The king of dirt trackers died when he crashed his 1938 Piper Cub plane into a barn on his farm in Mooresburg, Tennessee, earlier this month. At 60, Scott Bloomquist won over 600 races with the skull and crossbones logo on his car and was known, cheered and booed throughout the American heart as “Black Sunshine.” With an unflappable swagger and trademark flowing locks more befitting the lead singer of a 1980s metal band, he dominated half-mile ovals in evocative names like Smoky Mountain, Atomic, Bulls Gap, Green Valley and Eldora. Burt Reynolds’ Bandit is fleshed out, flawed and fearless.
“Scott Bloomquist looked like Thor and Fabio mashed into one,” ESPN’s Ryan McGee tweeted upon hearing the news of his death. “I told him that once and he replied, ‘Nah, I don’t look like them. They look like me.’ Good luck to a real American bad ass in the first edition.”
Bloomquist won so often that his rivals complained that he had to dope the tires (treat them with chemicals) and speculated about what other nefarious black magic he used when he worked on his homemade vehicles behind protective canopies in the pits. Few knew better how to set up a race car.
And accusations of any kind against him never bothered the tens of thousands who joined the first dirt track fan club ever, bought his merchandise at every racetrack and surrounded him in victory lane. That his personality, a mix of beer, swagger and bravado, was often accompanied by a serious demeanor and a hint of scandal only added to the allure.
“Half of them love me,” he said. “Half of them hate me, but they’re all here to see me.”
Bloomquist went to prison in the mid-1990s when he was performing in the movies’ heyday, and everything about this case fit the twisted story of his legend perfectly. Thirty-six hours after his picture-perfect wedding to “Miss Motorsports” Midi Miller, agents from the Third Judicial District Drug Task Force raided his residence and arrested him on cocaine charges.
Their evidence consisted of suspicions about the tiny airstrip on his property, a single piece of straw from his shirt pocket that contained residue of the drug, and tape recordings of incriminating conversations between him and his ex-girlfriend, Kristi Candler. Candler was a stripper at a Knoxville club and agreed to wear a listening device and ask Bloomquist to get her coke because she was facing prison time for drunk driving.
In the legal drama that followed, Bloomquist won a famous case against the state of Tennessee for decoying, but was found guilty of possession after a second trial. Much to the judge’s chagrin, the sheriff in charge of overseeing his custody happened to be a fan, and he released his celebrity prisoner on parole. Bloomquist left prison every morning at seven and went home to tinker with his cars before returning for the 9 p.m. curfew. Afterward, there was usually time for pizza and a leisurely chat with the guards before going to bed. He claimed he slept better than he ever had before, and won races almost every weekend while incarcerated.
There are over 800 dirt tracks spread across most states, accessible only by a small bridge, where amateurs and semi-professionals race over flying pebbles in windshield-less cars at speeds of up to 150 mph, competing for five-figure cash prizes. Thirty million enthusiastic Americans watch the races each year, yet most of their fellow countrymen consider this form of grassroots racing a rural curiosity at best.
Bloomquist grew up in California nurturing his surfing dreams. When his father, a commercial pilot, bought a farm there, he moved to the rolling green hills of East Tennessee. At first he farmed the land to fund his burgeoning hobby of driving, until it eventually blossomed into a lucrative career in which he made millions sliding across mud, dirt and clay throughout the Midwest.
He once won a race by driving the final 20 laps with three working wheels, and there was constant speculation that he would make the jump to the more mainstream NASCAR circuit. His hairy outlaw image (see a photo of him driving a Camaro convertible shirtless last week) would never have fit in that more corporate environment.
“That’s not for me,” he said. “I wouldn’t be good at being someone’s lapdog.”
Everyone in and around NASCAR knew how good he was and could have been. Tony Stewart, one of the greatest stock car racers of modern times, described him as “a force on and off the track.” Last year, Dale Earnhardt Jr. treated him with utmost reverence on his podcast, even as Bloomquist, whose checkered quest for spiritual enlightenment was just another compelling part of his journey, spouted bizarre tales of encounters with reptilian aliens who lowered their spaceship to draw water from the lake on his farm.
“Never board the cigar-shaped ship,” he advised listeners if they encountered extraterrestrial visitors. “Board the saucer. Just a little friendly advice.”
Having survived a motorcycle accident in 2019 with serious injuries and recently battling prostate cancer, he was long past his prime, but he was still entered for the prestigious World 100 in Eldora next month. Instead, those races will now be preceded by a celebration of his life. It will take place on the home straight and his car, bearing the number zero, will be parked in the winner’s circle. Where else?