It was a two-man job. Bill Blair Sr., in a ‘39 Ford loaded with white liquor, hung back, while his friend Elmer sped down winding North Carolina roads as though he was riding the devil’s horse. “Agents would get after Elmer and chase him,” says Bill Blair, who inherited Blair Sr.’s name and love for racing. “My daddy would come down the road with nothing to bother him.”
The agents were from what’s now known as ATF: the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. But on this occasion, Elmer hesitated at a fork. Instead of picking left or right, he slid into a maple tree. According to Blair, Elmer shimmied out the window and hid. The agents, who assumed he’d run for the tree line, started shooting. “Daddy rolled up and he saw all that and slowed,” says Blair. “Elmer came out of that tree like a squirrel, opened the door, hopped in, and said ‘Let’s get out of here!’”