Go Like Hell

by A. J. Baime

  » Ken Miles and Dennis Hulme (entered by Shelby American)

  » Bruce McLaren and Chris Amon (Shelby American)

  » Dan Gurney and Jerry Grant (Shelby American)

  » Paul Hawkins and Mark Donohue (Holman Moody)

  » Ronnie Bucknum and Dick Hutcherson (Holman Moody)

  » Lucien Bianchi and Mario Andretti (Holman Moody)

  » Graham Hill and Brian Muir (Alan Mann Racing)

  » John Whitmore and Frank Gardner (Alan Mann Racing)

  Ferrari had prepared seven prototypes officially entered by various teams, though all were prepared at the Maranello factory:

  » Mike Parkes and Ludovico Scarfiotti (Factory-entered 330 P3)

  » Lorenzo Bandini and Jean Guichet (Factory 330 P3)

  » Pedro Rodriguez and Richie Ginther (Luigi Chinetti 330 P3)

  » Masten Gregory and Bob Bondurant (Chinetti 365 P2)

  » Richard Attwood and David Piper (Maranello Concessionaires* 365 P2)

  » “Beurlys” and Pierre Dumay (Ecurie Francorchamps† 365 P2)

  » Willy Mairesse and Hans Müller (Scuderia Filipinetti‡ 365 P2)

  A supporting cast of privateers had entered five more Ford GT4os and four Ferrari GT cars. Ferrari also entered three Dinos, set to battle in their own 2-liter race against the Porsches. In total, fourteen Ferraris and thirteen Fords were entered.

  Race day morning arrived with the threat of rain. By lunchtime, hundreds of thousands had descended upon the grounds. All morning, the sky darkened. In some of the pits, the crews were busy changing from dry to wet tires, expecting the worst. Was it going to rain or not? The choice was critical. In the Ferrari pit, all talk was of the Surtees-Dragoni disaster. Dragoni answered to the Italian reporters.

  “Lets drop the subject that I favor Italian drivers,” he said. “Here I work only in Ferrari’s interests.”

  Where did Enzo Ferrari stand on the matter?

  “I didn’t speak with him because the telephones weren’t working well,” Dragoni answered.

  Surtees would not be able to meet with Ferrari until after the race. Back at his hotel, he received a strange note. It was from Carroll Shelby, asking if maybe Surtees wouldn’t mind a drive in a nice little Ford racing coupe. Certainly Shelby could clear a spot on his team.

  Surtees packed his bags and prepared to head south to Italy.

  Secluded from the crowds, Ford’s sixteen drivers reported to their final briefing exactly two hours before the start. They were dressed in fireproof coveralls and asbestos-bottomed racing shoes. Shelby and Beebe stood by. Fingertips tapped nervously on the tops of helmets. Some of these drivers were brought in at the last minute to fill out the ranks, having never competed at Le Mans before.

  A project manager under Beebe named John Cowley did the talking. The executives understood there was a tremendous rivalry between Shelby’s drivers and Holman Moody’s. There was rivalry between Shelby’s drivers themselves; Miles (in the #1 Ford), McLaren (#2), and Gurney (#3) were at Le Mans to win. For McLaren, a Le Mans victory would make for incredible publicity for his Formula One team, which was two races old. Many believed Gurney was, all around, the best in the world. Miles had rubbed some Ford men the wrong way. Sure, he’d done most of the development work on the car. But he had a reputation for having too much race in him. That stunt at Sebring, battling with his teammate Gurney, had landed Miles in hot water. Was he a team player?

  “Miles would race his grandmother to the breakfast table,” Ford racing executive Jacque Passino said. It wasn’t a compliment.

  The company men had to drill into the drivers’ heads that this was a team effort. There was to be no interteam competition.

  “I appreciate that you all have been in racing a lot longer than I have,” Cowley said. “We want you to lap at a pace consistent with both finishing the race and breaking the Ferraris.” He then assigned lap speeds for the start of the race. Gurney, who’d won the pole, was given the fastest time: 3:37–38. Miles was to lap two seconds slower, and McLaren two seconds slower than Miles. The effort would be highly coordinated and disciplined. Under all circumstances, drivers were to follow pit signals and team rules. "For maximum durability, do not exceed 6,200 rpm,” Cowley said. “Driver changes will be at every other fuel stop.” While it was custom for drivers to wait until they reached the Mulsanne Straight to buckle their belts, the starters were told to strap in when they jumped in their cars, before pulling off the line. And all attempts would be made to conserve the brakes. Were there any questions?

  “Okay,” the Ford man said. “Let’s get it done.”

  As 4:00 P.M. neared, Le Mans’s guest Grand Marshal arrived. The Deuce’s helicopter touched down in the airfield behind the grandstands. He was accompanied by his son Edsel II and his wife. By this time an all-time high 350,000 had crowded onto the grounds around the circuit. When Henry II walked onto the pit lane among the crowd, he was met by a host of luminaries. Iron-gray hair slicked back, his prodigious girth cut a path through the crowd. His wife had bet $1,000 that Ferrari would win. “After all,” she laughed, “I am Italian!”

  Reporters peppered Mr. Ford with questions. Why was success at Le Mans so important?

  “Ford is an international company,” Henry II said, “with branches all over the free world. We feel a good showing by our products at Le Mans will reflect favorably on us in the countries where we do business.”

  What was he hoping to see?

  “Aside from victory, I hope to see interesting competition. And I especially hope to see a safe race, without accidents.”

  Henry II stopped in front of one of the Ferraris. He stood there holding his hands behind his back, staring down at this Italian automobile. It was indeed a thing of great beauty and power, its curves organic and undeniably sexual. From out of the crowd, Leo Beebe’s tall frame appeared. Henry II looked up into Beebe’s eyes and shook his hand. The two men had known each other for more than two decades, since their days in the navy. Henry II reached into his pocket, pulled out a card, and passed it to Beebe. Then he continued onward.

  Beebe looked down at the card. It read, “You better win, HF II.” He put the card in his wallet. It remained there for the rest of his life.

  At 3:59 P.M., the crowd grew quiet. The grandstands looked like they could sink into the earth with the sheer weight of bodies. Atop the grandstands, the flags of countless nations waved in the breeze. Thunderclouds pressed from above.

  Every eye was on Henry Ford II. As Honorary Grand Marshall, he had the privilege of starting the race, and he stood on the pavement holding a French flag high. Twenty yards from him, Ken Miles stood across from his #1 Ford, which was painted orange and light blue with white racing stripes streaking down the nose. His helmet was black and so were his shoes. Miles had traveled a long, twisty road to get to this place in time. The pavement beneath his feet was drenched in glory, courage, honor, and blood.

  At precisely 4:00 P.M., the Deuce dropped the flag. Then he hustled off that pavement as fast as his legs could carry him.

  22

  Le Mans—Record Pace: June 18, 1966

  MILES KNEW RIGHT AWAY he was in trouble. When he jumped into the cockpit and slammed the door shut, he smacked his helmet on the lip of the door. He took his time and clicked on his seatbelt. Then he hit the ignition, stood on the pedal, and up-shifted through the gears, firing off the line with the rest of the pack. As he moved under the Dunlop Bridge, planting all of the 427’s torque, he realized he was going to have to pit after a single lap.

  He’d bent the door by slamming it on his head.

  Carefully he maneuvered the twists and the back straight. One wrong move and the 24-hour race could turn into a two-minute-long calamity. When Miles pulled into the pit after that first lap, Shelby feared the worst. Mr. Ford was watching; the Deuce was right there in the pit. The French announcer shouted over the loudspeakers: the #1 Ford had come in for repairs. Miles opened his door and screamed at his crew chief. They moved qui
ckly, under Shelby’s watch. By the time the door was fixed, Miles was already behind. He accelerated onto the track and began to weave through the heavy iron and the smaller cars.

  The front-runners fell into order and Dan Gurney set the pace as he was instructed, leading the race in his bright red #3 Ford. Miles chased in pursuit. A drizzle began to fall and he clicked on his windshield wiper. He saw a sea of umbrellas open around the track. As the pack stretched out in single file—carving the black stripe into the pavement that was the racing line—the real competition began. Miles throttled through the grandstands and the announcer heaved over the loudspeakers: the #1 Ford had shattered the lap record at 3 minutes 34.3 seconds. By the end of the first hour, Miles had moved into third place. Fords were running one through four, their throaty Detroit engines loud and proud. There was no finesse to the mighty V8’s song. It was bone-hard force, a great metal fist flying down the road. The announcer came again: Miles had lowered the lap record to 3:31.9, an average of 142.01 mph.

  When the fastest Fords came in for the first scheduled pit stops, Shelby watched his men work with military precision. He saw careful planning and perfect execution. Miles pulled the #1 Ford in at 5:26 P.M. His crew checked his brakes, Goodyears, oil, and fueled the tank with 33.5 gallons. He pulled out of the pits in a flash. Gurney followed at 5:30 in the #3 Ford. When McLaren came in at 5:33, he stepped out of his car and complained about his tires. He could feel the track tearing up the rubber. His crew had a look; the Firestones were chunking. Nobody on Goodyears was having any trouble. McLaren’s teammate Amon stepped in and they had a conference with Shelby.

  “It’s up to you guys,” Shelby said. “You’re contracted to Firestone but we’ve got plenty of Goodyears sitting here.”

  Soon McLaren was back on the track on a set of Goodyears. He’d lost time, vital minutes that would prove costly at 4:00 P.M. the next day.

  Speeds continued to rise. To see these cars curving through the Esses was to witness the pinnacle of engineering and human courage. The announcer piped over the loudspeakers: it was Gurney in the #3 Ford, followed by Miles in the #1 Ford. The Ferraris stalked less than a minute behind, awaiting the right moment to strike. The Shelby American Fords were well faster than the Holman Moody cars, which were trailing back in the pack. Andretti was nowhere near the leaders. Miles lowered the lap record again, then Gurney stole the record with an incredible 3:30.6. In the press box, ABC’s Charlie Brockman shouted into his microphone.

  “We are witnessing the most tremendous 24-hour racing ever put on here at Le Mans, as it has been a battle from the start among four or five cars at the most tremendous pace of all time. Working with us this evening is a man who’s won here three times and is a competitor in this one, Phil Hill of Santa Monica, California, who will be driving the #9 Chaparral, right now lying in 10th position. Phil, the talk here has been on the pace of this race.”

  “It’s a terrific pace,” Hill said. “Before the thing’s over, we’re going to see an awful lot of cars not around anymore.”

  “The lap record, which you set here a year ago at 3:37.5, has been broken. It’s now held by Dan Gurney at 3:30.6, an average speed of 142.89 mph. That’s fantastic.”

  “It sure is.”

  At 6:47 P.M., McLaren pulled into the pit for the first scheduled driver change. He was loving the car. “They were so fast, those 7-liter Mk IIs,” he later recalled. “We were doing 220-something mph down the Mulsanne Straight.” He jumped out to confer with his teammate Chris Amon as the mechanics checked the brakes and tires and pumped in 32.3 gallons of Super Shell.

  “Is it okay?” Amon asked.

  “Yeah, fine,” McLaren said.

  Amon jumped in and steered the car back onto the track.

  Miles pulled in one minute after McLaren and handed the car over to his teammate Denny Hulme, a New Zealand-bred Formula One racer who’d replaced injured Lloyd Ruby. Hulme was celebrating his thirtieth birthday in style that day—by racing at Le Mans. The crew popped the #1 Ford’s engine compartment, checked the brakes, and fueled 33.4 gallons.

  Shelby checked the lap chart. Miles had driven his first stint averaging 3:37.2 laps—three seconds faster than Gurney, who was in the lead. If Miles hadn’t smacked his helmet on the door at the start, he’d be well in front.

  The crowds in the grandstands saw a burst of black smoke in the distance climbing out of the trees above the Mulsanne Straight. Someone had crashed hard. But who? Wives and girlfriends grew nauseated. The camera helicopter hustled over for a bird’s eye. ABC’s Charlie Brockman:

  There you can see [from the helicopter’s camera] the fire that blazed up when two cars got together on the Mulsanne Straight. There’s an eerie feeling to be over here on the pit straight and not know who is involved. Immediately the question starts going around: Who is it? Who is it? The fire has crept into the woods. The trees are burning, soaked in spilled gas and oil.

  As drivers maneuvered the Tertre Rouge corner onto the long straight, they saw a flagman waving yellow, but they didn’t need a flagman to know there was danger. Smoke clouded the roadway. As they passed the wreck, they saw the flames on their left spread out over two dozen yards, with no rescue squads in sight. Two wrecked cars smoldered. A quick glance moving by at speed and anyone would assume that funerals were in order. The more experienced drivers hit the gas hard, knowing the others were letting up. Soon the facts were reported over the loudspeakers: two French drivers were en route by helicopter to a nearby hospital. One had minor injuries, the other had two broken arms.

  Nearing 10:00 P.M.—sunset at that latitude in Europe—the clouds on the western horizon turned a shade of blazing orange. When Henry II’s helicopter lifted off, headed 50 miles away to Château d’Artigny for a scotch or two and a night’s rest, Miles’s #1 Ford was leading the race (with Hulme now at the wheel). But the Ferraris were still chasing fast, and a fleet of silver Porsches were in the running, too.

  Through the opening hours, the Ferraris had remained within striking distance. When Hulme brought the #1 Ford into the pit to hand back over to Miles, the crew went to work changing the front and rear brake pads and the tires. The red cars stayed on the track. The Fords possessed superior speed, but the Ferraris were more nimble and efficient. While Miles’s car was in the pit being worked over, the Ferraris made their move, pulling into the lead for the first time.

  Reporters in the press box working to make deadline for the next day’s paper hammered at their typewriters. Six hours into the race, it was one-two for Ferrari.

  In darkness the rain came, pounding the crowds and speeding cars. Spectators ran for shelter and headlamps charged through the murky night. Car after car veered off into the pit lane to change to wet tires.

  As the pace slowed considerably, and the temperature dropped, Miles started his second shift and began to speed through lightning-fast laps. He knew this car so well, he could feel the rubber’s grip on the wet pavement. The driving was safest in the racing line, where tires had left a trail of rubber gunk. On either side was where the pavement was slickest. In order to pass, one had to veer at times from the safest line into that slippery tarmac, made even more treacherous by the cooling temperature. Miles overtook car after car on the outer edges, moving 50, 60, sometimes 70 mph faster. He moved back into first place and began to draw out a lead.

  Shelby and Ford management retreated to a dimly lit corridor behind the pits to shield themselves from the squall. The alley led under the grandstands to the paddock on the other side. It was long and lit with fluorescent lights, with cinder block walls and a cement floor, pipes running along the ceiling. Spectators forbidden. Until there was some exigency, all these men could do was wait. They paced the dirty floor “like expectant fathers in a hospital waiting room,” as one man present described the scene. The sound of engines echoed down the corridor.

  Someone came down the hall with an updated lap chart. Miles was lapping at 3:39. The signaling pit was giving him the EZ sign but he wasn’t s
lowing down. He was moving quicker than he was ordered to go in the fast opening laps. And now it was pitch black out there. And pouring.

  “The old man is really running in that rain,” Shelby said of Miles.

  The pacing continued.

  23

  The Most Controversial Finish in Le Mans History: June 19, 1966

  THE MIDNIGHT HOURS proved the most vital and frantic at Le Mans in 1966. The murderous racetrack took its toll, tearing up machinery and men.

  Andretti’s Ford blew a head gasket after 97 laps. His adventure at Le Mans was over.

  Phil Hill’s car lost its headlights—dead battery. The Chaparral was wheeled out of the pits for good.

  Ludovico Scarfiotti was moving at high speed into the loopy Esses in darkness in the #20 Ferrari. Screaming into a blind turn, Scarfiotti found a wreck right on the other side. Two banged up cars were just sitting there. He had no choice. He pounded into the obstruction with a loud wallop, littering the pavement with pieces of his car. Scarfiotti was severely shaken, both by the accident and by the fear of Mr. Ferrari’s wrath. The Italian fans would hang poor Scarfiotti out to dry. He’d taken the place of Il Grande John in the lead prototype, and had failed to make it through the night. He was in the hands of medics now.

  Just after 3:00 A.M., word went out over the loudspeakers that the most threatening Ferrari, the 330 P3 driven by Pedro Rodriguez and Richie Ginther, had broken its gearbox. In a matter of three short hours after midnight, fate placed the race in the hands of Carroll Shelby and his team. His three entries were running one, two, three. All the front-line Ferraris were out. The closest Ferrari was in fifth place, dozens of miles behind. Only one Holman Moody Ford was still running and it was nowhere near the front.