Life to me was bright and warm while I rested in England--at first. The evenings were filled with parties and dinners, and I felt like a foreign head of state. I wouldn't have been surprised to have been introduced: "And here he is, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen--the Imperial Potentate, His Majesty King Craig the First, Lord of All He Surveys, Ruler of the Land Known as the Kingdom of Salt, Population: One."
The introductions were far simpler, fortunately, and I was usually presented as "Craig Breedlove, the fastest man on wheels."
So the first days were beautiful and I was impressed with the warm reception I received everywhere.
Then things got complicated. The Fédération In- ternationale Motorcycliste (FIM) presented me with a gold medal for my accomplishment. This award was noted in the British press and prompted the Fédération Internationale Automobile (FIA), the other world speed record sanctioning body, to put out a press re- lease saying that they had not certified the record. All the release was meant to do was to straighten out a few confused newspapers that had referred to the gold medal as an FIM award. Instead, the release muddled the whole issue, and papers all over the world misunderstood. A lot of papers now said that the record wasn't official. This brought a few comments like, "It's not a record. Anybody can put a jet engine on a tricycle and go 400 miles an hour." My feelings were really hurt, so I was very glad when that evening I had the opportunity on a BBC television interview, to explain the world record situation. Then I answered the few criticisms of the run by saying--nationwide, mind you--"Next year I plan to go back to the Salt Flats and go 500 miles an hour."
The papers really played up my boast, and next day thought, "Well, the loudmouthed kid has done again."
Overall the tour was pleasant, but I got a little tired of doing nothing but resting during the day, speaking at night, and then going to bed. For days I did nothing else, as I mentioned to Tom Gaylen, president of the United States Motorcycle Club, who was at one of the dinners.
He said, "You mean nobody has taken you out on the town in London yet?"
"The only thing I have seen is the inside of a hotel room and about 6,000 formal dining rooms," I answered.
He was appalled. "Well, tonight, Craig, my boy," he said, "you'll see what London night life is like."
I was really excited because I had never even seen what Los Angeles night life was like. That evening we met a South African motorcycle champion named Reggie Dyvers, and the three of us drove to a remote spot on the outskirts of London. It was a pretty dark section of the city, and I thought to myself, "Is this what they call night life?" What was wrong with Piccadilly Circus or somewhere with people?
Eventually we arrived at a place called Murray's Club, Ltd., and when I got inside, I couldn't believe it. The place was mobbed. It was the wildest spot I had ever seen. The club had a chorus line that would have put Las Vegas and the Rockettes to shame, and I just stood there in awe. We were seated right near the stage, and Tom and Reggie were ordering champagne and hors d'oeuvres like they were going out of style. I ate a few of the snacks and tasted the champagne, but I wasn't much of a drinker; so I just sat and watched the chorus line.
Somehow word got to the management that Craig Breedlove was in the audience. I was introduced and I again felt like the toast of the town.
Then Tom got a phone call and said that he had to leave for an hour or so, but for us to wait right there as he would be back. However, after an hour or so, Reggie got tired of waiting and disappeared. The last show was over.
The club stayed open until 4:00 A.M.--even though the last show had ended at two--and I sat there until closing time, drinking orange juice and talking to the bartender about land speed racing--the one thing I had wanted to get away from for an evening. Then the waitress brought me the check. I looked at it and it didn't mean anything to me, just a lot of pounds and shillings.
"How much is this in dollars?" I asked the bartender.
He figured it out and told me, "One hundred forty-four."
I gulped and said, "That's just great. I've never paid $144 to drink orange juice before." To make matters worse, it had probably been California orange juice.
Fortunately, I had converted some American money at the hotel before I left for the evening--$150 worth. The change wouldn't even amount to a decent tip, but I gave it to the waitress, anyway. It was all I had. I walked out into the blackest, foggiest night I had ever seen and onto the darkest, most deserted street--dead broke. I thought, "The toast of the town, are you?" There wasn't a car in sight; so I started walking. At least the bartender had told me in which direction to head.
After a few blocks, I saw a policeman and told him of my problem. He walked me over to a busier street and hailed a cab. "Take this 'ere gentleman to the De Vere Hotel and 'e'll arrange for payment when 'e arrives," he said. We got to the hotel at about five in the morning. The doors were locked. Finally, after what seemed like an age, during which I nearly smashed in the door, a man appeared dressed in a Fisk uniform, with stocking cap and nightgown (the only thing he didn't have was the tire over his shoulder and the candle). He grumbled, but he did let me in. I told him my problem and he pondered it for a while, then went to the desk and advanced me the exact fare for the cabbie--no tip, just the exact fare. The cabbie growled and drove away, and I just stood there. Some night on the town that had been!
I left later that day for Australia and was impressed with the crowd of people who greeted me at the air port. My two weeks in that country were a wonderful experience. The people were robust and happy-go-lucky, and I felt at home. The Australians, too, have a strong interest in the land speed record because Donald Campbell has made a few of his runs there on Lake Eyre, the Australian Salt Flats.
Finally the tour ended. It was August, 1964, and, despite the good time I had in England and Australia, I was anxious to get home. I knew my competition was getting ready, and I wanted to know what was going on.
I had good reason to be worried. The tremendous publicity surrounding the breaking of the record had stirred up a lot of activity, particularly in Akron, Ohio, where both Walt Arfons and his brother Art were completing cars for an assault on the record.
The two brothers had not been on friendly terms for several years; so their entry into the race constituted a serious threat. They would be trying to beat each other as well as me, and I knew this was exactly the incentive to make them go fast--as if they needed any extra incentive!
Earlier I had rented a large garage and the Spirit stood ready, but I called Nye Frank and asked him to bring me up to date on the two cars. He had been watching the situation.
"They're really serious, Craig, and they've got some good backing. Walt is about ready to go with the Wingfoot Express, and Art isn't far behind with the Green Monster," Nye said.
"You know they're mad at each other, and that's going to make them try even harder," he added.
"I know. I've already thought of that. We'd better get Walt Sheehan and some of the fellows, and take a look at the Spirit to see what modifications and refinements it might need," I said.
Within a day we got word that Walt had left Akron and was on his way to the Salt Flats. We would have to hustle, and the first step was to get on a plane in Los Angeles so that I would be able to see what the competition looked like. In all of my racing encounters, I've always been interested in watching other people run against my records. I feel that I can do a better job if I know exactly what I'm competing against, and the only way I can be sure I know what is coming up is to see it myself. I study my competitors' machinery, their technique, and, most of all, their courage. You have to know how brave your opponent is if you expect to be braver.
I knew the Arfons brothers wouldn't waste much time on the Flats. They would be in and out in nothing flat, whether or not they had the record. That's the way they operate. Walt and Art have their shops side by side in Akron and work in exactly the same manner. Their cars are sometimes a little crude, but they usually go fast.
Most of the Arfonses' running before 1964 had been done on drag strips, and I was familiar with their creations. On one of my trips to Akron I had even visited their shops and was amazed with what I saw. They had a bunch of old jet airplanes out back that they had bought from some surplus outlet. When they needed an instrument or a part, they would just go out back with a hacksaw or a welding torch, cut it out, and bolt it on the new car. Even though they were side by side, their operations were completely independent, and each had his own private collection of wrecked airplanes.
Their cars had been used at drag strips as drawing cards. Their creations are the ones you hear about on the radio or see on television: "See the world's fastest dragsters battle it out as fire blazes from the tail of two jet-powered race cars. Yes, Sir, see it right here tomorrow night!" But they drew the people, and the cars turned well into the high 200s on the quarter-mile strips. The crowds loved them.
Walt's new car, the Wingfoot Express, was pretty much like his drag cars, except it was larger. It was powered by a J-46, but it also was fitted with an afterburner. Both brothers had plenty of afterburner experience from their drag strip runs. The burner was used at the strips because it gave the jet engine a quicker burst of power, which was needed for the short sprints. The burner also caused more fire to shoot out of the tail, making the crowd cringe with excitement.
The simplified principle of a jet engine is this: the air enters the front of the engine and is pumped rearward by a series of rotary and stationary blades. The rotary blades are attached to a cone-shaped hub, and as the air moves toward the rear, it is squeezed against the outer compressor case where the stationary blades are fixed. The compressed air is then forced into a com- bustion chamber where fuel is injected and ignited. The hot expanded gases then pass through a series of blades connected to the turbine wheel, which causes the wheel to spin with tremendous force. The turbine wheel is connected to the cone-shaped center of the compressor which got the whole process started in the first place. The hot exhaust gases then are forced out of the tail pipe of the engine with phenomenal velocity. This velocity pushes the plane or car forward. On an engine with an afterburner (and these are primarily military aircraft, which often have to take off on short runways and need the extra push), additional fuel is sprayed on the escaping jet blast just before it exits and is reignited. The technical name for an afterburner is a "re-heat section." It's just a raw flame explosion at the last instant before the jet stream hits the outside air.
Well, the Arfonses had plenty of experience with burners, and I had none. I had felt that I didn't need a burner--it would be just another thing that could go wrong--so I hadn't put a burner on the Spirit.
When I arrived at the Salt, Walt Arfons and I sat down and talked for a long time. His men were getting his car ready for a practice run, and he intended to go for the record as soon as possible. There would be no fooling around. Walt is a perfect gentleman, the kind of person I like to be around. He's soft-spoken and always has something nice to say to everybody. But he doesn't mess around.
"Craig," he said, "my car doesn't look as nice as yours, but I think it's going to be pretty fast."
I looked at the car and said, "Yes, sir, it does look fast."
"I know you've worked hard for the record and I really hate to take it away from you so soon," Walt added, "but if I don't, Art's going to be right up here whacking away at it, and I don't want that."
I could only say, "I understand, Walt, and I'll be right back whacking away at both of you."
He laughed and said, "You wouldn't be much of a champion if you didn't, would you?"
The question didn't need an answer. Walt was unable to drive because he had suffered a heart attack a few months earlier and his doctor made him retire from driving; so Tom Green, one of his friends, was going to drive the car. Tom had some interest in the LSR and had helped Walt design and build the car. Tom had given Walt some ideas and researched the aerodynamic aspect of the design.
Tom made a run the first day, and the car went straight and fast--about 350 mph. It looked like the record, for which I had worked so hard, was going to fall. Walt told Joe Petrali that Tom would be ready to run the car at daybreak.
I went up on top of the mountain that overlooks the motel that night and sat for a long time. I had gone there before; it was a perfect place to get away from all distractions and to think. At first there were no sounds except those of the rental car I had brought from Salt Lake City. It cracked and creaked softly as the hot metal parts cooled and contracted. In a minute there was no sound at all, except the drone of disappointment that raced through my heart and my head. I knew that my record was going to be broken. But soon the sounds within me stopped, too, because they ran headlong into determination. I stood and shouted out into the darkness: "I'll get it back! I'll get it back!"
By the first sign of daylight, Tom was in the car and ready to go. His first run averaged 408 mph; his run back was 421. His average was 413 mph--he was the holder of the world's land speed record. I congratulated Walt and Tom, posed for a bunch of photos of the three of us, and went back to the motel. I drove right into my second shock of the day.
There in the parking lot of the Wendover Motel sat the Green Monster. Art Arfons was wiping it off. As I parked my car, I asked myself, "Just why did you get out of bed today?"
I walked over and shook hands with Art. "Heard the news?" I asked.
"Yeah, Craig, sorry about your record," Art said.
"That's okay, Walt said you would have done it if he hadn't," I said.
He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, "Now what made him say a thing like that?"
Art is different from Walt. He's more outgoing and jovial. He, too, is genuine, but he's a tougher competitor. I was sure he would be the one I would have to struggle with longest. Then I looked at the car, and I knew that he would be the tougher competitor. It was a monster. Big and burly-looking, it was powered by a J-79 engine from an F-104 fighter. It had 17,000 pounds of thrust--more than three times that of the Spirit. I just looked at it and shook my head.
"It really looks strong, Art," I said.
"It is, Craig," Art answered.
It was clear that the car was not as streamlined as mine, but with power like that Art would be able to break the record driving the motel building.
There was no doubt that Art would break the record, and after I had watched the car in the practice run next day, I packed my gear. I had to go home and get ready. My work was cut out for me.
Two days later Art averaged 434 mph and broke Walt's three-day-old record. I was now third on a list of "fastest men on wheels," and I was determined not to stay there any longer than necessary.
When the news arrived, we had already started to work around the clock on a few modifications, most of which involved reshaping the nose of the car a little to give it an even more streamlined design. We went over the car with a fine-toothed comb to see if we could improve it anyplace. We cut down the front steering fin and reshaped some of the fillets. The wind tunnel test had proven that the shape of the car was nearly perfect. So we tightened and polished and tuned and, well, just nervously fiddled around.
Clyde Schetter, Goodyear's public relations man in Los Angeles, called and said, "Do you know Art went 479 on his return run? He averaged 434, but he went 479 on the last run--four hundred seventy-nine! What are your plans?"
I said, "Yeah, Clyde, I know. Art's not fooling around and I'm really impressed with his speed, but I'm not fooling around either. You can tell the press that I've made a lot of modifications to the car. I'm still going to go 500."
I told the fellows to load the car; we would leave that night for the Flats. Then I called Lee and told her I had to leave right away.
All she said was, "Yes, I've been expecting your call. Clyde called here first, thinking you would be at home, and told me the news. Do you want me to go with you?"
I said, "No, I think it would be better if you stayed here with the kids. They might need you."
She could tell that I was concerned about the run and said, "Okay, but call me the minute you get there."
I sat down in the office of the garage and collected my thoughts. I hoped that the tour had not gotten me too far out of condition. I usually work out in a gym every day when I'm at home because I feel that it's important to keep in shape physically as well as mentally, and I certainly had had no time for that sort of thing while on tour. At least I felt up to the strain mentally, and mental strength is the most important factor when you're driving at the phenomenal rates of speed that the LSR demands. You really have to be up on it. Your reactions have to be sharp; your mind has to zing. It has to be clear. Massive quantities of information pour through it, as if it was a computer.
I thought of how difficult it had been to run 400. It now had to be 500--500 over the tire ruts Walt and Art had made in the race course. The ruts had been bad after Walt's record runs and Art's practice runs; they could only have become worse from Art's runs. The Spirit was difficult to steer through ruts because of its three-wheeled configuration. If the front wheel got into a rut, it might be like riding down the street on a motorcycle and getting caught in streetcar tracks. In fact, the car tended to follow ruts even though they were only an inch or so deep. There were a lot of ruts on the Flats now.
In the final analysis, however, none of these things mattered. The Salt Flats belonged to me and I was going up there to get my record back.
