1957

The first miles on Earl Smith’s brand-new 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air were meant to be easy ones.

Fresh turquoise paint still smelled of the showroom, the white top gleamed under the Carolina sun, and the speedometer needle hadn’t yet learned what the far side of 80 looked like. Earl Smith and his childhood best friend, Bobby Warren, pointed the nose south toward Daytona Beach with one simple plan—to see the NASCAR races being run right on the sand.

Windows down, radio crackling, the two talked about nothing and everything. They’d grown up together, dreaming bigger dreams than their small towns were ready for. That ’57 Chevy wasn’t just a car—it was proof that Earl had finally made something real.

Daytona was everything they hoped it would be. Stock cars thundered across the beach, engines echoing off the ocean, sand spraying like rooster tails behind them. Earl and Bobby stood shoulder to shoulder, watching wide-eyed, knowing they were looking at the center of the racing world.

Then came the rumor.

Someone mentioned a drag race happening just down the road at Flagler Airport—an NHRA event. National competition. Real racers. The kind of thing you read about in Hot Rod magazine.

The look Earl gave Bobby said it all.

They didn’t even pretend to talk themselves out of it.

A short drive later, the Bel Air rolled into Flagler Airport. Surrounded by purpose-built machines and seasoned racers, they suddenly looked at each other and laughed. What were they doing here?

That’s when the dare came out.

Bobby would drive.

With Earl wrenching, checking lug nuts, and doing his best to look like he belonged, Bobby eased the Chevy to the line. The starter dropped his arms, the engine barked, and the tires protested across the old runway pavement.

They went a round.

Then another.

By the end of the day, the Bel Air wore more bugs, more tire marks, and more pride than it ever had rolling off the showroom floor. They hadn’t won the race, but they’d won something far more important—their first taste of national competition.

That weekend changed everything.

What started as two friends chasing NASCAR on the beach quietly became something bigger. Before long, they were hauling Chevrolets to NHRA events across the Carolinas, taking turns behind the wheel, learning, breaking parts, fixing them, and learning some more. Earl Smith Chevrolet Racing Enterprises wasn’t written on the door yet—but it was already alive.

Two friends. One ’57 Chevy.
And a road that led straight into racing history.