Castle Rock’s Forgotten History of Speed

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Archive images courtesy Castle Rock Historical Society

They say that home is where the heart is, and for a lot of us that place is the town in which you grew up. A place of countless childhood memories, and stories of the good and bad experiences that shaped you. It’s where you spent your formative years and found the influences that would carry you through the rest of your life. It’s where you became you. A place that no matter where you go or where you end up, coming back always feels like coming home. I guess that’s why you call it your hometown. And while that town might not seem special to others, it’ll always be special to you.

For me, that place is Castle Rock, Colorado, given its name from the giant rock formation in the middle of town. It’s a beacon that sits somewhere between Denver and Colorado Springs. Before this little town became a not-so-little town, most people would just stop for gas and keep moving, never looking back and never realizing the magic to be found just off the highway. Like the legendary pancakes at the B&B Cafe, where you can still see bullet holes in the ceiling from a shootout in 1946. Or the Castle Cafe across the street, famous for its pan-fried chicken and rough-and-tumble history of nightly brawls and drunken cowboys riding their horses through the bar. 

My childhood in Castle Rock was like a scene out of Stranger Things. My brother and I would spend the summers riding our BMX bikes and building jumps with our neighborhood friends. We would catch frogs and snakes and find dirt piles to climb up and jump off. We would have dirt clod wars and throw rocks at each other until someone got hit in the face and started crying. We would climb the rafters of unfinished construction sites and hang out on the rooftops after dark. We’d scrape our knees and elbows and get stiches and break bones and come home covered in grass stains and dirt and blood. We’d stay up late playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater and listen to Green Day’s Dookie and sleep in the back yard under the stars. As we grew older, our bicycles and skateboards were replaced with motorcycles, but that spirit of fun and freedom has always stayed with us. 

I feel lucky to be the last generation to have had an old-fashioned childhood, and to have grown up without cell phones and social media. And I feel lucky to have grown up in a charming little town like Castle Rock. But the history of this town goes far beyond my 33 years – and as I continue my nostalgic ride past all the historic buildings on Wilcox Street, I ponder what happened here before my story began. So I dug a little deeper to learn what shaped the town that shaped me, and to discover where the town I came from, came from.

Castle Rock was founded during the Gold Rush, but those early prospectors never found gold. Instead, the land was rich with rhyolite stone, which provided a valuable economic resource and the building blocks for a new community. Many of the oldest structures in town are made from that original rhyolite stone, and as I continue riding down Wilcox Street I can’t help but imagine the days before this road was paved and horses and buggies were parked out front of these old buildings.

I continue my ride toward the outskirts of town, and my mind is shifting between memories of childhood and visions of an unknown history. Old brick buildings fade into the wide-open landscape as I arrive at a particularly special property just south of town. I think back to the days when my brother, my friends and I would park in a secret location and ride our dirt bikes out here – one of the many illegal riding spots we had scattered around town. Occasionally, we had to run from the cops and hide from local ranchers, but mostly I remember the long summer evenings riding with our friends. I laugh when I think about the jump that sent me so high in the air that the frame on my YZF450 snapped upon landing. We had some great times riding out there, but somehow we had no idea what had happened there before, and how sacred that hillside really was. 

It turns out that the property was once home to a legendary motorsports facility called Continental Divide Raceways. First announced with a groundbreaking ceremony in 1956, the facility never fully materialized, and by 1957 the original company had gone under. In 1958, the unfinished racetrack caught the attention of Denver millionaire Sid Langsam, who would finally bring Continental Divide Raceways to life. CDR became a nationally renowned motorsports mecca in the ’60s, hosting some of the greatest legends in motorsports history. At the height of its success, it was the finest facility of its kind in mid-America and, quite possibly, the entire USA. The facility was designed to host all types of car and motorcycle events, including a 2.8-mile road course, a half-mile oval, a 4,200-foot drag strip and a motocross track.

While the racetrack’s history is relatively unknown to locals today, whispers of Continental Divide Raceways still float in the air, with racers like Mario Andretti claiming CDR to be one of their favorite tracks. Carroll Shelby was another famous personality to race at CDR. Supposedly, it was the location of his final race, and that victory inspired the creation of his iconic Shelby Cobra. The circuit brought a lot of excitement to the small town of Castle Rock; oftentimes you would see celebrities boozing it up at the Castle Café after an event at CDR, like Evel Knievel after he had successfully jumped 11 cars on his Harley-Davidson. There are also stories of legendary battles between motocross heroes like Donnie Hansen, Ricky Johnson and Broc Glover at the pro motocross season finale during the racetrack’s brief resurgence in the early ’80s. The trio would race hard all the way to the finish, marking one of the closest and most exciting finales ever. Hansen won the championship by just 3 points over Johnson, with Glover trailing just another 3 points behind in third.

The circuit was in its prime throughout the late 1960s, until a series of tragic events eventually brought an end to CDR. A crash at the 1969 Denver Post Grand Prix sent a driver spinning out of control at 155 mph, colliding with a row of 55-gallon oil drums. The oil drums went flying in all directions, killing the driver and a nearby mechanic, and injuring several others. The tragic incident weighed heavily on the track owner, Sid Langsam, and soon after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Langsam died in 1973, with many attributing his illness to a broken heart over the 1969 crash. The writing was on the wall for Continental Divide Raceways.

Trying my best to take in the countless stories and incredible history of this place, I start up my bike and continue my nostalgic ride around town. I look down at my gas tank and think to myself how funny it is that my newest bike is also my oldest bike: A 1964 Triumph TR6 desert sled built by my friend Hayden Roberts out of Santa Paula, California. This bike was manufactured back in the days when Evel Knievel jumped the fountain at Caesars Palace on his Triumph, and Steve McQueen was still racing Triumphs like this in the California desert. Riding this motorcycle feels like a connection to that time, a relic from a golden era of motorsport, when Continental Divide Raceways was in its prime. I can only imagine what it was like to live in Castle Rock during that time. The population was just under 1,500, yet it hosted one of the premiere racing facilities in the country. I’m sure there was a real sense of pride amongst the local residents to have had such an iconic location in their little town. And I’m sure the races held at CDR must have been great for the town’s economy.

It’s sad that this incredible facility existed only for a brief moment in time. I wonder what it would have been like as a kid to go watch your favorite racers compete at Continental Divide Raceways. The track is now long gone and mostly forgotten, but Castle Rock’s heritage of speed still lives on through people like my brother and I, who grew up chasing thrills and unknowingly embodying this town’s high-octane history. I’ve always loved my town, but learning about this racetrack gives me a newfound perspective on where I come from. It’s easy to take for granted the little things that make your hometown special, but small towns across America have incredible stories to tell – if you’re willing to dig little deeper.