[Jim Holden]

Dear Mr. Bruce:

While it is true that Scutt's name is little known now, it, for the reasons that McFez (a/k/a Cheeks) has enumerated (and more), having been exorcised from the yellowing lists of winners and participants in the racetrack wars of the early 50's and 60's, he remains a legendary and, now with the passing of the years, an almost mythic figure to those of us who witnessed his awesome display of extraordinary skill and guile (both on and off the race track) back then. Often pushing underpowered, underfinanced small block cars beyond all reasonable limits, giving no quarter and asking for none, Scutt was indeed a larger than life character with no equal then or now.

The Barstow County Coroner's verdict was conclusive in stating that Scutt had apparently died in an all consuming propane fireball when his prototype super high-speed pigmy goat roaster and mammal parts baster backfired. While everything was vaporized including his single axle airstream trailer leaving little but a few gray ashes to mark the spot in the median of the Barstow off ramp where this horrific catastrophe occured, there are those (now aging) fans who believe that he did not die then and that he still lives. It would, after all, not be the first time that a flagrant philander and phony flim flam operator such as he had faked his own demise. And Scutt was all of those things.

Sightings of Scutt wearing an aged Dunlop driving suit and open faced helmet and the vivid descriptions of his distinctive driving style are legend, with the most recent originating in New South Wales in an over-tired (or is it plain tired) Mini Cooper caroming off other, lesser participants as he worked his way to the head of the field.

Rumor has it that Scutt will be at Road America in early September to witness the fun, albeit, in disguise inasmuch as there are still numerous outstanding warrants for his arrest in several midwestern states including Wisconsin (something about a jumping a dairy farmer's underage daughter in the sleeper bunk of his Team Farcus race car trailer tow truck while her tractor and hay bailer idled for hours in the field next to the road... It seems that the farmer was not so upset about his daughter, but the fact that the hay was not getting bailed, but that's another story).

Charged with a multitude of crimes and misdemeanors (most of which, for obvious reasons, do not have any statue of limitations due to the heinous nature of the crimes alleged) and having jumped bail in countless jurisdictions, Scutt, if rumors of his continued existence are true, is doomed to a underground, shadowy life living on the fringes of the racing world with only the fading memories and the faint smell of Cam II to keep him going.

The faithful fans of this fearsome figure of racing gore and mayhem plan to gather at Road America in September, roast a few mammal parts and raise a glass or two of Scutt's favorite single malt in his memory... and then fade away until the next opportunity offers itself to pay homage to this free spirit of our youth. If the planets are properly aligned (and we are likewise) perhaps we'll sight ol' Scutt racing the back part of the course Bratworst in one hand, steering wheel in the other as he tries every possible racing "line."

Morty MacTavish