• Mama Tried (Wisconsin): Instagram: @mamatriedshow | Website

 

Local businesses

• Southern Skillet (restaurant)

• Local Brand Clothing Company (collaboration mentioned) thing Company:

• Instagram: @localbrandclothingco

• Facebook: Local Brand Clothing Company

• Website: localbrandclothingco.com