Jimmie And His Bike
Some of J.B. Day’s heroes. Billy Carden, Ed Samples, Bob Flock and Fonty Flock pose in front of the stands at Greenville-Pickens in 1947. All four are now members of the Georgia Racing Hall of Fame.
After the war both the country and Jimmie were entering a new era of prosperity. In his case, it was a bicycle in independence. At age 12 he no longer needed a ride to the races.
“And my bike wasn’t just any bike,” he said. “It was a Wylie Babb Special.”
Babb modified a set of sprockets to match Jimmie’s size and stretch and was somewhat of a legend around the south. His mechanical genius on racecars in the 40s was widely known, especially for his famous Plymouth modified stock car, and how it caused havoc with the Fords back then.
Still going strong today at age 87, he continues to fabricate and build racing machines.
“I guess just one of the perks of living at the junkyard,” Jimmie said.
Several times Jimmie went to Lakewood, by day peddling through Georgia and sleeping in the woods at night.
“I’d usually get there late Saturday and camp by the water truck by the lake where the mosquitoes were quite fond of me,” he said. “But the hardest part would be getting the bike over that eight-foot fence. Later I found a drainpipe under the third turn, and could peddle right in. But out of all the races I went to, I never had to ride my bike back home. Somebody would always give me a lift, tossing my Babb Special in their stock car.”
The races that bike and J.B. went to are too numerous to name.
“I will tell you this,” he said, “I peddled to Martinsville (Virginia) only once. It was all uphill.”
“Another time I left on Friday night for a Saturday race in Columbia,” he continued. “I pulled into a truck stop about thirty miles from the track, spotted a rig leaving and grabbed a chain dangling off the back. Talk about breaking your speedometer! I had one on my bike, and when that truck went down Howell Canyon it wound so tight parts few everywhere. Next thing I know, I’m passing the truck and waving to the surprised driver, who had just spotted me.
“Eventually, he passes me and stops at the top. Well, I think he’s going to congratulate me on my new speed record so I grinned and kept peddling towards him. Then I saw him take off his belt. I headed off in the woods until I heard him drive off. That man was going to whip my ass!”
“E.C. Ramsey raced Louise Smith’s number 94 Ford at Columbia one night,” Jimmie said. “Afterwards, he had too much to drink and told me to drive him back to Greenville. At 12, I thought I was the best there was on a bike, but didn’t know anything about driving a car…and I didn’t tell him. He pulled his old ’39 Studebaker off the road leaving Columbia and passed out in the backseat.
“After finally finding second gear I pulled off and I wasn’t about to try to shift. I timed all the red lights the best I could, if not I ran them. I made it to Greenville in second gear. By now it’s in the wee hours of the morning and I’m getting cocky. E.C.’s driveway is straight up a hill, and I’m thinking that will be so cool with him looking at his front door when he wakes up. Well, I didn’t give it enough gas and it started choking down, rolled backwards, caught an embankment and flipped on its roof in the middle of Washington Avenue. That was one of the few times I ever saw E.C. mad at me.”