Charley Hexom

Legendary Charley

By John Brewer

In 1984 I read a Jerry Boone article about Charley Hexom. There was a picture of him in his wheelchair, parked beside his H-Production Rabbit, helmet in his lap. He was grinning like a big jack o'lantern. I cut Jerry's piece out and stuffed it in a drawer. Maybe someday.

In the summer of '87 I finally met him. He'd beaten me to the chair by six years. I was still an angry gimp. Uptight. People would tell me that the chair wasn't a big deal, that they didn't see it. But I wasn't buying it. I avoided other crips like the plague. Didn't want any part of wheelchair sports. Despised the whole deal.

Until I met Charley.

It was on a SCCA Sunday afternoon. I was cruising around the paddock at PIR, and came upon a gleaming black VW Scirocco with turquoise numbers. There was an empty wheelchair parked alongside. The name on the car was Charley Hexom. Charley Freaking Hexom, I breathed to myself. The man himself. Taking his pre-race nap. He was laid back in the driver's seat, arms folded across his chest, wearing a red Mitsubishi ball cap pulled down tight, partially hiding his face. The sun was flashing off the lower part of his Serengetis. He was powerfully built, tanned and relaxed-- like a Kahuna. I gawked while he dozed, then I began to feel like I was invading his privacy, so I eased away and headed over to Old Four to watch.

When his group came around on the pace lap, I waved a thumbs-up at him. As the race unfolded, I found myself rooting for him---same as you and I'd root for a Schumacher or Senna - as if we actually knew them. I watched the Scirocco every second. Listened for the shifts. He wore an open-faced helmet and a balaclava that covered his face and gave him the appearance of a bandit. An intimidator. I watched Charley race close and aggressive, bumper-up-tight to cars in front. Watched him win.

By the time I made it back to the paddock, Charley had taken his victory lap and was in impound. The drivers were laughing and sharing. Someone had fetched his chair and there was Charley in the middle of the pack, cold one between his legs, wearing that huge grin. I watched him holding up his hand, flat, at eye level making slight adjustments as if his hand was the car, and he was replaying a turn, or a pass, or something dicey. People were gathered around him and he was holding court. And then it hit me, like that first wave of scented, tropical air when you finally arrive in Hawaii, it hit me good that he seemed at ease with the chair. The way he moved. His lack of self- consciousness. And then I understood what it meant to "not see the chair" He was a driver not a crip. And he was bloody fast. It WAS a blast of fresh air for me, and I was amazed to finally be stoked again.

I hung around working up the nerve to roll over and congratulate him. When I finally did Charley stuck out his huge hand and I had a hero. He offered to show me around. I asked him if he was sure. Told him I didn't want to impose. He assured me that no, he wanted to cruise the paddock, and to come along with him. So I did. He knew everybody, and many good-naturedly greeted him as Wrecks'Em, because he'd recently stuffed a car at Sears, and rolled another in the Chicane during a media session. I told him I hadn't driven a stick since 1976 and that I NEVER figured a guy in a chair could race-let alone be fast. He asked me if I wanted to drive his street car around the paddock. And he showed me how to push the button to clutch and how to shift. He tossed me the keys and told me to "have fun". I spent the next hour and a half driving around the paddock and up and down Victory Boulevard in Charley's stick shift GTI.

When I got home, I asked Kay, "Guess what I did today?" Then I told her that she HAD to meet Charley. And so it began.

In '88 Charley loaned me an olive drab Jetta for a rainy TC school. He delivered the car on Saturday morning at PIR. On each door was a big white US Army star. He chortled irreverently as I eased the car into line with the Corvettes and Porsches. At lunch I rode with Charley. And was amazed. His car control skills were legendary and I found out first hand why, as he twisted the throttle flat-using the front wheels to yank the car through slide after magnificent slide. I'd never imagined that a car could go that fast in the rain.

After the school, I parked my automatic BMW and continued to drive Charley's Jetta, getting the hang of the hand controls. I left the star on, and drove it for three weeks, racing around Portland in a stick shift car, loving every minute. When I finally gave the car back to him, he was amazed that I hadn't removed the star and said, 'You didn't have to leave that on, man, it was a JOKE!.

Charley was one of those naturally talented drivers who could figure out a track quickly. His first time at Road Atlanta, at the Runoffs, racing in a field of forty- plus cars, he had a chance late in the race for the lead, hesitated, and came in third. His hesitation was due in large part to the fact that he had to drive his racecar back to Portland.

His Road Atlanta drive turned heads, and he was named a Rising Star by Sports Car. He landed a pro ride and began racing at places like Mid Ohio, Brainerd, Sebring, Nelson Ledges, Laguna and Sears. He ran with Ray Kong, Pepe Pombo, Mike Rutherford, the Archer Brothers, Robby Gordon, Jeff Krosnoff and many others. When I asked him what it was like, driving with the pros, he said something like, "No big deal, you just get in and drive, and pretty soon it hits you, Hey, I can run with these guys. After that it's just like they.re any other driver." And then he would say, "Hey, the truth always comes out, if you're fast you're fast-- if you ain't you ain't."

And that was Charley's deal. One hundred per cent dead-solid honest. Charley HATED political correctness. Where, I'd say , 'Nice race!' Charley would say, 'Hey man you were in my way back there, next time move.'

Before my fist trip to race at Sears Point I asked him about the track. He told me that Ten is done flat, and that I'd be horribly slow if I lifted. The night I arrived, I got a phone call late. It was Charley, calling from Reno to tell me that Darla had prevailed on him to tell me the truth about Ten, and that he didn't want to be responsible for busting my racing budget.

On Sunday afternoons after the races Charley and Darla would invite us to go to with them to Poncho's. We were always treated like family and had many memorable sessions unwinding. When we talked racing, I found out that he didn't race just to win. He raced for the pure stoke of being in the car, in the midst of mayhem, hanging it out, succeeding on God given instincts for battle. Like a fighter pilot.

Charley Hexom showed me that a person can do anything, and that it isn't how one looks, or gets around, or dresses. It's more about how we think, about what we want to do, and how badly we want to do it, and most of all about honesty. Those realizations changed my outlook on life, and people, and especially about disability. And for that I thank God for giving me the privilege to have raced with, and to have been friends with Charley Hexom. It won't be the same without Charley. His legend will continue to grow and to inspire others to go for it. To take on challenges full- bore, while at the same time not taking oneself too seriously. To be honest. To ask, "What would Charley do?"

But the truth is there will never be another Charley Hexom.

Charlie Hexom with his Mitsubishi
Photo courtesy of Dave Wolin

Read Jerry Boone's Article about Charley from the Oregonian

Read Charley's memorial