by Dennis Dakan
In the spring of 2003, I was visiting with my great T friend, Bill Brandon, from Fortescue, Missouri, about the possibility of us going on a Model T
tour together. Bill suggested, "What about the Montana 500?" Having never been to Montana, I thought it was a great idea, and we immediately started making plans.
Bill took his '24 coupe, and I ran my '13 touring, at Bozeman that year. We ran in the touring class, made new friends and had a great time.
After returning from Bozeman, I knew I had to find an old roadster so I could build a racer and return to the Big Sky State. During the next 14
months or so, I passed up four T's - two were just too rough for my limited body restoration abilities, and two were actually touring bodies cut
off to make pick up trucks - not really what I had in mind.
On August 28, 2004, a retired car dealer in Mound City, Missouri, about 45 miles from my home, auctioned off his car collection, along with a '23
roadster consigned by a family in that community. The car dealer had a very nice '15 roadster in the auction that I would have loved to own, but I wound up
the second place bidder. I was, however, able to purchase the '23. Now I had a racer!
I spent the next two months fixing everything on it from the timer to the rear brakes. The previous owner had stated to me before the sale, "It just
runs perfect!" After replacing a leaking head gasket, installing a rotor in the timer that did have a spring on it, and replacing all four coils, the old
car would start and run fairly well.
I did everything I knew how to do and could only get the '23 to run 54 mph. With the weather getting colder and the nice days becoming fewer, in
mid-October, I took the motor out and began the rebuilding process.
Although the motor had been rebabbitted in the early '60's when the car had been restored, it also had been bored .060 and needed to be bored
again. Adding to the problem was the crankshaft, which had been ground .040 with no radius on the sides.
I found another block, complete with a freeze crack, in Kansas City, and also picked up a badly pitted crankshaft at the same place. Now I had
something to work with.
During the next few months, Lewis Andrews, Savannah, Missouri, did the necessary machine work, and Paul's Rod and Babbitt, Parkville, Missouri, took care
of the crank and babbitt. Rick Carnegie fixed me up with a set of super rods, and the Antique Auto Ranch supplied me with a Carnegie race grind cam, as well
as technical advice. Bill Brandon helped me retime the camshaft in his wife's kitchen one cold day in February. (No, his wife was not home.)
While waiting for the engine work to be completed, I had plenty of work to do. The old car chased rabbits from one ditch to the other, so the steering
was an obvious place to start. I began with the steering column, which had three or four inches of slack, and the front spindles. The front perches were
backwards which meant the front axle needed to be turned 180 degrees. Then came the drive shaft, rear end and transmission.
I spent the first week of April fitting the engine back together. With the engine installed in the car, now came the moment of truth. On the third time
over, the engine started readily and ran very smoothly. I eagerly jumped in and headed for the highway.
The new engine was given a 400-mile easy break-in and everything seemed fine. The very first time I opened it up, things started going sour.
During the next few weeks, I fought timers, coils and valves. I also removed the motor twice due to transmission trouble. Once was a mysterious noise
for which I did not find the cause, and once was for a broken clutch disc. With Frank Fenton's help at Anderson Timers, I finally got the '23 to purr just
three days before we were scheduled to leave for Montana. With my limited experience with T's, it had been quite a struggle, but as I loaded the old car
into the trailer, I felt confident I could not make the car run any better.
The race car's new license plates that had been ordered for six weeks finally arrived the day before we were to leave. I carried them into the house,
showed my wife, Karen, and asked, "Do you think this is a good sign?"
We had a great trip on the way out right up to the point where we ran through 23 miles of loose gravel due to road construction south of Jordan, Montana.
We arrived at the Yogo Inn Saturday afternoon unscathed, except for about 1/8-inch of dust on everything that was not inside the pick up cab.
The back lot of the motel was a busy place Sunday. Ron "the Coilman" Patterson had his tent set up, and it was the most popular place to hang out. He
super tuned my coils and spent hours replacing points and tuning coils for others. Later that day was pre-race inspection, and the installation of the seal
wires on the windshield, pan, carburetor, and head. At the evening meeting, numbers were drawn for starting position, and the first day's route explained.
I was one of the last to reach into the hat for a little piece of paper; Karen was looking over my shoulder as I unfolded it to find #4.
She quickly exclaimed, "That's my lucky number!"
Day One
I was up early Monday morning, not having slept well Sunday night…too much to think about. I wheeled the old car out of the trailer and checked everything
I could think of - then checked most of them again. 7:15 a.m. came very quickly, and it was time for Karen, Marilyn Huson, and Kathleen Ebbert, the flaggers,
to get going. I fired up the '23 and headed for the southwest edge of town, eager for the race to begin and as nervous as I can ever remember.
As we all gathered at the John Deere implement dealer for flagout, several people were taking pictures, and Janet C. was making sure everyone had
their number in place. I had to go to the bathroom twice in about 30 minutes…the excitement for me was unbelievable. The 2005 Montana 500 was about to
begin and I was going to be a part of it! It was awesome.
Shortly after 8:00 a.m., we began lining up the cars for the start. Mike W. was first, followed by Rick C., Mark H., then "Lucky #4", with Tony
rounding out the first five. A very brave and capable Janice Hutchinson would be the driver of the trouble truck and trailer bringing up the rear.
As I sat in line and watched the other three T's disappear over the hill, I wondered if I would see them again before the first fuel stop. I also
wondered if I would make it to the first fuel stop.
Finally, it was my turn, and Meghan counted me down, "3-2-1GO!"… I was off on one of the most fun rides I have ever taken. As soon as I topped the
first hill, I could see Mark H. in the distance. I kept adjusting the carb, listening to the engine, re-adjusting the spark, and making sure the throttle
was firmly bent into the wide-open position.
As I stayed focused on the small black dot ahead (Mark) I eventually could see that I was gaining on him and grinned with anticipation. This was
fun. Before I was able to catch Mark, both of us had caught the #1 car. As I passed Mike W., he gave me a big grin, thumbs up, and waved me on. Mark was
now a few hundred yards ahead and having problems of some sort. Once I was past Mark, he was able to hang on to the draft for only a short while before
waving me on. I could not yet see Rick C., but I knew he was somewhere ahead.
Eventually, I did catch and pass Rick, and together we had quite a run. As we passed through one of the small villages along the way, the driver of an
old brown Ford diesel pick up looked down the road in our direction, and then pulled right on out! He must have looked in his mirror and seen us bearing
down on him because the black smoke rolled, and he pulled over all the way off the road so we could pass. The look of disbelief on his face as we roared
past was classic! He must surely have thought that the two old cars were fastened together at the radiator and tail pipe. I checked over my shoulder to
see Rick grinning and shaking his head. I thought to myself, "That was sort of close - we almost had to slow down!"
We had no more than settled down when up ahead was a little foreign job traveling at a very slow speed with the four-way flashers blinking.
With oncoming traffic, and no idea what the driver of the little car was up to, I throttled up and jammed on the brakes. Rick and I followed as the
car proceeded up the road at a snail's pace, then eventually turned into a drive on the left side of the highway. When I checked on Rick this time,
he shrugged his shoulders, gave me another grin and motioned for me to get going. We cruised on into the fuel station at Raynesford where we shared
thoughts and laughs about the events that had taken place.
Starting the second leg, I was first out and headed for King's Hill and White Sulphur Springs. With no one in front of me, I was on my own to find my
way up and down the mountains. This leg would contain two long, hard climbs which really tested the T's. I was able to reach the first summit at a speed
of 33 mph and going down the south side was exciting, to say the least. I am sure that it must have been absolutely gorgeous, but that is not the part
that I remember.
I vividly recall one turn after another, no guardrails, and no way to see what was coming next. As Mike Wendland would put it, "The pucker factor
must have been pretty high right about then. Aye!" What an understatement! I backed off the throttle a little, not wanting to push my luck.
Soon after the steep, twisting, turning descent of the first mountain, the long and even steeper climb of the second began. This one was brutal and
the '23 pulled down to 28 mph. After the road reached the top, it was lined by tall pine trees on both sides, with a crystal clear stream flowing parallel
to the highway. This part of the road was fairly straight and very scenic.
But something seemed to be wrong with my roadster, as it would only run about 50 mph. Since the stream was right beside the road, I knew I was going
down a fairly steep grade, but the old car would not wind on up. I immediately figured that the long hard climb had taken its toll, and that I had nearly
seized the engine. I eased up the throttle to about half, patted the old car on the dash, smiled and said, "That's OK, baby. We showed them a tail light
for a little while."
I richened up the carb, hoping to relieve as much heat in the cylinders as possible and continued down the mountain enjoying the scenery and running
about 35-40 mph. After a couple of miles or so, the road made a sharp right turn and continued on toward the west. Once headed west, I noted that the car
immediately started picking up speed - now I was running over 45 mph and I had not changed the throttle!
I jammed the throttle back to wide-open, leaned the carb back out and was soon running close to 60 mph. It was then I realized the reason the car would
not go any faster was that the south wind was blowing straight up the highway at the top of the mountain and holding the car back. Live and learn! Trust me.
The wind can blow in Montana.
After passing the flag-in ladies, several of us gathered at a pull out north of White Sulphur Springs, then headed on into town for fuel and lunch. The
first day was now half over and I kept wondering, "Will the old Ford be able to go the distance?"
I spent most of the noon break tinkering with the car and checking things over. I adjusted the low gear and brake bands and tightened the valve cover.
The time passed quickly, and soon it was time to crank up and head for the flag-out.
I was first out, then Steve C. I soon realized that he was gaining on me, and all I could do was watch as the little red racer closed the gap. It took
about 25 miles, but Steve did indeed catch me and, on a slight uphill grade, blew my door off to take the lead. Not wanting to let him pull away and gain even
more time, I got right on his tail and eased up the throttle as he "pulled" me toward Harlowtown. This was my first opportunity to draft, and it took me awhile
to get used to keeping the car at the right distance. Hand on the throttle, foot on the brake and puckered to the Nth degree, it was a fun trip and over much
too quickly.
I was keeping an eye on the odometer to estimate how many more miles we had to go when I saw a gray van parked beside the road about a half-mile ahead.
It was the flag-in van, and now was my chance. I opened up the '23 and headed right at the back of Steve's T. I was getting "pretty close" when I pulled into
the left lane and started easing past. As we passed the timers, I was a couple of feet or so in front of Steve and back into the lead. What a finish and what
a rush! At the end of this leg, I was wondering, "Will I be able to go the distance?"
The sun was smoking hot, so we spent most of the break time in the shade of the gas station at Harlowtown enjoying cold drinks and ice cream. Soon it was
time to go, and we all headed across the road to line up. I was the first out, then Steve, and all I could think about was, "How long will it take him to catch
me this time?"
As we flagged out, a very strong southeast crosswind was really slowing us down. About a mile or so up the road, the pavement curved around to the north.
Now we had a tailwind and it was truly "off to the races." Cruising 55-60 mph and sometimes even faster, we quickly made our way to Eddie's Corner. I spent a
good portion of that time looking back to check on Steve. As nearly as I could tell, we were running about the same; I might even have gained just a whisker on
him, but it was too close to say for sure.