Sammy Swindell is a race car driver, a motorsports legend. So naturally, I wanted his opinion on Mario Kart.

"Mario Kart?” he asks, either amused or annoyed; it’s hard to tell with Sammy. “Yeah, I’ve played a little. But racing video games don’t feel real. They don’t give you the full-body experience."

'When the car gets off the ground, you’re not really in control. So I’m trying to figure out where I’m at and where I’m going. I try to get back in control.'

He means it when he describes racing as a full-body experience. His aggressive driving style is what earned him the nickname “Slammin'.”

Precision at any speed

Few figures in sprint car racing command the same level of respect as Sammy Swindell. His work uniform has at various times included sponsorships from STP and Hooters. NASCAR described him as “arguably one of the greatest sprint car drivers ever.”

Born in Bartlett, Tennessee, in 1955, Swindell built a career on raw speed, mechanical precision, and an unmatched competitive fire.

He first turned heads in the 1970s, making a name for himself on dirt ovals across the country. But it was in the World of Outlaws circuit where he cemented his legacy.

Over five decades, Swindell has collected hundreds of victories, multiple championships, and a reputation as one of the most talented — if sometimes polarizing — figures in open-wheel racing.

As motorsports site the Driver’s Project notes: “It doesn’t matter if you love him or hate him, when Sammy Swindell shows up at a racetrack, things always get more interesting.”

I chatted with Sammy in early February. He has a reputation for being dry, almost hostile, but as he’s said many times, racing is his job, and he builds his own cars. Most of the time, when someone approaches him, he’s distracted by work. And it happens a lot; in the racing world, he’s a celebrity.

 Swindell at the 1987 Indianapolis 500. Photo courtesy Sammy Swindell

Track tactician

He was more friendly than I expected, but focused, his Tennessee drawl leavened with the stoicism of an engineer-minded athlete. He smiled and laughed a few times but quickly returned to his gravitas.

Halfway through our chat, I realized he’s not grumpy — he’s analytical.

"I've got to meet a lot of really, really smart people," Swindell tells me. He learned a lot from his friend Henry "Smokey" Yunick, the legendary stock car driver, mechanic, engineer, and tactician.

And that’s the word I’ve been grasping for: tactician.

Toward the end of our interview, he showed his cards a little.

I mentioned that in any sport, once you win the biggest prize, everyone studies exactly how you did it — your equipment, your methods, everything is exposed. And the test after that is whether you can win again once everyone else catches up.

Swindell has done this repeatedly. How?

"Part of it is just to keep as much as you can to yourself," he says. "And sometimes, you throw things to make them look somewhere else when the important stuff is over there."

Giant among 'midgets'

I first attended the Chili Bowl Nationals in 2024 while writing a story for Frontier magazine. I fell in love with the chaos and fervor of the event —the Super Bowl of dirt-track racing, drawing 20,000 people to Tulsa from all over the world.

 Swindell at this year's Chili Bowl. Brendan Bauman, courtesy of Sammy Swindell

The indoor midget car race is a brutal test of skill, where conditions change every lap and drivers claw their way through deep fields just to make the main event.

This January, I returned for the 39th annual Chili Bowl, and Swindell was there, as always, drawing a crowd everywhere he walked.

He’s comfortable with the racing press. Once, during a live interview, he paused mid-sentence to bark at someone, “Come back here, you little pisser, POS!”

Swindell has won the Chili Bowl Nationals a record five times, a feat that cements him as one of the greatest dirt racers of all time.

Bryan Hulbert, a motorsports legend in his own right and the Chili Bowl’s announcer, told me that “Sammy’s legacy helped make the Chili Bowl what it is today.”

His dominance as a driver and car owner set the bar higher for everyone racing against him. Hulbert said Swindell’s “ingenuity in car design was ahead of its time,” with others only now starting to catch up. The same goes for sprint car racing — Swindell has “contributed more to the performance and engineering side of the sport than most realize.”

Dirt-track dynasty

Swindell’s father served as president of the club that ran the races around Memphis.

At 15, Sammy began his own racing career at Riverside International Speedway, winning in just his third race.

He won six races that first season. By then, he was already moving through different classes — sprint cars, modifieds, late models — anything with wheels and an engine.

"I looked at it as a job," he tells me. "The better I did, the more rewards I got. More sponsors, more money. It was just about putting everything I had into it to be the best."

Swindell spent two years in college studying physics and engineering before committing to racing full-time.

His mechanical instincts gave him an edge over competitors, as he built and fine-tuned his own cars. "I want the car to do the work, and I just guide it. If you can set your car up to do things others can’t, passing them is easy."

A three-time World of Outlaws champion (1981, 1982, 1997), Swindell was a dominant force in sprint car racing for decades.

Despite his intense, no-nonsense approach on the track, his impact extended beyond his own career. He shaped modern sprint car racing through his innovations and mentorship of younger drivers.

Hulbert observes that Swindell “races everyone hard, but not as hard as he raced his son, Kevin.”

Hulbert recalls their first-second finish at the Chili Bowl — his first time announcing the event — and compared it to the fierce battles between brothers, where rivalries produce “some of the most brutal racing you’ll ever see.”

That race came down to the final lap, and Swindell “made his son earn every bit of that win and then some.”

The only other time Hulbert had seen Swindell race with that level of intensity was against Steve Kinser, a rivalry that defined an era of sprint car racing.

Crash course

Crashes are a part of racing. Sprint cars flip. They land hard. Steering wheels and rubber can launch into the bleachers, right over chain link and beer cans.

But Swindell treats wrecks as he treats the rest of racing: as a problem to be solved.

"When the car gets off the ground, you’re not really in control. So I’m trying to figure out where I’m at and where I’m going. I try to get back in control."

He leans toward impacts rather than tensing up. "Some guys try to fight it, but you can’t. You just have to go with the flow."

It’s the same mentality he brings to racing in general.

At 69, Swindell still carries the same philosophy: Win, then move on to the next one. "I never thought of quitting. If I had a bad night, I just wanted to figure it out and do better."

I asked him if time slows down in a crash.

"Yeah, sometimes it seems like it takes a half hour, but it’s only a few seconds," he says. "The whole time, I’m just trying to gain control again, or whatever control I might have to make it stop or make it slow down or make it easier on myself and the car."

He pauses.

"I don’t know, maybe that’s just me. I don’t really hear too many people talk about that stuff — what they do in a crash. But yeah, I’m trying to get back in control."

The education of failure

When asked about the races or particular nights he often revisits, Sammy Swindell paused thoughtfully, considering the many tracks he's conquered. He reflected that each victory carries its unique memory, shaped by subtle differences from track to track.

Early in his career with the World of Outlaws, Sammy developed an analytical approach. "I'd look at a new track and ask myself what it reminded me of. If it resembled another place where I'd done well, I'd start with that familiar setup." Yet he emphasized that each track, no matter how similar at first glance, has distinct characteristics — corners, radius, banking — that must be mastered individually.

When our conversation shifted to the emotions tied to winning — the celebratory moments exiting the car, hoisting trophies, or holding oversized checks — Sammy offered an intriguing insight.

“Winning simplifies things," he explained. "It means you're not scrambling to repair the car. Your job becomes basic maintenance, setting up for the next race."

Conversely, a poor performance sends him into a meticulous review, examining missteps and setups gone wrong.

“You learn more from the nights things don't go right," Sammy noted thoughtfully. "You discover what's off. It's easier to make mistakes than it is to get everything exactly right."

I found Sammy's perspective refreshing, particularly since many racers admit winning adds pressure to repeat success. But Sammy sees it differently. For him, victory isn't an added burden; it's confirmation that he's met his goal.

"Winning never felt like pressure," Sammy said. "It was always the aim. Once I achieved it, the tension lifted. The next night was simply another chance to do it again."