Welcome back to the 1930s

Every once in a while the S&G chucks an anachronism into the mix. This is a blog, after all, that has its roots in the age of adventure when land, sea and air were conquered by internal combustion, rather than the comings-and-goings of today.

One thread to have run continuously between our present age and that described on these pages has been the commercial sponsorship in motor sport  – and that thread is about to be broken. No longer, it would seem, do feats of derring-do appear to be properties of interest to people with products to sell.

Earlier this month it was announced that the quest to run Bloodhound, the vehicle intended to elevate the Land Speed Record beyond  1000 mph, was going on indefinite hiatus with a £25 million shortfall. This after 10 years of hard graft and the construction of a ‘viable racing car’ for the job from the team that had built the world’s only supersonic car… it was very sad news indeed.

Bloodhound’s funding has stalled achingly close to the 1000 mph barrier

It seems that the sheer achievement embodied by Bloodhound, the pinnacle of arguably the motoring world’s longest-held honour, was simply lost upon our risk-averse society (and, of course, there would always be someone with a placard and corduroy headwear who would bark that the project’s carbon footprint was unforgivable).

Meanwhile, in November this year, a marathon Formula 1 season will drag wearily to a close in Abu Dhabi and it will mark the last time that we will see cars carrying the colours of a company, Martini, which is only there for the association with the sport. One or two very expensive stickers may yet cling to the caché of Ferrari, but a remarkable era has now closed.

It’s the end of the line for bold corporate liveries in international motor racing

Commercial sponsorship began in America, when manufacturers of engine components, fuel and lubricants paid teams to put their name on the cars that used their technology. Soon other products began to appear and cars became candy-coloured advertisements whilst in Europe the tradition of national racing colours was preserved for more than half a century.

It was when these cultures collided in the late 1950s that things began to move on a little. At the Race of Two Worlds, Stirling Moss drove a Maserati that was sponsored by Eldorado ice cream. Shortly thereafter British teams like Lotus, Cooper and Lola went to the States and found life rather more lucrative than it was in Formula 1 in return for placing a few stickers on their coachwork.

The FIA permitted overt corporate branding to be on cars from 1966 onwards, and one of the earliest beneficiaries was Porsche, which very soon sported Martini colours on its cars at races like the Targa Florio. Meanwhile in Formula 1, Lotus took the final step into the unknown when it repainted its green-and-yellow cars as Golf Leaf cigarette packets.

 

Ever the trend-setter: Stirling Moss’s ice cream-toting Maserati

 

For the next 30 years, the global motor sport economy became based on the two founding pillars of corporate sponsorship: booze and fags.

These were products that sold aspiration and lifestyle, thus they were quickly followed by fashion houses, parfumiers, glossy magazines and property companies. Greed was good and by the zenith of the 1980s there was the rise of personal technologies – hi-fi stereos, cassette tapes, computers, dishwashers, microwaves – that lavished funds on jostling for space in this most rarefied of soukhs.

Look at any car in any series from the 1980s, from Formula 1 to rallying, sports cars to NASCAR, and be amazed by the carnival of colour, bravado and money that was circulating on that gleaming coachwork. But then as the shoulder-padded 1980s emerged into the plaid-shirted 1990s, cigarette advertising was finally stubbed out and the Internet happened.

No platform rivalled the glitz appeal of motor racing in the 1980s

People suddenly became more interested in describing what they had for breakfast on social media rather than being amazed by mankind’s bravery and ingenuity. Meanwhile, motor sport tried and failed to replace its lost sponsors.

Banks briefly filled the void but then most of them went bust, while telecoms companies were briefly wooed only to decide that creating ad broadcasting their own ‘content’ was better than providing cash for somebody else’s carnival.

Time and again in the last couple of decades, smart and sassy marketing men have been hailed as the people to usher in change and new fortunes to motor racing. But they they’ve simply been over-remunerated and over-hyped passengers who have taken out far more than they’ve brought in.

A Mercedes-engined car in the colours of Mercedes’ global water cooler supplier

Look again at the brand names that appear on competition cars today, and almost without exception they are suppliers to the motor manufacturers. It’s called defensive spending: maintaining multi-million dollar global contracts by investing a couple of those millions back into supporting their customers’ sporting ambitions. Our world has got smaller and within it motor sport has dwindled to a point where the impact of sponsorship is measured in the ringbound files of procurement policy.

National racing colours may not have returned, but strip away today’s jazzy graphics and 99 per cent of what’s left is the same sort of sponsorship that would not be out-of-place on a Duesenberg at Indianapolis – while the only major investment in motor sport is being made by governments who wish to employ four-wheeled ambassadors.

Snazzy graphics mask the paucity of outside investment in modern racing

So if the departure of Martini can be seen as the end of an era that goes back to the mid-1960s, it appears that in many ways the sport’s future is to be rooted somewhere closer to the 1930s (aside from breathtaking Land Speed Record attempts, of course). It seems that a circle has just completed itself.

Quality versus clamour: why Le Mans and Indy remain as giants

Last week, The Guardian newspaper ran an interesting bit of speculation – a week-long series entitled ‘Sport 2.0’ based upon the premise that, across the board, major sports are dying.

This rather dramatic prognosis was based upon evidence that TV figures are falling, revenues are down and crowd sizes have dwindled.

It’s a universal problem, it would seem. If the editorial of ‘Sport 2.0′ is to be believed, the only cure is to reduce the length of any event down to a maximum of five minutes and to surrender one’s soul to the great new god of ‘shareable content’.

According to one of these stories, international football matches will soon be played within a grid of some 200 cameras capturing every detail of the scene that can immediately be reproduced as a hologram in other stadia. So if a game is being played in Rio, for example, you can pop into your local stadium in Dundee to see an exact 3D version of the match on your home pitch.

No holograms or gimmicks: just a thumping crowd and a traditional spectacle that lasts a week

Nobody’s yet asked: ‘why?’

If people aren’t going to watch their own teams playing in their own stadia, will they really turn up in droves to watch a hologram of Norway vs. South Korea?

Apparently, the Japanese bid for the 2022 World Cup included using exactly this technology. The problem was that they could have promised a genuine alien invasion and a comeback concert by Elvis Presley because nothing was ever going to keep the gentlemen of FIFA away from Qatar’s billions.

Another point missed by The Guardian: even if there was a way for sports to break new ground and touch new hearts, it is pretty well guaranteed that an immediate influx of dollars will win the day. Have they not heard of Formula 1?

The Olympics once again provided cause for depression. When one thinks back upon the money lavished upon each and every Games, let alone the social changes enforced upon the host populations in order to sell Big Macs and fizzy drinks, it was galling indeed to read the architect and cheerleader for London 2012, Sebastian Coe, admit that athletics will never rank among the top three or four sports in Britain.

Elsewhere throughout the week, there was a fixation upon all of the ‘urban’ sports like BMX, Parkour, Skateboarding, Quidditch and the like, which the experts in sports marketing tell us have a greater appeal among the under-25s. Adapt or die was the message, or else all will be doom and gloom.

But throughout the period in which these stories were being put out, the Le Mans 24 Hours was taking place. Rather than a five-minute blast, we had practice on Tuesday, Qualifying on Wednesday and Thursday, a day of public jamboree on Friday and then the race from Saturday through to Sunday.

The battle for GT glory went down to the last lap

More than a quarter of a million people were at the track to see the start and the Internet was groaning with traffic as what seemed like every sports fan from Scandinavia to the Outback started talking about the race. An event lasting a week held us in its thrall right up to the last lap battle for GT honours was resolved in Aston Martin’s favour.

There is a reason why this level of fervour takes place every year: Le Mans is the world’s greatest motor sport event. In fact, according to no less an organ than National Geographic magazine, Le Mans is the greatest sporting event of any kind anywhere in the world based upon such factors as the scale of the challenge, the number and diversity of its participants, the size of the crowd and the heritage of the event.

In motor racing terms, only the Indianapolis 500 compares to Le Mans – and it compares very well indeed. Again, Indy brings no ‘urban sports’ element, it would be recognisable to competitors of a century ago and, where Le Mans lasts a week, Indy consumes an entire month!

Indianapolis pitches heroism and tradition that can be seen, heard and smelt

The Guardian offered no recognition that the only people who are truly obsessed by sports seven days a week are the people trying to rinse every available penny from those sports: the promoters trying to sell their pay-TV subscriptions, the venues trying to sell tickets and billboard space, the newspapers trying to sell advertising space around their reports and the creative agencies trying to sell ideas to the sponsors and the advertisers that make them stand out from the crowd.

Society has other things to worry about. We have less time and less money with every passing year, so when we want to pay attention to something, it has to be special. And if the past few weeks of fervour around Indianapolis and Le Mans have taught us anything, it’s that we, as an audience, can be optimistic. Because these events truly do remain special.

Human drama is served by the bucketload in 24 fraught hours at Le Mans

It’s not something that can be synthesised. It’s not the result of some tremendous promotional idea. It’s simply recognition of all those reasons listed by the National Geographic – and none of the frankly Orwellian language from The Guardian.

If one could bottle and sell what makes these events special, the status of a minor god might be accorded (although the thought occurs that perhaps Lord March has got closest to doing so at the Festival of Speed). But nobody has or will, and a hologram won’t do much better. Let’s allow the over-hyped, over-worked and over-valued clamour for our attention drift away on the tide, and savour what has always been right in the first place.

Long may the great races continue their fine traditions – and long may the wider world enjoy them

Gordon Bennett! It’s Zalonso!

The S&G has infinite enthusiasm for the Indianapolis 500 and its admiration for Fernando Alonso is similarly effusive – your scribe interviewed him in Minardi overalls a lifetime ago, and he was later very helpful on a book project – so perhaps a few more S&G stories might have been expected during the past month.

In fact, the whole circus that sprang up around Alonso’s mission to Indy rather precluded writing about it. The spirits of Jimmy Murphy, Jim Clark, Graham Hill and all the other transatlantic travellers have been endlessly summoned, so it was better to watch the rodeo and provide something from the S&G’s perspective when the dust settled: so here it is.

Of all the apparitions from motor sport’s past who may have appeared around the Alonso 500 it was James Gordon Bennett Jr. who most often sprang to mind. For it was he, as the owner of the New York Herald, who lavished funds upon a race from Paris to Lyon for the cream of motor manufacturers from Europe and the USA.

James Gordon Bennett Jr. – the first promoter of global motor racing for profit

Starting in 1900, the three fastest cars from each competing nation would be entered for the Gordon Bennett Cup – with Gordon Bennett’s newspaper getting all the exclusives throughout the build-up and raceday.

This was enormous news – a circulation blockbuster.

For nearly a decade, motor racing had whipped the public’s imagination into a frenzy of daredevils breaking new technological boundaries. By insisting that the Gordon Bennett Cup cars were painted in national racing colours, the press magnate’s race also tapped in to the zeal and fervour which would ultimately fuel World War 1.

The zeal which greeted motor racing was given a nationalistic fervour by Gordon Bennett

This was no longer a contest between athletes or even motor cars, but rather a measure of the virility and might of the world’s proudest nations. The 1900 race saw competing cars line up painted blue for France, yellow for Belgium, white for Germany, and red for the USA. Fernand Charon crossed the line in Lyon first on a Panhard, to a volcanic roar of approval across la République.

In 1901 the French had the race to themselves and a Panhard headed the charge from Paris to Rouen. In 1902 the Gordon Bennett Cup moved from France to Austria and the British challenged the French with some lightweight, less powerful cars from Wolselely and Napier – with Selwyn Edge taking the honours for Napier.

On that occasion the British cars had been painted red, but with the return of all nations for the 1903 race this meant that a permanent colour needed to be ascribed to British motor racing. In the end green was chosen, as a tribute to the race’s hosts in Ireland (then a part of the United Kingdom). It was a white Mercedes driven by Camille Jenatzy that won, however.

French honour was restored by victory on German soil in 1904. As a result the 1905 race moved back to France where, with more motor manufacturers than anyone else, the hosts chafed at being pegged back to only three manufacturers. Having failed to win concessions to enter more cars, the French celebrated one final triumph before they pulled up the stumps and planned to stage their own race instead for 1906 – it would be called the Grand Prix.

French national interests ended the Gordon Bennett Cup races – and created the Grand Prix

So what was it about Fernando Alonso’s enterprise in 2017 that reminded the S&G of that enterprising old rogue Gordon Bennett? Well, much has been made of the media hoo-ha that has accompanied Alonso’s month of May in the USA and, most of all, in the UK.

We have been treated to daily, hourly and minute-by-minute reportage from the moment that the project was announced until Alonso’s pitch-perfect acceptance speech for his Rookie of the Year award. Access all areas – and then some. Technical diagrams, race histories, videos – all the fun of the fair.

And all of it has done a fine job of blotting news from elsewhere in the motor sport world – particularly McLaren-Honda’s ongoing woes. Well, right up to the moment when Alonso’s Indy engine went ‘pop’ at least.

What many observers have forgotten is who now owns the news. Because, in a move of which his countryman James Gordon Bennett Jr would wholeheartedly approve, it is none other than Zak Brown, the Executive Director of McLaren, who sits as CEO of the Motorsport Network, which owns pretty well everything these days.

Zak’s media empire, funded by Miami-based Russian billionaire Mike Zoi, embraces the Motorsport.com global portal, the former Haymarket publications Autosport, Motorsport News and F1 Racing together with Motors TV (rebranded as Motorsport TV), as the only non-subscription channel for motor sport. It also picked up the Amalgam brand of high end scale model racing cars.

So, with his McLaren hat on, Zak was confronted with the problem of a slow and unreliable car together with Alonso, still widely regarded as the finest racing driver on Earth today. In other words: a potential PR disaster, given Fernando’s habit of speaking his mind and playing up to the camera when things go awry.

But when one owns the news, PR disasters can much more easily be avoided. Thus sticking Fernando in an Indycar was strategically very sound. It also must have done the ratings across Zak’s network a power of good, with American racing fans trying to find out more about Alonso and F1 fans trying to find out more about Indy.

Zak had a one-stop shop for all and he worked it well. Having placed a number of stories to McLaren’s benefit since buying the media outlets, the Alonso-to-Indy showstopper has broken all previous boundaries between news and PR.

The ‘Zalonso’ show starring Fernando Alonso and Zak Brown has enjoyed a successful run on both sides of the Pond

Of course the difference between the past month’s mania for ‘Zalonso’ and the days of James Gordon Bennett Jr is that the Gordon Bennett Cup was effectively owned and administrated by the mogul himself. That might be an investment too far for Zak – in the immediate future at least – but he might not be too far off.

With the sea of New Zealand racing orange across the motor sport coverage this last month, James Gordon Bennett Jr would doubtless be chuckling. If in the back of his mind Zak Brown had wanted to serve notice upon the sport’s owners, he picked the hell of a way to do it.

Revelling in Indy’s big anniversary

At the climax of the month of May we arrive at a time to celebrate the fertility of the earth, for lambs to gambol beneath bright scudding clouds and for Indianapolis to become the focal point of the civilized world. This year’s Memorial Day marks the 100^th running of the Indianapolis 500 and it is a thing of splendour to see Americans mark such an occasion with their inimitable panache.

The anniversary has resulted in anticipated crowd of around 400,000 – which is wildly up on recent seasons. This level of expectation in turn is causing some apprehension, not least among veterans such as Bobby Unser, who worry about whether the level of interest in a marquee day for America as will be seen this Memorial Day can be sustained. Others are predicting a brilliant race and the restoration of IndyCar racing as a whole.

Colourful, distinctive and unique: the 100th Indy 500 beckons

Certainly there will not be another global motor sport event with quite the same razzmatazz. The Grand Prix at Monaco has its place, of course, but in the modern world it’s all just a little bit queasy. Too many Russians on rented yachts, too many b-list pop stars warbling with Eddie Jordan on drums. Too much glitz and too little substance.

If you want a celebration of what motor racing has always been about then Go West, young man, Go West.

Even in their current state of eye-popping aerodynamics, fairground bumpers and paranoid paraphernalia to ward off injury, Indycars look mean and purposeful. Colours are sharper. Logos are brighter. And none of the cars from the imperious might of Team Penske to the clunkiest non-qualifier could be mistaken for anything other than an all-American phenomenon.

There’s always been a bit more dazzle and a soupcon of razzle

In the Eighties, the S&G was intoxicated by the speed and liveries such as the shimmering gold and chrome of Miller or the blistering Pennzoil yellow. There were also celebrations for Roberto Guerrero’s successes in America, after knowing him as a hard-trying and extremely courteous youngster among the Silverstone set.

Delving deeper into Indianapolis is to bathe in a unique folklore that never fails to inspire or to turn up the most incredible facts or personalities – not least, of course, Eddie Rickenbacker.

Super-fast Guerrero made his mark at Indy after struggling in Europe

The first race ever held at Indianapolis wasn’t the 500 – which was first staged in 1911 – it was a motorcycle race won by Erwin George ‘Cannonball’ Baker on 14 August 1909. Construction of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway had been inspired by the world’s first permanent circuit at Brooklands in Surrey and thus a banked oval was chosen as the layout – although larger, flatter and effectively oblong.

It wasn’t the design of Indianapolis that caused problems in the early days, but rather the track surface, which was formed of ‘asphaltum oil’ and crushed limestone which had a nasty habit of dissolving people’s tyres. Before the first winter fell, the corrosive surface was buried beneath 3.2 million paving bricks, each weighing 9.5 pounds.

‘Cannonball’ Baker is also buried at Indianapolis: at the Crown Hill Cemetery on West 38th St. A long distance expert on two wheels and four, Baker’s spaciality was setting speed records from San Diego to New York – indeed the ‘Cannonball Run’ was named after him. Unlike many of those interred around Indianapolis, however, it was old age that claimed him.

The spectacle of Indianapolis remains constant through the eras

Sharing space near ‘Cannonball’ Baker (together with the four founders of the Indy 500 and many other Indy 500 winners, drivers, mechanics and car owners) at the Crown Hill Cemetary, for example, is Wilbur Brink.

As a 12-year-old in 1931, Wilbur was playing in his front yard at 2316 Georgetown Road when, on lap 162, defending 500 champion Billy Arnold crashed in Turn 4. A stray wheel bounded across the road, struck Wilbur Brink and killed him outright – inspiring the song by Swedish pop band Norma: Bad Luck for Wilbur Brink.

That is the shade but it is 20 years since a fatality at Indianapolis and there is plenty more light than dark. It is the glitter on the faces hewn into the Borg-Warner Trophy – the easy smile that brackets the hard work and risk that is entailed when racing at Indianapolis.

The Borg-Warner Trophy is the single most impressive award in motor sport.

Of all the cars and eras that have passed at this great venue, among the most competitive and enduring must be the 1920s and the battle for supremacy between the supercharged straight-8 engines of Duesenberg and Miller. From the car that scored America’s first great victory overseas to the revolution in bespoke oval racing cars that followed, there is a steel-jawed brilliance in every aspect of the era.

After learning much from the great pre-1914 engines of Peugeot and Mercedes, which had also dominated at Indianapolis, the Duesenberg brothers, August and Frederik, returned the compliment by winning the 1921 Grand Prix in France. The Duesie’s straight-eight engine with single overhead camshaft was a masterpiece that triggered the development of home-grown sporting success in America.

Duesenberg went Grand Prix racing – and won

Having returned victorious from Europe the previous year, Duesenberg approached the 1922 Indy 500 with no small amount of confidence – although the race was in fact to mark the ascent of a new star. Harry Miller’s carburetors had been known as the best in the USA for some time and now he had designed a complete straight-eight with twin overhead camshafts and four valves per cylinder to the Duesie’s three.

The Miller also used a unique fuel blended by Shell that mixed benzol with gasoline to minimize knocking and allow for a significantly higher compression ratio. Duesenberg’s star driver, the Grand Prix winning Jimmy Murphy, tried out Miller’s engine and immediately had one fitted in his Duesenberg.

From that moment on, adding the 1922 Indy 500 to his Grand Prix title from the previous year became a formality.

Same car: different engine. Murphy’s Duesie is the only Grand Prix and Indy winner

In 1923 the cars became more streamlined, by virtue of making riding mechanics optional. This was because engine capacity was reduced to a mere 122 cu. in. (2 litres). Miller had meanwhile progressed from making engines to becoming a complete constructor in his own right, with the lightweight and spindly model 122 ‘convertible’ – so named because it could easily be adapted to many engine types.

It was with one of Miller’s new cars that Tommy Milton won the 1923 Indy 500, becoming the first man to win the Indy 500 twice. His Stutz-entered Miller crossed the line ahead of another Miller driven by Harry Hartz that was called the ‘Cliff Durant Special’, which was one of six cars entered by the heir to General Motors.

Duesenberg’s brief tenure at the summit of American motor sport had come to a very abrupt end – indeed, nobody but Miller won a major American event throughout the 1923 season. The Duesenberg brothers, August and Frederik, spent the winter putting the finishing touches to their response to Miller’s wonder-car: a centrifugal supercharger.

The ‘blown’ Duesenberg may have lacked grace compared to the Miller but it certainly had grunt. Muscle held sway in the business of going fast and turning left and the ‘blown’ Duesie with its signature howl was a revelation. The 1924 Indianapolis 500 delivered victory for Duesenberg team leader Joe Boyer, who took over the car of Lora Corum after his own car ran into mechanical trouble.

Before the end of the year Miller was reclaiming chunks of lost ground with a supercharger of his own – although the loss of Joe Boyer, killed in a race at Altoona, was a heavy blow. Having successfully supercharging his cars, Harry Miller wanted to find a new edge over the Duesenberg brothers for 1925. It came in the form of front wheel drive.

Original winner – the 1911 Marmon Wasp – beside a front-drive Miller in 1924

For years, American racing cars had been reliant on the same technology and layout that was used by the Europeans to go road racing yet the disciplines could not have been more different. European Grands Prix happened primarily on closed public roads, with changes in camber and elevation and corners that swept, jinked and plunged in both directions.

In contrast, American racetracks were exclusively ovals. Indianapolis presided over a national racing network of smaller tracks that were formed either from dirt or wooden boards like an oversized velodrome.

Harry Miller opted to listen to the ideas of Riley Brett, a young mechanic who worked on Jimmy Murphy’s car. Brett insisted that for driving on ovals, a special front-wheel-drive car would be perfect because it would eliminate the extra weight of a long driveshaft to the back wheels and it would allow the car to sit significantly lower to the ground, greatly improving its high speed cornering.

The concept was radical. In Europe, negotiating so many turns and angles and cambers in every direction, it would have been a disaster. Yet for American racing, Harry Miller believed that the idea had merit.

The man who was supposed to drive the new car, Jimmy Murphy, was killed in a fluke accident while racing on dirt at Syracuse but Miller continued with the front-wheel-drive concept. It was ready for Indianapolis.

Only 22 cars lined up on Memorial Day for the 1925 race but this would go down in history as one of the great Indy 500s. Although the field included no fewer than 16 Millers, of which just one was of the front-drive design, Duesenberg’s new star Pete de Paolo made the early running in his yellow ‘Banana Wagon’.

The Duesie stayed out in front for 50 laps and such were the strides being made by the manufacturers that, for the first time in Indianapolis 500 history, the race was averaging more than 100 mph despite successive cuts in engine size.

Pete de Paolo and the Duesenberg ‘Banana Wagon’

When de Paolo pitted to have his hands bound – they were being ripped to shreds by the steering wheel – sending Norman Batten out in the ‘Banana Wagon’ until he had recovered. The Millers of Earl Cooper and Ralph Hepburn ran together at the front with the yellow Duesenberg in third, began battling with the Miller of Harry Hartz. Hepburn had to pit and Cooper had a tyre blow out, sending him bouncing off the outside wall (but not into retirement – these were sturdy machines!), meanwhile the front-drive Miller of Phil Shafer moved up into the lead.

The little low-slung car was proving easier on both its fuel and tyres than the traditional rear-drive cars and Shafer was driving out of his skin. He managed to pass 350 miles without a pit stop and built enough of a cushion to pit for tyres and retain the lead.

The front-drive car ploughed on but Shafer was by now tiring – the front-drive was something of a brute to its occupants – and Pete de Paolo was back in the ‘banana wagon’ and closing in fast. The Miller team elected to call Shafer in to switch over to another driver, Benny Hill. The call came too late for Hill’s fresh eyes and arms to make much difference: Pete de Paolo would win the Indy 500 for Duesenberg at an average of 105 mph.

The front-drive Miller had shown its worth, however. After breaking the 100mph barrier in 1925, the rules were tightened once again for 1926 with a maximum engine size of 91.5 cu. in. Harry Miller responded by increasing the pressure of his superchargers and increasing the compression ratio – meaning that his little 1.5 litre engine was pumping out nearly 300 bhp.

Small but mighty: Miller’s front-drive masterpiece

At the 1926 Indy 500 it was an all-Miller show and another remarkable race. In practice a new kid, 23-year-old reserve driver Frank Lockhart, was kicking around Gasoline Alley and offered to take Benny Hill’s car out for a test run after the mechanics had finished working on it. Hill agreed and the team was stunned to see the car putting in its fastest times to date with Lockhart cornering on full opposite lock, foot on the floor.

Harry Miller gave Lockhart a ride in one of the older rear-driven cars. He set an unofficial qualifying record of 120.918 mph but his official time was only good enough for 20^th spot on the grid. No matter – he was fifth by the end of the third lap and was soon in the battle for the lead. That was when the rain came.

Despite two downpours the race ended with Lockhart sliding imperiously to Victory Lane in front of the front-drive cars. It was to be the last race of this era of innovation in the battle between Miller and Duesenberg. Spiralling costs and falling entries meant that the rules were relaxed for 1927 allowing ‘stock block’ V8 engines into play. The front-drive Miller would finally win the Indy 500 but only in 1930, when the Great Depression was biting hardest.

Frank Lockhart crowned the high-tech era of the 1920s with victory aged 23

Nevertheless, the power struggles of the 1920s and the heroic drivers who competed in the era did much to cement the reputation of the Indy 500 across America and around the world. Their influence resonates throughout American motor sport to this day, making the 100th running of this astonishing race all the more significant.

A Great War hero: Part 2 – call me Rickenbacker

After learning his trade as the protégé of pioneering automobile constructor and racing driver Lee Frayer, at the start of 1912, the 21-year-old Eddie Rickenbacher elected to become a professional racer.

Throughout 1912 and 1913 his bread and butter was earned on dirt tracks and board ovals at county fairs and anywhere else that paid a buck for driving fast. Or, for that matter, driving slowly – a particular favourite of the crowds being a contest to see who could go slowest and finish last without stalling the car.

County fair races brought out the crowds across America

When they weren’t racing, Eddie and his fellow drivers worked as handimen, mechanics and salesmen. Anything they could do to bring in the money they needed to get to the next racetrack and go at it – a travelling troupe of gladiators.

It was a risky business for competitors and fans alike and disaster was never far away. In mid-1913 an incident at an event in Mason City, Iowa, saw Reichenbacher’s car hit spectators at an unlicenced motor race. As a result his licence was revoked until the start of 1914.

After cooling his heels for several months, Eddie reappeared in California during February 1914 amid the most bizarre circumstances.

Mack Sennett, movie star and proprietor of the Keystone movie studios, was an enthusiastic patron of American motor sport. He owned and ran a Fiat grand prix car that he had entered in the 1914 Vanderbilt Cup Qualification Race in Santa Monica.

Mack Sennett’s Keystone movies ruled the world

During practice tragedy struck Sennett’s team when the big Fiat, driven by Dave Lewis, went out of control and ended up in the crowd. Six spectators were injured, among whom was the 69-year-old Civil War veteran, Louis G. Smith.

Mr. Smith succumbed to his injuries and the Fiat was deemed too badly damaged to start the race – but Sennett was determined to win the greatest road race in America, so he invested in a year-old Mason racing car, which was entered for a new and apparently rather colourful replacement driver.

According to Sennett’s inventive press information, the man at the wheel was called ‘Baron Reichenbacher’. He was described as: ‘A young Prussian nobleman who had fallen victim to the deadly Bacillus Motorus. Crazed by a lust for speed, he had absconded from the Vienna Military Institute in a stolen Mercedes. Expelled from the institute and disinherited by his father, he went to America to enter the AAA tour…’

It was, of course, hokum worthy of one of Sennett’s two-reel slapstick adventures. The ‘Baron’ was none other than Eddie, but his starring role was not to last: unexpectedly heavy rainfall caused the race to be delayed for several days, in which time both Dave Lewis and the big Fiat were returned to active duty.

Not only that, but Sennett convinced the race organisers to allow him to film the race for a new comedy feature – Mabel at the Wheel.

Sennett’s Fiat stars in Mabel at the Wheel

Nevertheless, Eddie was back racing once again – this time for the princely sum of $3 per week plus his share of any spoils – for a team run by two German-born brothers from Iowa who had been instrumental in designing Mason racing cars and were busy setting up their own team. They were August and Frederick Duesenberg.

The Duesenberg brothers made Eddie their racing team manager as well as their leading driver. Their next race would be the 1914 Indianapolis 500 in which Eddie finished tenth, collecting a purse of $1,400.

‘Fast Eddie’ at the wheel of the Duesenberg brothers’ entry for the 1914 Indianapolis 500

Five weeks later, in Sioux City, Eddie Rickenbacher won his first race, collecting $10,000 for his trouble and becoming one of the stars of American motor sport. Star status appealed to the young racer, who began to cultivate his celebrity. Stories were told that he had set speed records in the mighty Blitzen Benz during 1912 – fabrications that Eddie never troubled to deny.

He also gave himself a new name, entering first as E.V. Rickenbacher (not having been given a middle name by his parents, Eddie chose the letter ‘V’ for its impact and, later, settled on ‘Vernon’ as his chosen name). In mid-1915 he completed the transformation by changing his surname to Rickenbacker.

By this time, Eddie had parted company with the Duesenbergs, whose racing successes, while, impressive, did nothing for their finances. Instead he chose to drive for the current giants of European motor racing: Peugeot. Having won Italy’s Targa Florio and the Grand Prix in France, the rakish blue cars were now aiming for American glory – and Rickenbacker wanted to be the man to give it to them.

Part of Eddie’s decision was influenced by the fact that the Peugeot team favoured racing on the open road. ‘I always preferred the challenge and variety of road racing to going around and around like a ball on a string,’ he later said.

The roads were dusty and unpaved while the cars were faster, more powerful and noisier than anything Eddie had previously encountered. He was in love with the thrill of racing but also wary of its inherent danger, and so in order to stay in touch with his riding mechanic, Eddie fashioned facemasks which featured a rudimentary intercom.

Eddie Rickenbacker and mechanic demonstrating his intercom design

‘You didn’t win races because you had more guts,’ he said later. ‘You won because you knew how to take the turns and baby your engine. It wasn’t all just shut your eyes and grit your teeth.’

The facemasks worked but were not a spectacular success. Neither was Eddie’s time with Peugeot spectacularly successful – or long lived. The cars were beautiful and technically brilliant, but needed fine tuning and patience that, perhaps, their American keepers lacked.

Furthermore, it was clear to Rickenbacker the star that American race fans wanted to see American drivers racing to victory in American machines. The final nail in Peugeot’s coffin for Rickenbacker was that Europe had become embroiled in war, and there was no guarantee that cars or parts would be readily available.

Once again he jumped ship – this time joining the home-grown Prest-O-Lite team alongside Barney Oldfield and Bill Carlson, racing Maxwell cars. The irony was that Eddie’s seat at Peugeot was filled by the Italian-British driver Dario Resta, who proceeded to win virtually every major race in America – much to Eddie’s chagrin.

The Prest-O-Lite Maxwell ready for the 1915 Indy 500

Nevertheless, the Maxwell years brought Eddie Reichenbacker his greatest successes and unprecedented wealth – earning $80,000 in 1916, when he was ranked fourth overall by the American Automobile Association.

He also effectively ran the team – including the discipline of its staff and a series of secret signals to be carried on boards held up from the pit lane. The team triumphed in local and regional events, but at Indianapolis and the other major events its cars were outclassed.

It was clear that to fulfil his ambitions, he needed the sophisticated engineering of a European car. Although near the peak of his profession in American racing, Rickenbacker needed a major title to cement his reputation and earning power – and, while American fans might prefer to see him win  in American machinery, he would have to be pragmatic about it.

Thus, in the winter of 1916, Rickenbacker opened dialogue with Louis Coatalen, the French design genius who had turned the British marque, Sunbeam, into a major sporting force before the outbreak of war. Coatalen had developed a 5-litre six-cylinder racing engine that was ideal for Indianapolis but currently gathering dust – opening an extraordinary chapter in the life of ‘Fast Eddie’.

A Great War hero: Part 1 – the makings of ‘Fast Eddie’

As the centenary year of the outbreak of World War 1 comes to an end, the S&G embarks on a bit of an odyssey to reveal one of its most celebrated participants. Let’s remember a pilot and racing driver whose name – or, perhaps, names – resonates on both sides of the Atlantic: Edward Vernon Rickenbacker.

This story really begins on 18 July 1904, when William Rickenbacher, a Swiss-born employee of the Beasley Company, took his lunch break while laying the new concrete sidewalks in his adopted hometown of Columbus, Ohio. Another man, William Gaines, asked him to spare some of his food – and was told in no uncertain terms that any spare food would go home to feed his wife and six children.

An argument ensued, during which William Gaines picked up a cement leveller and smashed it down on the other man’s skull. After several weeks of drifting in and out of a coma, William Rickenbacher died. The third eldest of his children, 14-year-old Eddie, would later write: ‘The day after my father died, I did not go to school, I went to work.’

Eddie Rickenbacher the gang rat

Until that point, Eddie Rickenbacher’s story had been entirely different. Responsibility did not come naturally to him: he had been a leading light of the Horse Head Club – a gang of rapscallions who regularly fell foul of the law. Upon his father’s death, however, Eddie threw himself into filling the financial void.

First he took on manual labouring jobs, at a glass factory, a brewery, a metal casting company and finally a stonemason’s – during which time he diligently carved the word ‘Father’ on William Rickenbacher’s grave.

Yet these were jobs redolent of the past. Columbus, meanwhile, was a city in flux: a vibrant industrial centre that had been known as the ‘buggy capital of the world’ but was now escaping the horse-drawn past for a future of man-made technology. Columbus embodied in the dozens of wooden arches that spanned the city’s High Street, each bearing electric light bulbs to illuminate the road.

Arches of lights over the High Street in Columbus, Ohio

Eddie Rickenbacher grew to be a tall and rangy youth with hawkish features and a passion for new technology – principally the automobile. By the age of 15, Eddie was determined to find an outlet for his talents within the city’s burgeoning motor industry – and took himself to the Frayer-Miller automobile works.

Lee Frayer and William Miller were, at the time, among the most exciting engineers at work in American automotive design. They had completed the world’s first six cylinder automobile, an air-cooled car boasting a prodigious 36 horsepower in which Frayer himself had driven single-handed in the world’s first 24 hour motor race.

Soon afterwards, Eddie Rickenbacher presented himself to Lee Frayer and stated his intention to work for the company. Frayer sent him away and headed out of town on business the following day. Yet, when he returned, Frayer found that the workshop was immaculately clean and the tools and working areas were spotlessly arranged. He also found out that some kid called Eddie, calling himself Frayer’s apprentice, had done all the work.

Frayer-Miller advertising c.1906

Frayer relented and gave the kid the job he so clearly craved.

While working hard to learn his trade, Eddie had also signed up for a correspondence course in automotive engineering. His commitment was absolute and, as a reward, Frayer invited this industrious youngster to be his riding mechanic at the 1906 American Elimination Trial.

A new air-cooled four cylinder car was readied for the event, and together the Freyer team travelled to Nassau County, Long Island, New York, to compete with 15 other entrants for a competition over 10 laps of a 29-mile course.

There were two days of practice and then the cars set off at 30-second intervals. While Frayer wrestled with the wheel, Eddie’s jobs were to keep an eye on the oil pressure, keep pumping the fuel pressure to a peak and to watch out for tyre wear and other competitors. They blew a tyre very soon into their first lap and, once it was fixed, Frayer drove flat-out – too fast, as it turned out.

Lee Frayer and his mechanic Eddie Rickenbacher take the start of the 1906 Vanderbilt Cup Qualification Race

The car had broken a radius rod, and although Frayer pressed on grimly, before long the engine cried enough of such maltreatment and gave out. As Frayer coasted to a halt, without completing a single lap, he turned to young Eddie and sighed: “We’re through.”

Eddie would recall that moment vividly later in his life. ‘A year of seven-day weeks, an outlay of $50,000 or more, and he hadn’t even finished the elimination run,’ he wrote.

‘Yet [Frayer’s] only remark was that quiet, “We’re through.” I never forgot it. Gradually, over the years, the significance of that remark sank in, and I drew inspiration from it. To spell it out: Try like hell to win, but don’t cry if you lose.’

Frayer-Miller formed a partnership with the Seagrave company in 1907 to produce commercial vehicles. Yet competition was fierce and, by 1909, the Frayer-Miller firm was heading for the scrapheap. Climbing out of the financial wreckage, Frayer went to work for the rival Firestone Columbus company – along with his protégé, Eddie Rickenbacher.

Despite the new opportunity, Frayer’s disappointment got the better of him and he turned increasingly to the bottle for solace. Eddie, meanwhile, applied his now-customary diligence and eagerness to the role of Sales Manager – and eventually this led, in 1910, to entering his first race as a driver, when he took the wheel of a Firestone Columbus on a dirt track in Red Oak, Iowa. He crashed out, but the intoxicating thrill of racing truly blossomed within 20-year-old Eddie.

Firestone Clombus gave refuge to Frayer and Reichenbacher

Yet once again the company that young Rickenbacher worked for was coming unglued around him. Yet it held together long enough to piece together an entry in the inaugural 500-mile race at the new Indianapolis Motor Speedway on Memorial Day, 1911 – and this proved to be the moment when a significant baton was passed.

Lee Frayer was listed as the team’s driver, but the lion’s share of the driving fell to his uncredited 21-year old reserve, who took over the car after 12 laps and drove with aplomb until he handed it back to Freyer with only 100 miles remaining. Frayer would end the race classified 13^th, three laps down on the winner, Ray Harroun, in the celebrated Marmon Wasp.

The inaugural Indy 500 gets underway with Eddie Rickenbacher to play a key role

Soon afterwards Firestone Columbus passed into history and Eddie found himself out of work and alone. He decided to turn his back on the customer automobile trade and become a professional racing driver instead; a hired gun living on his appearance and prize money. ‘Fast Eddie’ Rickenbacher was about to go barnstorming on four wheels.