I decided to do a series on talking to track owners or former track owners and asking them questions such as, “what makes successful race track,’ among other things. For me, this one will be a little more personal, because it shaped my childhood.
The man who built my childhood, not a racetrack.
If you point your truck west out of Reynolds, Georgia at dawn, the sun crawls over neat rows of peach orchards, but the sweetest smell in the air isn’t fruit—it’s VHT warming beyond the pecan trees. This is Silver Dollar Raceway, one of only two quarter‑mile dragstrips still lighting up the Georgia night.
Born in 1994 when cotton farmer–turned–Super Street racer Ed Swearingen and his wife Dorothy decided to build a dream.
For me, this place isn’t just coordinates on a GPS; it’s where my childhood was spent, where I learned more about life than school taught me. It’s where my dad and I both hung championship jackets on the same kitchen chair. It’s where Thanksgivings were spent. There are places in life that shape you—not just because of where they are, but because of the people behind them. When I decided to start this interview series with track owners, It was easy for me to pick up the phone and call Ed. Ed sold the track nearly a decade ago and I don’t honestly know the last time I saw Ed. But, when I picked up the phone and called him he answered cheerfully to speak with me. Not only that, he was in the middle of eating lunch with Dorothy, but wanted to talk to me. I of course told him to call me back to get the story.
“I Built It for the Racers—Because I Am One.”
Back in 1993 the local racing scene took a gut‑shot: Warner Robins Dragway, thirty to forty-five up the road, would begin being pushed out after development of a new high school (the very one I’d eventually attend).
“I loved quarter‑mile racing, and I loved NHRA’s Winston Series. When Warner Robins closed, we were about to lose a whole family of racers—so Dorothy and I built them another backyard.” — Ed Swearingen
He carved Silver Dollar long and wide enough to host NHRA divisionals. For two decades Ed was the heartbeat of race day: There when the sun came up, strapping into his own Super Street ride by noon, and cruising the pits to shake hands with everyone who’d laid rubber on his asphalt.
The Gospel According to Mr. Ed
Somewhere between rainouts and break‑even payouts, every would‑be track owner asks the same question: What does it take to keep the gates open? I put it to Ed, expecting talk of insurance, permits, or fuel prices.
“If you don’t love the people more than you love the track or the cars, you’re already in trouble.”
Silver Dollar was never a spreadsheet. It was a family reunion that happened to feature burnouts. Gate fees stayed low, payouts stayed fair, and the guy in a 10‑second Super Street Camaro on an open trailer had the same shot as a millionaire in a feather‑lite stacker.
“Only one person wins,” Ed shrugged. “So the rest better be able to afford the fun.”
He called the profit equation “a tight squeeze.”
A Staff Money Can’t Buy
Behind the tower windows and aluminum bleachers lived a crew you couldn’t hire off a job board. Most were retirees who’d rather smell burnt rubber than fresh‑cut grass. Foreman of this tribe for me was Mr. Yo Yo, guardian of the staging lanes and surrogate granddad to every junior‑dragster kid—including me. He dished out lane assignments, hugs, and life lessons with the same easy authority. Mr. Yo Yo was the definition encouragement. He made eight-year-olds believe they belonged on the same track as their heroes.
“I wish I could’ve paid them more,” Ed said, voice softening. “But they didn’t show up for money. They showed up for the racers. Take care of your people and they’ll take care of your track.”
When racers qualified for the Division Finals—or punched a ticket to Pomona—Ed and Dorothy were on their way, on their own dime, to clap from the stands. That’s what you do for family, he’d say. See for Ed, the racers are his friends and his family. Ed and his springer spaniel made sure they got to know all the racers. The track may appear to be his legacy, but Ed will tell you the racers are his legacy. Ed still has books of every pass at every event a racer ever made down his track. Pick up the phone and call him and tell him what day you were there and he will tell you all of your passes from that day, and enjoy doing it!!
“A dragstrip is a bad investment on paper,” he laughs. “But the return in friendships? You can’t write that on a balance sheet.”
Peach Ice Cream & Boiled Peanuts
No Silver Dollar memory is complete without the pit‑side concession stand. On sweltering July afternoons the racers took their pit vehicles across the road to get the best homemade peach or strawberry ice cream you have ever had. And every fall race meant a brown‑paper bag of boiled peanuts from “the peanut lady”—God rest her soul—who seasoned them with enough salt and love to last a whole eliminations ladder. To this day my family can’t crack a peanut without talking about the ones from Silver Dollar.
Ed and Dorothy, thank you for swapping cotton rows for guardrails, for giving Middle Georgia a place to gather, laugh, and chase amber bulbs into star‑strewn nights. Thank you for teaching a kid from Warner Robins that winning is nice, but belonging is better. Silver Dollar didn’t just build champions; it built people. The people I still talk to everyday came from this track. Thank you for giving me a place to meet them, and a place to spend with my family.
Tracks are made of concrete and steel, but legacies are poured from heart. Yours flows through every burnout, every staging‑lane pep‑talk, every father‑son high five in the winner’s circle. For that—and for the peach ice cream—this community, and this writer, will always be grateful.
Thank you for reading, see you at the next race.
-Kline
