Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years

by Brock Yates

  McQuinn had tangled with the wrong man in Bill France. Already, France's Grand National stock car series was running successfully up and down the East Coast, and major Detroit manufacturers like Hudson, Oldsmobile, Ford, and Chrysler were heavily involved in supporting teams like that being operated by Kiekhaefer. A whole new cast of ex-bootleggers, including the zany but talented Flock brothers, Curtis Turner, Lee Petty, Junior Johnson, and Herb Thomas, were exploiting skills honed as haulers of "white lightning" to become masters at controlling France's hulking "stock car" sedans and convertibles in his woolly, action-packed races.

  France had vowed eternal revenge after being ejected from Gasoline Alley. By the end of the year, he was seeking financing for a giant, 2.5mile high-banked "super speedway" in Daytona Beach that would ultimately rival Indianapolis as a world-famous motor sports venue. The foundation for the incredible rise of the NASCAR "Winston Cup" (now Nextel) was being laid based in part on McQuinn's arrogance.

  As the horsepower race gained speed in Detroit, the once-proud Chevrolet division of General Motors was losing market share to Ford. Chevrolet was looked upon as an old lady's car, thanks to its tepid, antiquated Blue Flame Six power plant. But in early 1955, an engineering team headed by bright, aggressive Ed Cole-who would rise to the leadership of the corporation-designed and built the ultimate, mass-produced V-8 engine and introduced it on a fresh lineup of Chevy sedans and the Corvette roadster.

  The engine, to be known forever as the "small-block Chevy," was lighter, more efficient, and potentially more powerful than anything the industry has seen. Employing a lightened push-rod valve-train and an alloy block, the new 265-cubic-inch "Turbo Fire" 180 hp V-8 version would quickly be embraced by the racing crowd. Within months, hot-rodders would be developing over 300 hp from the engine. Still in production to this day, the "small block" has been sold by the millions and must rank as the most brilliant mass-produced passenger car engine of all time.

  While the liberal press was chastising Eisenhower's secretary of defense and former GM chairman "Engine Charlie" Wilson for his crack that "what's good for General Motors is good for the country, and vice-versa," his beloved corporation was about to rise out of its lethargy. By the end of the decade, it would control nearly 70 percent of the domestic car market. This revival could be attributed, at least in part, to the horsepower found by Cole and his Chevrolet engineering team. In an era when postwar optimism and the resulting technology boom had led to demands for high performance on the highways of the nation, the breakout of Chevrolet-and of its equally dowdy partner, Pontiac, with its "wide track" advertising campaign and its ultra-fast Bonneville sedans-led the way to a new world of speed, power-and danger.

  In the early months of 1955, Detroit's elite ad agenciesChevrolet's Campbell-Ewald, Pontiac's McManus, John and Adams, and Chrysler's Young & Rubicam-geared up to force-feed glamour and performance to the American public, the racing season slowly accelerated to full speed. Bill France's fledgling stock cars were competing on a strange rectangle formed by Florida's Highway AlA, south of Daytona Beach, connected to a stretch of Atlantic Ocean beachfront. It would be the scene of major confrontations between factory-supported teams from Chrysler, Ford, Hudson, Oldsmobile, and Chevrolet.

  Farther to the north, sprint cars, the smaller, more nimble versions of the AAA championship cars, were beginning to roll. The Offypowered machines served not only as training vehicles for young men aspiring to Indianapolis, but as income sources for many established professionals. Eastern Pennsylvania was a hotbed of such competition, and tracks like the half-mile at the Williams Grove Amusement Park, south of Harrisburg, and Langhorne near the New Jersey border were favored venues.

  Unlike the aged horse tracks that generally served as battlegrounds for the championship cars, both Williams Grove and Langhorne were built for automobile racing. Langhorne was the older of the two, having been constructed in 1926 on a plot of sloping swampland. In contrast to the conventional rectangular shape of most American speedways, Langhorne was a perfect one-mile circle. Sixty feet wide, with a surface of dirt soaked black with used engine oil, drivers either loved or hated the "Horn." Some praised the fact that one could circulate in constant, 100-mph powerslides. Others cited the dangers of the downhill section beyond the starting line, called "puke hollow." There, the swampy moisture wicked up through the dirt, causing immense ruts to form under spinning wheels. A poor entry into "puke hollow" could send a race car tumbling high over the wooden fence and into the copse of trees bordering the track.

  Langhorne stood as the ultimate test of bravery-the Eiger face of motor racing. While some avoided it and others drove it with trepidation, men like Jimmy Bryan and "Iron Mike" Nazaruk embraced its demand for raw, unbridled cojones.

  When the racers came to the "Horn," the Howard Johnson's motel and restaurant in nearby Bordentown, New Jersey, was the center of the action. The parking lot filled up with big sedans and station wagons hauling race cars. It was not uncommon to see crewmen and drivers working on the race cars outdoors, their aluminum bodywork spread out on the macadam.

  In the evening, the crews gathered at local bars to share war stories and, more importantly, to hook up with the young women who inevitably appeared. Life on the road was long and lonely, rolling from track to track, from cheap tourist home and motel to rooming house. While many of the vagabonds were married, it was often in name only, their wives left back home in distant isolation. Their replacements were the same women who chased football and baseball players, seeking the thrill of a night with an alpha male.

  Early in March, Langhorne bit one of the brave ones. Larry "Crash" Crockett was a burly kid from rural Indiana who had been named Rookie of the Year at the 500 the year before. Presuming his wild streak could be tamed, many believed him to have a bright future. But on March 20, Crash Crockett's sprint car hooked a rut in "puke hollow" and pinwheeled out of the park. By the time safety crews scrambled through the trees to the wrecked car, the young driver was dead.

  Two weeks later in Italy, a brilliant young prospect for the Maserati Grand Prix equipe, Sergio Mantovani, had his leg severed in a crash at Turin. He never raced again.

  As March gave way to the steady rains of April, it was clear to Travers and Coon that Goossen's V-8 engine could not be completed in time. They suggested to Keck that perhaps a conventional Offenhauser could serve as a replacement. Keck refused. He was beginning to devote his attention to thoroughbred horse racing. His stallion Ferdinand would win the Kentucky Derby in 1986, thereby making him the only man in history with victories in the most prestigious automobile and horse races in the world.

  Keck said that unless the new car was completed in time, it would have to wait until next year before appearing at the track. He then called a friend, Coca-Cola millionaire Lindsey Hopkins, and offered his entire team-Travers, Coon, and, most important, Vukovich-to him. Realizing his good fortune, Hopkins instantly accepted, and turned over his year-old Kurtis-Kraft 500C roadster to the dream team. The car would carry the number 4 on its metallic blue tail and Hopkins's well-known rabbit in a top hat logo on its long hood. The Hopkins Kurtis would hardly be a breakthrough vehicle like the aborted Keck V-8, but it would still be a first-class machine once whiz kids Travers and Coon had finished their immaculate preparations. Vukovich, a man who seemed comfortable behind the wheel of any race car, was pleased with the change and spent extended periods in Travers's Los Angeles shop helping to ready the car.

  His two chief rivals, Bryan and McGrath, were also reloading. Bryan's car's owner, Al Dean, had commissioned master craftsman Eddie "Zazoom" Kuzma to build a new Offy-powered roadster. It would carry a distinctive flat tail, devoid of the standard streamlined headrest. In its place would be a small metal hoop-the first known roll bar to appear at the Speedway. Still, it was too flimsy to offer much protection for the hulking Bryan. McGrath would return with the Hinkle Kurtis, much improved thanks to Jack the Bear's skills as an engine tuner and mechanic.

  As the tea
ms rolled into Indianapolis on the first week of May, little attention was paid to a stunning drive across Italy just completed by the dazzling English star Stirling Moss. Running for the MercedesBenz factory team with his friend and navigator, English journalist Dennis Jenkinson, Moss won the Mille Miglia open-road race in just over ten hours, averaging a stunning 97 mph over the 997-mile lap of the Italian boot.

  From the perspective of a half-century later, Moss's drive borders on the unbelievable. The Mille Miglia was both Italy's greatest sporting event and a national holiday. Schools, banks, and government offices closed. Millions lined the route, which led from the northern starting point in Brescia, south along the Adriatic coast, through the holiday beach town of Rimini, to Pescara. From there it was a vault over the spine of the Apennine Mountains to Rome, back north through Siena, across the Arno at Florence, and over the perilous mountain pass at Futa into Bologna. Then home to Brescia.

  Uncounted corners and blind hills demanded sheer brilliance behind the wheel. On the straights along the Adriatic coast, Moss let the sleek Mercedes 300SLR roadster have its head, often reaching 180 miles an hour. Working from a scrolling roll of route notes, Jenkinson hand-signaled Moss about upcoming course changes as the young Englishman snaked through the Italian countryside, leaving his Italian and German rivals far behind. He completed the arduous run in just seven minutes over ten hours, establishing him as the fastest open-road driver in history. Never again would such a drive be accomplished-nor would the 300SLR ever again attain such an honor, considering the tragedy that lay ahead for the brilliant machine.

  But European competitions like the Mille Miglia were faraway thoughts to the drivers and crews who rolled into Indianapolis. Several European champions had recently tried the Speedway, the last being the likable Alberto Ascari, who had competed, without success, in 1952. But "sporty car" racing, as it was called, was generally discounted by the Indy crowd-until they were overwhelmed by its technology a decade later.

  Then came word from Langhorne. "Iron Mike" Nazaruk, the nailtough veteran of Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, and Bougainville, had run one last warm-up for Indy in a sprint car event at the "Horn." Fighting for the lead in the twenty lap feature race, Nazaruk slid high in "puke hollow." The tail of his Nyquist Offy slapped the fence and fishtailed as Nazaruk fought for control. Snap-rolling high into the air, the impact against a bordering tree was so pulverizing that Nazaruk's helmet was ripped off and his driving suit torn from his body. Big-time racing had claimed its second victim in a month.

  It was just the beginning.

  CROSS-COUNTRY ROAD TRIPS IN 1955 WERE STILL something of an adventure. Interstate 40 lurked only in the minds of road planners and legislators formulating President Eisenhower's dream of an immense, 42,500-mile highway network. It was intended not only to meet the nation's growing automobile population, which was edging toward 100 million vehicles, but for national defense. Ike, who was headed for an easy second term, advocated such a system following his exposure to Germany's brilliant autobahns during World War II. Those superbly designed four lanes had served not only to rapidly transport troops and supplies for the Wehrmacht, but had been adopted as Luftwaffe fighter bases late in the fighting.

  Eisenhower's plan was to invest $33.5 billion over the next sixteen years to complete the vast project. That was an optimistic projection; the Interstates would not reach their planned mileage until the late 1980s.

  I decided to drive my MG back east for the Indianapolis 500, having received an assignment from Liberty to do a profile on Vukovich, who was expected to win an unprecedented third straight race. The trip, over rough, two-lane Route 66, the "Mother Road took me east to Kingman on the Arizona border after a slow, heat-ravaged climb by my wheezing MG over the Cajon Pass. From there it was a top-down run to Lordsburg, the famed destination of John Wayne, Claire Trevor, and company in John Ford's classic 1939 film Stagecoach. Down off the Continental Divide, the MG regained its breath on the Texas panhandle flatlands and into dusty Amarillo for an overnight.

  Angling north, I rolled through Oklahoma City and past Tulsa, where up ahead I spotted the unmistakable shape of a race car's tail on a trailer. Pushing the MG to its maximum, which nudged near 80 mph, I caught up with a dazzling pink-and-white Kurtis-Kraft roadster being towed by a heavily laden Ford station wagon. The race car was open, mounted on a trailer manufactured in Burbank, California, that featured a distinctive third dolly wheel on its fork. The car itself was exposed to the elements, save for a small leather tonneau cover over the cockpit. On its long nose were painted the large letters "JZ." This was a car belonging to Tulsa millionaire John Zink, and no doubt headed for Indianapolis. I instantly recognized the driver of the station wagon, a lean, sharp-nosed young man with a military crew cut. His name was A. J.-for Abraham Joseph-Watson, an Ohio native living in Glendale, California, who was viewed as a rising star among Indianapolis mechanics and car builders.

  Watson had first appeared on the Speedway scene in 1950, when he and his friend Jud Phillips, another talented mechanic and hotrodder, fashioned a car in Watson's Glendale garage. Using parts cadged from other race shops and donations from neighbors and local businesses, their "City of Glendale Special" became known among the racing fraternity as the "Pots and Pans Special." It joined another home-built car of the day, "Basement Bessie;' which had been fabricated by race mechanic Ray Nichols in the cellar of his northern Indiana home. In an era when money was tight and race car design pretty basic, numerous race cars with equally humble beginnings appeared at the Speedway.

  This was hardly the case with John "Jack" Zink, the son of a wealthy industrial-furnace-and-heating baron who had built his own three-quarter-mile test track on the family's sprawling ranch twenty miles west of Tulsa. No doubt his pink car on the trailer-a color quickly dubbed "Zink Pink"-had been inspired by the pastel fashions now embraced by both men and women, and in particular the pink button-down shirts being favored on elite college campuses from coast to coast.

  I had heard through the Los Angeles grapevine that Frank Kurtis was building a new 500D roadster for Zink, with Bob Sweikert assigned to the seat. With Watson "twisting the wrenches," as it was phrased, and audacious young Sweikert at the wheel, the Zink Pink number 6 would be a strong contender at the Speedway.

  I cruised beside the rig, gaping at the car's lacquered flanks and chrome fittings, which shimmered in the Oklahoma sunshine. Watson gave me a perfunctory wave as I spotted a wink of yellow in my rearview mirror. Rushing up was a new Cadillac Coupe de Ville Model 62, its enormous, egg-crate grille and its "Dagmar" bumper gnawing at my taillights. I quickly moved right to let the monster through. Drawing alongside, the hulking Caddy nose-dived from 100 mph, its front tires smoking and its driver, a large man in a Stetson, sawing at the wheel for control. He had obviously seen the race car trailer and wanted a closer look.

  As our trio puttered along two-lane Route 66, a fourth machine appeared, again rolling up at high speeds, then slowing to a crawl to join the caravan. It was a 1932 high-boy roadster, a fenderless hot rod being driven by a gaunt young man in a T-shirt and sunglasses.

  This was a classic American hot rod, powered by a modified flathead Ford V-8-Henry's revolutionary, affordable, breakthrough engine, which became the biggest factor in his company's domination of the American market for over twenty years.

  We dawdled along, my MG, the Cadillac, and the Ford roadster representing totally divergent aspects of domestic automobile enthusiasm-a powerful, flashy, be-finned Detroit mega-machine, a spindly English sports car, and a pure, home-built hot rod.

  The Cadillac represented the latest advances in luxury passenger car technology-automatic transmission; power windows, seats, and steering; all packaged in so much chrome it looked like a Wurlitzer juke box on wheels. The other 2 vehicles-the hot rod and my MGwere simple cars compared to the Cadillac-at the time the undisputed king of the American road. Like its smaller, lower-priced General Motors sisters, Buick and Oldsmobile, Cadillac's sales were booming.
It had far out-paced rival Lincoln, while the once-haughty Packard had descended to a point so low that the company had made a desperate alliance with the equally weakened Studebaker.

  In fact, General Motors and Ford were on the verge of driving all other domestic brands off the market. Even Chrysler, the traditional third arm of the so-called Big Three, was struggling. Its Plymouth brand, long the third-best-selling marque in America, behind Ford and Chevrolet, had dropped to fifth in sales, now passed by both Buick and Oldsmobile. Hudson and Nash, two aged and much-honored makes, were united in a final, futile bid for survival, while upstart Kaiser-Fraser and Willys, the maker of the world-famous and beloved jeep, were both on the edge of bankruptcy.