Slammin' Sammy Swindell, the fiercest driver dirt racing has ever seen



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."

Racers for Christ bring the gospel to motorsports



A sheet of paper adorns fencing in the pit area: “'F' WORD $1.00 FINE. PAY THE CHAPLAINS.”

The message, written boldly, sets the tone for the 39th annual Chili Bowl Nationals, the “Super Bowl of midget racing.” Born in the United States in the 1930s, midget racing has since gone global, with tracks on nearly every continent.

'We would love to invite anyone who loves Jesus and has a passion for motorsports to seriously consider joining our team.'

But the Chili Bowl is the world’s largest midget auto event and, as Bryan Hulbert put it in his opening speech, “the world’s greatest race in all of midgets.”

Outside the Tulsa Expo Center, the Golden Driller juts 76 feet into the air, looming over the remnants of a recent polar vortex — dirty snow piled in blackened heaps. But inside, the fumigated air is electric.

Kevin Ryan

Over six days, racers and fans have immersed themselves in every twist and turn, every victory and upset. Now, on a frozen January evening, the finalists rush to write their names into Chili Bowl history.

Out of 392 entrants, only 24 have fought their way into the A-Feature race, the championship finale. The grand marshal is NASCAR legend Jeff Gordon — a former Chili Bowler.

Kevin Ryan

Community and chaos

Each night at the Chili Bowl, a Racers for Christ team member delivers the invocation. For 55 years, this Phoenix-based ministry has served the motorsports community, from NHRA to dirt tracks, bringing a spiritual foundation to every corner of the racing world.

Jim Sheppard, an RFC chaplain with 20 years in the ministry and 12 at the Chili Bowl, described the group's mission: “If it has a motor, we’re part of it.”

Kevin Ryan

I spoke with Sheppard before the A-Feature, in the heart of the pit. He captured the ministry’s ethos in simple terms: “If someone has a passion for the sport and a passion for Jesus, that’s what we’re looking for.”

“The neat thing about the racing family is that everybody knows everybody,” he said. “It’s a very neat environment for building relationships.”

In the pit, there’s a sense of community and chaos. Rows of luxury trailers and mobile garages line the throughways, while drivers and crews huddle beneath team banners like Swindell SpeedLab and Abacus Racing, making last-minute adjustments and repairs. The camaraderie extends beyond the professionals, encompassing the fans who have made this pilgrimage for decades.

Comfortable being uncomfortable

Beside Sheppard stood Joey Keith, a veteran of the motorsports ministry since 2008 and with RFC since 2012. In addition to serving as a chaplain, Keith manages the South Central and West Central regions of RFC, a position he holds alongside his wife: “We travel as a family ministering to racetracks all across the central part of the country,” he told me later via email.

Keith, an ordained pastor raised in the Baptist church, credits his grandparents as his spiritual mentors. His journey into motorsports began at age 5, working alongside his father, who managed a racetrack in Tulsa, Oklahoma. By 15, Keith was racing himself, but at 26, he felt God’s call to ministry.

Recognizing a gap in spiritual outreach at local racetracks, he began leading weekly Bible studies and church services during race seasons. What started as a bi-vocational effort grew steadily, and by 2012, Keith transitioned fully into ministry, dedicating his life to serving the racing community.

“This ministry is not always comfortable,” Keith told me, “but I do not think we are called to serve and be comfortable. I tell our staff that it’s time to get comfortable being uncomfortable.”

History is filled with examples of faith shining in darkness. Over two millennia, an estimated 70 million Christian martyrs have faced terror with unshaken conviction.

Real life, they understand, takes place on the spiritual plain, not the intellectual or bodily. And life on earth spills everywhere, onto the dirt, out of dust, into mud, then back to ashes.

On the hook

The midget cars at today’s Chili Bowl are far safer and tougher than those at the first event in 1987. These tiny machines, powered by four-cylinder engines, are big enough for just a single driver to squeeze in through the roll cage. Even NASCAR once had a midget division.

Compared to the larger sprint cars with eight cylinders and 800 horsepower, midget cars have to be push-started by a truck or four-wheeler. This is also why they never stop moving — it would kill the engine.

“On the hook” is when a car has to be towed up the ramp to the pit.

Midget car racing isn’t just about skill; it’s also survival. These cars come with their own risks — mechanical failures and crashes often thin the field before the checkered flag waves. The rate of dropouts is known as “attrition.”

Attrition is a brutal reality. When a car spins and gets collected in another car's wreck, hopes of victory vanish in a split second. Arm restraints keep drivers safe in rollovers, and catch fences stand between flying debris and the crowd.

Plentiful harvest

“We’ve got guys who have been with the ministry since day one, and we also have new chaplains just starting out,” Jim Sheppard shared. Then he pointed to a nearby woman. “It’s her first event. So we have the whole spectrum covered.”

Kevin Ryan

“It’s not about a specific denomination; it’s about the heart and the calling,” Sheppard said. RFC’s team includes chaplains from diverse Christian traditions — Nazarenes, Baptists, Catholics — but their mission is the same: to train, educate, and spread the gospel to the racing community. “The most important part is the Christ-centered aspect.”

Joey Keith echoed this: “We would love to invite anyone who loves Jesus and has a passion for motorsports to seriously consider joining our team,” he said. “We get calls weekly requesting ministry support. … There is a hunger more than ever right now.”

As the organization looks toward the future, RFC remains focused on expanding its reach. There’s always more to do.

Keith closed his email with a reminder from Luke 10:2: “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

His love endures forever

In the heart of Oklahoma’s Bible Belt, Racers for Christ find fertile ground for the mission. They can share the gospel freely, praying openly with racers and their families.

“Here, we’re able to be very vocal," Chaplain Jim Sheppard told me. "We can even say Jesus’ name.”

But the path isn’t always so smooth. In the Northwest, the ministry faces a different reality.

“There’s one racing group where I’m not allowed to say the name of Christ,” Sheppard admitted. But this leads to a resolution like Psalm 118 (“The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone”). Sheppard’s resolve is unwavering. “The relationships we’ve built over the years make it all worthwhile.”

Joey Keith echoed this sentiment, describing RFC’s approach as a full-spectrum effort to serve every corner of the racing world, to “touch every part of the event, whether it’s praying with drivers, praying for the Chili Bowl staff and safety teams, or being present in the pits with families and crews.”

Keith describes the ministry itself as a team, working together for a common purpose. The metaphor is fitting, reflecting the unity and focus needed in faith, a reminder that belief can thrive in unexpected places, even among roaring engines and dirt tracks.

Fighting the good fight

Before the A-Main, racers roll into a four-wide salute to the fans — a moment of unity and respect that electrifies the crowd.

Dirt racing isn't an end to itself. Its true purpose is not the results or even in its value as entertainment.

It is a pathway to improvement, a template for redemption. In 2 Timothy 4:7, Paul writes "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith."

I spoke with Luis Fernando Aragon, a professor at the University of Costa Rica. He forwarded a nine-article series about athletes who profess the Christian faith with an evangelical zeal. He argues that most examinations of Christian athletes focus on the use of religion or faith as “an inspiration to be more competitive, to train harder, to improve performance: the Christian faith as a tool.”

He offers a different angle: “Sports as a tool to help us be better Christians.”

At the Chili Bowl Nationals, faith is liberty — a God-given right, a truth rather than a theoretical concept.

Inside the Expo Center, surrounded by the smell of dirt and oil, attendees find sanctuary. Here, external conflicts fade away in the exhaust that creates such beautiful light beams through the air.

When a car crashed, my daughter gasped and said, “That’s why they need to go slow.”

Light on the dirt

As the wild final laps of the A-Feature race unfold, the dirt in the air thickens.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path,” declares Psalm 119.

In the humming glow of the arena, this makes sense. This light shines through every prayer, every race, and every quiet moment of reflection.

Several times throughout the Gospels, Jesus alludes to this Psalm: “Therefore be careful lest the light in you be darkness,” He warns in Luke 11:35. “If then your whole body is full of light, having no part dark, it will be wholly bright, as when a lamp with its rays gives you light.”

At the Chili Bowl, that truth feels alive. Beams of light pierce the dust-filled air, creating an almost sacred radiance. People pray before races, look upward after victories, and trust in God’s protection.

The flagman waves the white flag. One lap to go — deeper into the oasis of metal and light, into the perfume of exhaust and wet clay and burnt rubber.