The Spirit of America looks at home on the Salt Flats
The torture I went through after I got back to Los Angeles was extreme. Shell decided to bring in an impartial committee of engineers to study the project and advise them what to do; so I had to sit through countless hours of engineering meetings, going over the same points time and time again. The decision was really whether Shell was going to accept my recommendations for a steerable front wheel and vertical stabilizer or just abandon the whole sticky mess.
The strain was so great on me that I couldn't even eat properly. Often when I tried, I got severe pains in my chest. I felt emotionally lacerated--the meetings went on for five months! I had never faced this kind of a situation before. When I was planning and building the car, it had been all my show. I had decided what should be done, and I had the final say on every issue--large or small. In Los Angeles all I could do was sit in the meetings and answer when I was asked a question; I couldn't even relieve my frustrations by working harder, as I had done in the past, because there was nothing to work on.
The engineers finally arrived at the decision: the car would have steering and a tail fin! It was as if someone had taken 4,000 pounds off my back.
First, however, before we made any modifications to the car, I got some movie film of the Leasher crash from a Salt Lake City television station and studied it. I wanted to know what had caused the car to crash so that we could avoid the same mistake. I didn't learn much, but the film probably did more to reunite the crew than any other thing. It made them realize that driving a big jet car, even at 240 mph as I had done, was not the same as driving down the freeway. We became a tightly knit group again.
Then another thing happened to make the sponsors feel that all of the decisions on the program had been right. Continental Casualty Company returned half of the insurance premium money because of our decision to stop running the car when it wasn't functioning exactly right.
At last everybody was solidly behind me again. I felt completely relaxed for the first time in six months.
The first modification task was to design an intricate steering system: a movable front wheel that operated in conjunction with the nose fin. The Goodyear engineers said it would work; so we installed the system and added an eight-foot tail fin to the car. After the fin had been spray-painted to match the car, a large American flag was painted on each side.
We decided we would like to test the car at the Los Angeles International Airport, but we had some difficulty getting permission. We called airline after airline and asked if we could use their taxiways, but they all said, flatly, No. Finally, and with mounting desperation, we made our last call, to Continental Airlines, and it was with great relief that we heard them say, "Sure, bring it over. We've been hearing a lot about the car, and our people would love to see it."
Continental and Shell arranged for airport permission to use the taxiway. It was a wild sight to see the big jets being routed around us. I can imagine what it looked like to the passengers in the taxiing airplanes who probably thought some plane had come in for landing and had ripped off its wings. I doubt that the sight did much for their morale.
A large crowd had gathered by the time we were ready to run, and only then did it strike me how paradoxical the situation was. Here were all these people watching breathlessly for a car to run about 200 mph, yet when I got to the Salt Flats to break the world's land speed record, to run at about 400 mph, there would be nobody there but the crew and the press. The difference, of course, was that we were in highly populated Los Angeles while for the record run, we would be on the moon--or someplace almost as remote.
The airport run was as routine as testing a new car off a showroom floor. I put my gear on, got in, fastened the canopy, and zapped down the runway at 200 mph. The steering worked beautifully, and I found I could control the car perfectly. All we had to do was load it up and invite everybody to the Flats to watch the breaking of the world's land speed record.
I told the crew we would leave at five the next morning and they smiled in unison.
"Let's go home and get some rest, Champ," Nye said to me.
"Yeah, I guess we'll need it," I answered.
That night I thought a lot about the record and what it would mean to me. This "Spirit of America" thing had gotten to me, and I was proud of the concept. Stan Goldstein and I and some of the other guys on the crew I had gone to school with had voted in our first presidential election in 1960, and we were proud to be Americans. In fact, I think President Kennedy's inaugural speech--the part where he said, "Ask not what your country can do for you, but rather what you can do for your country"--impressed us more than anything else. I was young and I felt that I just had to do something. I couldn't very well win a Nobel prize--I wasn't equipped for anything like that--so I was going to do what I was equipped for: bringing the world's land speed record back to the United States.
Next morning we were on our way, a new and revitalized organization. I had gotten some pretty deep scars from the year before, and in August, 1963, I was well aware of the tremendous importance of really communicating with the guys in the crew. I knew that I had to stay close to them and work with them to maintain a sense of rapport and to keep the thing going. Some of them were coming back for the second year, and we all knew that we were lucky to be getting a second chance at bat. It would be our last chance; this one had to be good.
Everything was all business. I was running the show, and I expected it to run like a well-oiled clock. Thus, when we arrived at the Flats shortly before noon on August 3, 1963, we went straight to work--we didn't even stop in Wendover. We unloaded the van, set the tent up, got the generator truck in position, and rolled the car off the trailer. Everything moved smoothly. Everybody had a job to do, and I made sure it was done. I had a job to do myself.
When we had wheeled the car into position, I tightened the stop on the hand throttle at 70 percent power. We had installed a throttle regulator so that I wouldn't have to take my eyes off the track while I was at speed or to worry about giving the car too much power. The 70 percent setting should give us about 275 to 300 mph, and I planned to make a few runs at that speed until I got used to the steering and the handling of the car.
On the first run I roared down the salt at 290 mph. The car handled like a dream. The power was smooth and solid, and I could steer the car anyplace I wanted to go. It was fantastic.
The next day I ran a series of tests that went well into the 300s. I decided that we were ready. We would run for the record at daybreak on the third day. With this, the newsmen rushed into town to the telephones and did everything but yell, "Stop the presses," because they, too, felt that the record was about to return to this country. Meanwhile, I helped the crew check the car over and put it on the line at the north end of the course.
I was a little nervous that night and went to bed about nine o'clock. I always sleep well the night before I race because I'm usually tired from the work and the tension of the day. But almost without fail, I wake up in the morning scared. I'm never sure what it is that's scaring me, because I can never remember my dreams, but I lie in bed in a cold sweat until I make out where I am and what it is I'm supposed to be doing that day. The night of August 5, 1963, was no exception to the Craig Breedlove routine for racing.
Anyway, finally I got out of bed, went to the window, and pulled back the drapes. It was still dark, but I could see there were no clouds; so the prospects for favorable weather were good. The neon lights along Main Street illuminated the row of trees beside the motel, and I could see that there was very little wind. It would be a good day. I dressed and was lacing the 9,000 or so laces on my racing boots when Nye knocked at the door. "Craig, you awake?" he said.
"Yeah, just a minute, Nye," I answered.
I opened the door and asked, "The rest of the guys up yet?"
He looked at me and said, "Are you kidding?"
I guess it was a silly question. Every evening we told the guys that we wanted them up by five, but somehow they never got up. I suppose that we worked them too hard--or it might have been the late hours they spent at the State Line Casino. But they did have to have some relaxation, I suppose. Whatever the reason, as usual we knocked on all the doors and got the boys out of bed.
On race days I don't eat breakfast because I've convinced myself it's better to have an empty stomach in case I'm injured. This works out pretty well--I'm sure I couldn't keep anything down, anyway. It didn't take long to get ready to leave.
It was all so different. Before it had been complete turmoil for two weeks; in 1963 it was a three-day affair. We had practiced Sunday and Monday, and on Tuesday we were ready for the record run. Everything was perfect, and a few minutes after we reached the Flats, the car was uncovered and ready to go.
As I climbed up the ladder, I knew that it was for a purpose. There would be no more practice runs, no more uncertainty. We were really ready, and the British were about to lose their record. I eased into the cockpit and was ready as the first rays of sun spilled across Floating Mountain at the end of the Salt Flats. I looked at the mountain, which got its name from an obvious optical illusion, and it seemed as if it were flying instead of just floating.
"This must be a good omen," I thought.
The stop on the throttle was set at 85 percent power. I wanted things to move quickly because I knew everything was right and I wanted it over with.
In a few minutes the car was fired up and ready to go. I slammed the throttle to the stop, and the car blazed down the salt.
As the speed mounted, I was more relaxed and more aware of my surroundings than I had been on any earlier run. There was a certain speed at which the salt spray off the tires powdered and the salt floated through the inside of the cockpit, almost like smoke. It floated around inside with me, and the tires began to vibrate viciously, resonating, shaking the car. It was pulsating resonance, and there was always a question in my mind, "Is it something that will pass as the speed builds or is there really something wrong?" This time the vibration was gone in a few seconds and I felt as if I was just sort of on top and moving. The Spirit was really making it. It was a fantastic feeling. I was up and planing and gone! I knew it.
I saw the timing lights come and go. Then I took a deep breath from my mask and cut the power. I turned off all the switches, put the chutes out, and got ready to use the brakes once I got down to around 100 mph. I wanted to stop as quickly as possible so as not to drag the chutes along abrasive salt surface any farther than necessary. The speed dropped quickly, and I slowed the car surely to a stop. Stan Goldstein came running with an aluminum stepladder, and I released the canopy. He took it down the ladder, and I stepped out.
There were a lot of people waiting about, but I didn't want to talk to newsmen or anybody until I had made the second run. I told the crew to refuel the car and turn it around because I wanted to go back as soon as possible. The wind was starting to pick up, and that would affect the car's handling.
USAC's Joe Petrali drove up and handed me the slip of paper that told the speed--three hundred eighty-eight miles an hour. I was a little disappointed; I would need at least 412 on the return run. I climbed the ladder and reset the stop on the throttle with a screwdriver. Ninety percent power.
I slipped into the cockpit and put on my helmet. As Nye helped me set the mask in place, he said, "This is it, you know."
And I said, "Yeah, I know."
He tapped me on the top of the helmet and said, "Play it cool."
The run back was smooth. I entered the measured mile at well over 400, and the car was really flying when I left it. The air speed indicator pointed to 440 mph. I knew I had it. I knew it. The average speed for the run would be about 425.
I couldn't wait to get the car stopped, so I could see the crew. We had all worked hard, and I was sure we had it. When I got out, someone said, "How fast, boss?"
I said, "About 425."
Everybody froze and waited for the official word.
When I saw joe's face as he got out of the jeep, I knew that we were in. He put his arm around me and handed me the paper--four hundred twenty-eight miles an hour! And then the place broke up. Everybody was screaming and jumping and hugging each other, and it was a great feeling. Flash bulbs were going off all around, and about 20 newsmen were trying to interview me at the same time. All I could say was, "Oh, man, I've got the record! I've got the record!"
The Spirit of America had returned the world's land speed record to the United States for the first time since Ray Keech, the Indianapolis champion, had gone 207.55 mph in 1928. My average for the two runs was 407.45 mph.
The world's land speed record returns to the United States as
Craig Breedlove averages 407.45 MPH on August 5,
1963
Most of the crew went into town when things settled down a little, but I stayed at the Flats for about two hours being interviewed by the newsmen. By the time I got back to the motel, there was a wild party going on throughout the building--I mean everyplace--in the rooms, the lobby, the parking lot. There were even a couple of fellows on the roof. They deserved it.
Jo Petrali, USAC offical, second from right, gives Craig his
record time.
When the crew saw me drive in, a cheer went up for the conquering hero. The Goodyear and Shell people were there, and they had planned a big dinner in Salt Lake City that night, to be attended by company officials, the crew, the USAC people, and newsmen.
When things had died down in the afternoon, I showered and dressed for the dinner, which turned on to be a gala affair at the rooftop gardens of the Hotel Utah.
Craig Breedlove celebrates his new world's land speed
record.
Next morning I was on a plane to New York with Goodyear public relations man for a television appearance on the Today and Tonight shows. Things were really happening too fast. I hardly had had time to think, and I really wanted to be with the crew. I never did have much time to sit down and talk with them, not even to thank them properly for making it all possible. Goodyear was talking about a nationwide tour after the New York TV appearance, and it was clear that I might not get to see them for two months or so. I hoped that they understood.
I also thought of my future. "What happens now? I've broken the record and it's all over. Now, what am I going to do for a job?" I wondered.
When I got to New York, I went to see Monty Spaight, president of Shell Oil. He was as happy as a kid about the record. He congratulated me on what he called "a magnificent job" and asked me to come back the next morning to talk with some of his people and with some Goodyear people who were flying in from Akron.
In the meantime, Vic Holt, Goodyear's executive vice-president, called to say that he would see me the next day at Shell's offices. He said, "This is the biggest racing victory we've ever had, Craig, and I can say for all of us here that we're mighty glad you didn't go across town that day you came to Akron." Rivalry between the two Akron tire giants, Goodyear and Firestone, whose plant is just across the city, is very acute!
Bob Lane, Goodyear's public relations director, met me at the hotel next morning, and we went over to the meeting at Shell. I was in for the biggest surprise of my life. The two companies had already met and decided what was in store for me.
Bill Lawler stood up and said, "Craig, we have an offer to make you, and we hope it's to your liking." At that stage I would have taken any offer because I was out of work. But the terms they talked of were astounding, to say the least. Each company was going to pay me $1,000 a month for three years as a racing consultant. I felt like kissing somebody, but fortunately I restrained myself and said, "That sounds fine to me, gentlemen. I'll be honored to work for Shell and Goodyear." What I wanted to say was, "I'll take it. Wow!"
The two companies first wanted me to make a nationwide tour, which would last three months. For this I would receive an additional $200 a day, plus $100 a day expenses. It was incredible--$2,000 a month plus travel expenses. For the first time in my life I would know what it feels like to have money. I had scrimped and saved every nickel and dime I had gotten since I was 13 and had wanted the coupe. I couldn't remember when I ever had money right there--without saving and saving--to buy anything I really wanted. The record had been important to me and I was proud of what I had done, but the money was like the biggest present in the world. I was just about knocked off my feet.
They said I could take Lee on the press tour, and I called her and told her the news. She was so happy she cried. We made plans for her to fly to New York to join me for the first leg of the tour. She would have to quit her job and, of course, that didn't break her heart. Our recently acquired affluence was something new for her, too. It meant not only money for us; it meant that she could spend some time with the kids for the first time. That's why she said she wanted to make the first month of the tour and then go back and stay with them.
The first appearance on the press tour was at the Americana Hotel in New York. A press conference was planned, and newsmen from all over the world would be there. Here I was--the guy who didn't even like to give book reports in English class--about to hold a press conference in one of New York's plushest hotels. The conference went on for three hours, and next day papers all over the world carried accounts of the interviews with the "All American Boy," a title I picked up after the record. I didn't know if I was Craig Breedlove or Jack Armstrong. The papers said I was clean-cut and polite and honest. I was flattered, but fortunately I had plenty of friends to make sure it didn't all go to my head.
The tour, which took me to 38 major American cities. was a grind. It was like a series of one-night stands. One of the public relations people would go to the next city a day ahead to beat the drums and set up the press conference. I would hit the town, do the conference, and then go from one television station to another for personal interviews. I told the same story at least six times a day. It was a great story and I meant every word of everything I said, but the pace was killing me: I went from 150 to 134 pounds. But I did become a proficient speaker. At first I was more frightened of the television cameras and radio microphones than I was of driving the jet car. Later I got used to them, and I kind of liked the public affairs, but I would have liked them more if they had been taken at a slower pace.
When the tour ended, Bob Lane told me that he felt that it had been an outstanding success. "You've done a great job, Craig. But we want you to do one more thing, if you can stand it. You wouldn't mind touring England and Australia, would you?" he asked.
Was he kidding? Before the tour, I had thought a trip to Akron, Ohio, was exciting. England and Australia--would I mind it! Suddenly, I wasn't tired anymore. I had never been any "real" place but the Salt Flats in my life until the jet car project, and I had always dreamed of travel. I even liked the press tour of the United States, despite the tremendous grind, because as a result I had seen, if only briefly, every major city in the nation.
The trip to England was superb. I went by ship and just rested-f-or six days. When I arrived, I was surprised to find that the English press was just as excited about my record as the American press bad been--probably because of Britain's great LSR interest. After all, the British had held the record for 34 years, and traditionally, since the beginning of land speed racing, they had been dominant in that category. They treated me wonderfully and made me feel very important. I loved every minute in England.
The highlight of the trip came on my second day, when I met Donald Campbell, the British land and water speed king. Campbell had been a sort of hero to me for years, and he seemed a little unreal. I had never expected to meet him at all--let alone when I held the record and he was the challenger.
Campbell had not run since 1961, when he had crashed his car, Bluebird. He was receiving a lot of criticism because of that failure and because scores of British companies had put $4.5 million into the car. In fact, I was to Campbell what Glenn Leasher had been to me--a shoestring budget operation.
Anyway, I was finally going to meet my idol, and I was a little embarrassed. I remember driving out to his magnificent place in the country and thinking, "Why couldn't I have met him before the record? I hope he doesn't think I'm coming out here to show off." Well, I couldn't have been more wrong; he gave me the warmest greeting I could imagine. There were scores of newsmen there, and photographers were having a field day, taking photos of the old and the new regime of racers. Campbell had been trying for years to break the record that his father, Sir Malcolm Campbell, had once held; the young American had done it. The press was there to crucify the "old man."
The funny thing is, though, five minutes after we had all arrived, Campbell had everyone wrapped around his little finger, with his warm, gracious, English gentleman manner. He was spectacular. The press had expected excuses for his failures to break the record. Instead he praised me and joked with the press completely at his ease. Nothing unflattering about Campbell appeared in any paper's coverage of the meeting. I was pleased; he had gotten to me, too. It was hard not to be trapped by his charm. At the beautiful buffet luncheon he had set up for me, he stood up and toasted me with champagne. It took a while to say "Thank you, Donald," and when I did, my voice cracked. It isn't often that a hero becomes a friend.
