Craig inspects the damage after the jet car had been hauled back onto the salt
Next morning I sat on the bank and looked at the tail of the Spirit sticking out of its briny grave. The car obviously was pretty badly damaged and probably would never run again. The strain on the frame and the body supports alone would have made the car unsafe for faster speeds, but I wanted to be there, nevertheless, to see for myself.
The state roads crew had brought a crane in to try to bring the car out, but they were having a little trouble getting the crane out there. The car had gone down in the deepest part of the water, but a small strip of land extended to within eight or ten feet of the left side of the car. Still, the road crew had to bring a bulldozer into play to push some dirt around in order to build a make-shift road so that the crane could roll right out to the car. They got there by about noon and hooked chains around the rear fender supports.
As the car came out of the water, it was a frightening sight. It was pretty much intact, but there was a large hole in the front of the right wheel fairing and the left axle was smashed in--apparently the battle scars given it by one of the telephone poles. Water was whooshing out of it. It looked as if the men were hauling a dead whale out of the deep.
When they'd swung the car to dry land, I went over and looked at it closely. I could plainly see the mark made by the two telephone poles--one on the left side of the nose and the other on the left fender cover. I had already been out to the Flats earlier to look at the course, and that, too, was quite a sight. I could see the marks where the car had left the course and careened, out of control, for five miles before hitting the poles which, incidentally, were reduced to millions of tooth- picks spreading over about a mile of salt.
Besides the dents and the hole from the poles, the frame was bent, and the salt water had done a lot of damage to the instruments and the interior and almost everything that moved. In short, as I had suspected, it would be impossible to run the car again.
Then I realized I had overlooked something, so I went around the car again and again. Suddenly I knew what it was. The movie camera that had been mounted in the left fender cover was missing. Apparently it had come off either in the lake or where the car had hit the poles.
We went back to the telephone poles and couldn't find any trace of the camera; so it had to be in the lake. It was important for us to find the camera, because Goodyear had planned a movie of the record run. If we could find the camera, we would have the wildest footage of the wildest ride that anyone would ever see.
I called a friend in Los Angeles who was a diver and told him the problem. "Don't sweat it, Craig," he said. "I'll be right up there with a diving suit and all the gear." It was going to cost us some money to find the camera. Even after we found it, there was no guarantee that the film would be any good, but it was worth a try.
The diver arrived the next day and went to work. The search was a little difficult because we didn't know where the camera might be. The car had hit the water in one place, skipped to another, and finally gone to the bottom. The camera could have been thrown off anywhere. But after a couple of hours' searching, the diver came up with one prize. It wasn't the camera, but it was a welcome sight anyway. He had found the canopy. It was in good shape and fit right in place on the Spirit.
Then he went back to the lake. About midafternoon the search ended. He found the camera about 300 yards in front of the place where the car had sunk. It had catapulted forward when the car had hit the water the last time.
I had the camera but didn't know what to do with it; so I called Eastman Kodak in Rochester, New York, and told them the situation. They took the problem in stride and told me to put the camera in a bucket of water, put it on a plane, and get it to them right away. They told me not even to open the camera. Their technicians would handle the whole situation and would decide just how to process the film once it got there. Kodak also asked that we send a sample of the briny water along, so that they could analyze it and better judge what to do.
In fact, Kodak did a great job. The film turned out amazingly well. The whole wild ride, right up to the impact with the telephone pole, was there. That jolt must have broken the camera and jarred it loose. The final crash had merely torn it from its mooring. Al Blanchard of Spotlight Films made a movie from this and other footage, and it was so dramatic and exciting that it was nominated for an Academy Award for documentary films that year. But that's getting too far away from the events that followed the wild ride.
It was almost a relief to crash. The pressure that had built up before the 500 mph run was greater than any I had ever experienced, and I had just wanted to get the whole thing over. After the crash, I felt relieved. I wouldn't have to run at all--ever. The car had been so badly damaged that we knew it would be foolish to rebuild it. We had just about reached the limit of the J-47 engine and the car was not designed to handle a J-79. But I wouldn't tell anyone, and everyone would think I was still in the running.
What I didn't know for some days was that Roy Van Sikle, project manager for the Shell crew, had told the press--after I had been whisked away on the wild ambulance ride--that I was in a state of shock, and that the Spirit of America would never run again. That statement blew my whole strategy. I know it did, because later I asked Art Arfons about it, and he said, "The only way I ever convinced Firestone to let me come back was to tell them that your car was destroyed and Goodyear couldn't defend its record."
So it was just a matter of time before Art would get out and run again. I could do nothing about it and went back to Los Angeles to be with Lee and the kids. We had picked out a lot on Palos Verdes Peninsula overlooking the beach, and I wanted to get things rolling on a new house. I had done some of the designs myself; so I was almost as interested in the house as I was in the race car. As a matter of fact, I think I might have been more interested at this stage. I just wanted to get away from racing for a while. I was tired.
I was up at the lot one day, watching the bulldozers clear the property, when Lee came roaring up. She jumped out of the car, ran up, and threw her arms around me. She was crying. "Art just went 536. I heard it on the radio," she sobbed. "You're not going back, are you?"
I stared out across the beach and quietly said, "I can't, honey, I don't have a car."
We went back to the house, and I called Earl Heath at Wendover. Earl told me that Art had averaged 536.71 and had blown a tire just as he left the measured mile on the second run. He was able to get the car under control and had not been injured, although the explosion from the tire had ripped away some of the body panels. The panels could be repaired, Earl told me. And he told me another thing: it was snowing on the Flats. The season was closed. Art had the record.
Not only was the record gone with the snow; a number of financial gains also disappeared. Goodyear and Shell had talked of a motion picture and of a car model to be sold at their retail outlets. Both of these projects immediately dissolved into the air. Who wants to see a movie or buy his kids a model of the world's second fastest car? I also lost a lot of money from advertising. Both companies had planned big campaigns for the coming year, but since they now didn't hold the record they certainly weren't going to advertise that fact.
Inevitably, I started to think about the inevitable--going back to the Flats and the faster speeds, the effect they would have on the car, and particularly on me. I got to the point that the new LSR project was all I could think of, and I suppose I was unbearable to live with. Lee and the kids just stayed away from me. When I was at home, I would sit in front of the television set for hours, not even knowing what was on. I tried reading, but every book turned out the same way. Along about page two my mind would start wandering, and first thing I knew, the book had slipped from my lap and was lying on the floor next to the blaring television set.
I knew that I couldn't go on this way; so one day I went over and talked with my dad. I had to confide in someone outside the house, where everyone was too involved. I told him that dying was all I could think of and that I was really scared to make another run. The crumpled bodies of my friends who had been killed in race car crashes kept parading through my mind. I couldn't sleep at night, and I had become addicted to sleeping pills--which didn't work, because I would usually awake with a start after a bad dream and then couldn't go back to sleep even with the pills.
Dad suggested that I go to see a psychiatrist, and I agreed to the idea. Someone must be able to help me, I thought, and though I didn't know what to expect, I did know that I couldn't go on as I was much longer. So I contacted our family doctor, who recommended a psychiatrist in Inglewood.
The first visit was quite an experience. To begin with, the doctor was more nervous than I had ever been. I felt like asking him if he wanted to lie down and let me sit at the desk. But I told him of my fears, and of wanting to overcome them because I was a race driver and the fears were keeping me from deciding about going back to the Flats and running still faster.
He agreed that it was a somewhat unusual attitude for someone in my profession and said that we would try to get to the bottom of the situation. Well, it was a start, I suppose.
The trouble was, the sessions dragged on and on. I was spending more time telling the doctor about my childhood and my bicycle and things like that than about anything else. Every time I would get around to asking him questions about my fear, he would say, "Don't worry, Mr. Breedlove, we will get around to that one day soon." Well, that might be all right for him--at $25 an hour--but I had to make a decision pretty soon, and I didn't have the time or interest to go through my childhood years one more time.
Finally I said, "Look, Doc, I can't go on with this. I'm as messed up as ever. I still can't sleep at night, and I keep thinking about death all the time. What is it with the fear?"
Then he summed up my situation. He explained about my ego and said that I was in competition with my father and was hostile toward women. What about my fear? Well, he said, that was the only normal thing about me and he didn't think I should disturb it.
That was wonderful. I took my "normal" fear and " abnormal" self out of the office and never went back. But I did get to thinking about what he had said and finally decided the doctor was right. It was normal to be afraid of going 500 mph; so I decided to accept the fear and get back to the problem at hand--Art Arfons.
It didn't take me long to assess the situation. Art had a car that was so powerful that it just bulled its way through the record--even blown tires didn't stop it. And he would be able to run it again next year. There was only one answer. I would have to build my own car with a J-79 engine--a car that would be so aerodynamically perfect that it would make Art's car obsolete the minute it hit the Salt Flats.
Bill Newkirk, Goodyear's public relations man in Chicago, called the day after I came to my senses and said that the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago would like to have the Spirit of America as a permanent display. What Goodyear wanted to know was--Would I rebuild the car for show, tour the country with it, and then donate it to the museum?
I said, "You mean you want to tour the Spirit--even if we don't have the record?"
Bill said, "Look, Craig, that's the first car to go over 400, and it's the first car to go 500 mph. Everyone will want to see it."
I was delighted at the prospect and told Goodyear that I would be glad to rebuild the car.
It didn't take too much rebuilding to get the car ready just to show. All we had to do was replace a few body panels and straighten some things here and there. The car had been strong and was not damaged too badly visually--the bent frame and broken and twisted engine mounts didn't show. We completed the job in about six weeks and left for a nationwide tour.
After the tour and the ceremony at the museum, I started designing a new car--Spirit of America-Sonic I, and it would have a J-79 engine with an afterburner. Walt Sheehan used two weeks' vacation helping me with the design--particularly the air intake ducts--and things started to fit together again.
Walt and I, with technical assistance from Art Russell, built a model of the car, which I took to Shell in New York. "I want to go back next season and get that record back for you," I told them. Their answer was a firm, positive no. They had had enough of the LSR and didn't want any part of a new effort.
Then I flew to Akron to see Bob Lane and Vic Holt, who was now president of Goodyear. I explained the program to them and asked if they would be interested in sponsoring half of the new car.
Bob said, "Craig, your proposal looks good but"--and this is where I expected to get the ax; I was surprised when he continued--"I don't know if we want to share half of the sponsorship with another company. We would rather take the whole thing."
I was in again!
I was also smarter. I asked if I could get my own subsponsors. When I told Goodyear that I would display the subsponsors' insignias on the back of the car, and that they would be no larger than 25 percent the size of the Goodyear insignia, the giant tire company approved my proposal, and I left Akron a happy race driver again.
Then it was back to Shell--this time with a different pitch. I told Shell that Goodyear had agreed to pick up the whole package, and they couldn't believe it. What, then, was I doing there, they asked. I said, "Well, I'm going to ask you to bet on a horse that has already won. I've been associated with Shell and have an existing contract, and I'd like to continue with your product. I would like credit card privileges for the vehicles involved in the project and fuel to run the car. If I break the record, I want $35,000."
In the circumstances I wasn't asking much, and certainly I was offering great possibilities for a relatively small outlay. Shell agreed to sponsor the car to that extent.
I was really rolling; so I decided to make two more stops before I went back to Los Angeles. First, I went to Cleveland to see Lamson and Sessions Corporation, a major bolt manufacturer. I had used their product extensively on the first car, and they gave me $2,500 worth of bolts and a contract for $5,000 if I broke the record. Champion Spark Plug Company was next. They were vitally interested in racing and were active in the field. They offered me $5,000 if I held the record past December 31. In that way, they could advertise the LSR. The idea was fine with me, and we signed a contract.
When I went back home, I had four sponsors and another dream. I wanted to get right to work because I only had about six months to build the car--I had to get the record back that year--and I knew that it would take every day of the six months to do it. Of course, things were moving so fast that I didn't have time to think about the long year without the record, and that's the way I wanted it. Again, I would work my way through a troubled period.
It was already early in March, 1965, and we didn't have two sticks of metal put together--nothing. We had to move. Goodyear wanted that record back because Firestone was pumping away pretty heavily with the publicity, and it really bugged Goodyear. When the salt was ready, they wanted us ready, too.
We found a shop in the Watts area of Los Angeles and ordered the first material so that we could start. The Goodyear contract had not yet come through, but Bob Lane had advanced me $30,000 to get started. We had settled on a $100,000 budget for the car, and another $34,000 for expenses for operating the car at Bonneville. We had had plenty of experience on the first car; so we expected this budget to be considerably more realistic than the one we had asked for the first time. It was. But there were troubles in store.
When the contract arrived, I was shocked to learn that Goodyear expected to own the car after the runs were over. The terms of the agreement stated that I would have the car for three years after the record but that it then would become the property of the company. I didn't like the idea at first, but after thinking it over for a while, I realized that most of the promotional value of the car would be realized in the first three years of the record. Also, I didn't want to muddy the water at that stage; so I agreed to the terms and signed the contract. From that moment it was the same as it had been on the first car--working seven days a week, 18 to 20 hours a day.
Nye quit his job as a fireman and joined the project full time, and Stan Goldstein became office and project manager. This left me with time to work on designing the steering and brakes and every part that went into the car. A lot of the guys from the first project came back, and we soon had eight men working all the time. There was somebody working around the clock, and I was usually there to supervise. When I did sleep, it was usually in the tiny office. I went home only two or three times a week. It was about a two hour round trip to get home, and I just couldn't afford the time. Before long Lee began bringing me my dinner and spending some evenings at the shop.
It was pretty boring for her. Even when she was at the shop with me, I usually had my nose buried in some blueprints. I wasn't much company, but she stayed there, nevertheless, because it was the only way she could be with me. She had taken the new car decision rather badly. She didn't want me to run again, but she knew I had to; so she was in my corner--like it or not. About twice a week she would bring the kids over so they could see how the car was progressing--which pleased me. I didn't have the time to take them anyplace and this way I could at least see them. My kids were staying with Lee and me a lot; so since I was seldom home, Lee often had five kids to watch. I guess she had a 20-hour-a-day job also.
As the weeks rolled by, the strain at the shop became fantastic. Not one of us took a day off in five months, and we were all beginning to get on each other's nerves. Tempers often flared. One night one of the guys just flipped and, in a fit of rage, kicked the back door out of the shop. Then he ran back and kicked in the side of the car in several places. It was just a temper tantrum, but by the time we got him wrestled to the floor, he had set the project back by about two weeks. I just looked at the car and said, "Well, we'll have to fix it," and as tired as we were, we went right to work on it--after firing the culprit who had caused us all the extra work.
However, no sooner had we gotten that damage repaired than the Watts riot broke out. The riot was going on all around my shop, and the night sky was brilliantly illuminated with the burning buildings of the strife torn area. I could just imagine my whole operation going up in smoke--and with it my dreams of the record.
One of the fellows stood guard on the roof at all times, moving from front to rear to watch for fire bombers. Our cars were parked out in front, but there was no way to move them and get them into the relative safety of the shop; so our rotating watchman also had to keep an eye on the parking lot.
So far as the schedule was concerned, the riots didn't hurt us at all because we were on a 24-hour workday anyway. The only difference was now we couldn't get out even if we wanted to. Everything went fine until the day came when we started to run out of material. Naturally nothing could be delivered; so I called everybody together and asked for a volunteer to drive the parts truck through the battle-scarred streets to bring back materials. The reception wasn't exactly overwhelming, and I could see that the volunteer idea was out. There would have to be some sort of contest; so I asked for suggestions.
Stan Goldstein thought up the idea of a golf tournament. We set up the wildest golf course in the world. There were nine holes--which happened to be tin cans, placed at strategic locations throughout that old barn of a garage. The fellow with the worst score on the nine holes would automatically be the parts runner--and the hero.
We placed cans behind barricades and under stairs and laid out the course through the worst obstacles we could dream up. It would be a one at a time proposition, with me starting. We looked around and found a section of pipe and a pipe elbow--we had the perfect golf club. The ball? We didn't have too many calls for golf balls; so the search was on again. Nye solved the problem. He went to the front door, looked carefully about, and dashed out to his Triumph sports car. He came back with the round gear shift knob. In a minute the first annual Triumph Open was underway.
There really wasn't any par on the course; so my score could have been very good or very bad--we would just have to wait and see. I putted carefully, lining up every one meticulously. There were distractions, such as the cheering when I missed the hole, or the occasional explosions from down the block, and I was a nervous wreck. But I managed to wind up the nine holes with a sizzling 53, which I thought wasn't too bad, considering the situation.
Nye was next, and he had a 58 (he had eight putted the tough sixth hole, which had to be played through a hole in the bathroom wall). Nye was just about ready to boot Stan Goldstein out of the shop when Stan came up with a record 39. We knew why he had suggested golf (I later found out that he played miniature golf as a hobby). Stan even made a hole in one on the third hole, which was a long shot across the center of the garage and under the Spirit. The ball went far to the right, hit a piece of angle iron, and bounced into the can, which was taped sideways to the floor.
A chorus of boos filled the air. If there had been anybody outside with the idea of burning the place down, he would probably have left, convinced that we had all just snapped with the pressure. What would be the purpose in burning a room full of lunatics?
George Klass broke the spell. His 72 will stand in the record books of the Triumph Open as the wingding of all scores. It not only gave him the booby prize of two cans of dog food--we had found them while laying out the course--and a crash helmet, but it made him the parts runner.
George wasn't too happy about the honor, but he was willing. As for the rest of us--well, the whole thing had been just the break and relaxation we had needed. We were happier and more relaxed than we had been for weeks, and we vowed to make the Triumph Open an annual affair. (Some of us have gotten together at a miniature golf course almost every year since to continue the tournament--except now we call it the George Klass Open, in honor of our first real hero.)
Well, George left with the parts order and a shot gun, which one of the fellows had smuggled in during the first night of the riots. Weaving in and out of the police barricades, he miraculously escaped harm. He made three runs, and only once did he have any trouble. That time he had to outrun a band of rioters. Fortunately, they were on foot, and the only damage suffered were a few dents in the truck from rocks and bottles. The building and everything else escaped unscathed.
As Watts simmered, the car neared completion. Everything was pretty much on schedule--everything, that is, but one major item. We had designed the car around a J-79 engine, but after five and one-half months, we still didn't have one. I was starting to get really worried, and then, one day, I got a call from a buddy in Arizona who owned a surplus store. I had called him about three months earlier and told him to give me a call if he ever located an engine. When the phone rang, I almost didn't answer it. We were so busy that we often just let it ring, but for some reason I took that call. The voice on the other end said, "Craig, you still want a J-79 engine?"
I thought it was one of the fellows kidding me and I said, "No we're building this race car to run with a great big rubber band."
The voice said, "No, seriously, I've found one for you at Charlotte Aircraft in North Carolina."
It soon was apparent that he was serious; so I changed my tune considerably. I called Charlotte, and they did have one! I think it must have been the only one in the country at that point--we had looked everywhere else. I went to Charlotte to look the engine over and found that it had been sitting outside for about three years and was in pretty bad shape. General Electric had built the engine originally and would have to rebuild it if it was to be of any use to us. The plant in Ontario, California, could do it, if I could convince the company to take the project.
A phone call put the project right back where it had been. General Electric was not interested in getting involved in racing in any way and politely said no. Then, on the flight back to Los Angeles, I remembered what Bill Lawler had told me about the Shell-Goodyear relationship and how a large corporation would take notice if I used some corporate leverage. I knew that Goodyear stocked GE appliances at most of their service stores throughout the country; so I called Bob Lane when I got off the plane.
"Bob, I finally found this engine," I said, "but General Electric won't help me with it; so I'm afraid we're not going to make the deadline."
Bob gasped at the thought of Firestone holding the record one day longer than necessary and said, "Oh yeah. We buy $40 million worth of appliances from them each year. I think that might help."
By the time I got to the shop there was a phone message from Bob. It said that I was supposed to call Russell DeYoung, Goodyear's chairman of the board and give him the facts of the case. I called Mr. DeYoung and told him the whole story.
He said, "Just sit tight, Craig. I'm going to make a phone call."
He called back in about an hour and said, "Gerhart Newman, who is in charge of GE's jet engine division, is flying to Charlotte tomorrow. He and his men wil have the engine transported to Ontario, and they'll start work on it immediately."
Such things are simple--if you're chairman of Goodyear!
In about five days I got a call from Gerhart Newman. He said, "Mr. Breedlove, we have your engine in good condition. I thought you might like to see it being reassembled. We will test it, and we would like you to be here for that." What a load that phone call took off my mind.
Walt Sheehan and I went over to Ontario and watched as the technicians put the engine back together. Then they had it hauled down to the test stand, which was snuggled between two 24-inch-thick concrete walls, each about 150 feet long. The engine was mounted in this canal and hooked up to the instruments that would measure the thrust and the rpms. At this side of the mounting stand sat a blockhouse, which held all of the controls and offered a safe vantage point for us, since we looked out through 5-inch-thick glass. At the far end of the concrete canal was a 45-degree exhaust deflector.
It was the first time I had seen a J-79 run at close range. When I had watched Art's practice run, I had been two or three miles away. I hadn't even seen his second run; so when the technicians fired the engine up for the first time, I couldn't believe it. The J-79 made the J-47 sound like a peashooter, and by the time it was up to full power, the concrete walls were swaying back and forth. It was the most impressive display of raw power that I had ever witnessed. Then they lit the afterburner. When a J-79 afterburner lights, there is a series of shock waves, and a reddish blue flame shoots out the back because the velocity of the thrust is well over supersonic speed. It sounds just like the end of the earth.
The ground shook and the walls swayed about 12 inches. I thought the whole place was going to come down around us. Smoke and debris were blown about 200 feet into the air, and, I can tell you, I was scared. I thought, "And you're going to strap that thing to your bottom and go across the Salt Flats. They're right--you are nuts."
Anyway, the car went together, and we had just put the final lettering on it when I got a call from Bob Masson of Goodyear. He said, "Craig, I've just been talking to Bob Lane. He's been thinking about all of the photographs of the car that will be taken."
I said, "That's right, Bob, and we've got 'Goodyear' right there in foot and a half letters on each side of the car. It will look good in photos."
"I know," he said, "but Bob is afraid that there will be a lot of photos taken from the rear to show the jet exhaust and all, and there isn't any company identification there. Now, you have to look at it from his point of view, Craig. He's got the public relations to think of, and he can't afford any criticism from his bosses. After all, he's out on the limb for a bundle and he has to account for evervthing."
I said, "Well, what do you want me to do?"
He paused a few seconds, then said, "Bob wants you to put a company emblem on the tail."
"But I've got the American flag on the tail. What about that?" I asked.
"Bob says there's room for both on the tail," he said
Well, I guess it was partly because the strain of the whole program had caught up with me and partly because I liked the way the car looked; anyway I said "Tell him I won't do it. The car is all finished and we agreed on the lettering before, and I won't do it."
Bob Lane is a highly professional public relations man (and now a vice-president with Goodyear) and about as proud and stubborn as I am; so when word got back to him what I had said, he went into orbit.
I got another call from one of the public relations men, and he asked, "Craig, can you tell me your side the story? Bob is so mad, he's incoherent."
I told him the whole story, and he said, "Well, don't say anything else to upset him, and I'll see if I can smooth it over. By the way, Bob says that ... er, the program is off, so better not do anything at the moment. Wait until you hear from me."
Two days later I got a call from Howard Babcock, another public relations man from Akron, who was at the Los Angeles Airport. "I'll be right over, Craig. I have to talk with you," he said.
For two days I had been sitting in the garage staring at the car and wondering what had happened. Lee had come over several times to try to get me to come home but I had just sat there and muttered, "I don't understand. I don't understand."
But I did understand. My feelings had been hurt. I've always had tremendous pride in everything I've built, and I just couldn't imagine anyone wanting to change anything on the car badly enough to scrub the whole program. And my stubborn nature just wouldn't let me give in.
When Howard arrived, the first thing he said was, "Now look, Craig, you and Bob have to work this thing out because there's just too much at stake. Why don't you call him and tell him that you'll put the emblem on the back of the car. Then everything will be all right."
I said, "I'm not putting the emblem up there with the American flag."
Howard said, "You don't have to put it up there with the flag. Just put it somewhere on the back; he doesn't care where."
I looked at the car. The subsponsor emblems were on a white stripe that ran the length of the car. They were near the back; so I supposed there would be room for another emblem back there. I pointed to a spot and said, "How about there?"
Howard said, "Beautiful, now call Bob and apologize."
"What do you mean 'apologize'? I thought that's what he sent you out here for, to apologize to me," I shouted.
Howard held his head and said, "You two are driving me nuts. Now just call and say you'll do it. Don't apologize; just say you'll do it."
"Okay," I said, "but I'm not going to apologize."
Howard stared at the ceiling and said, "Just call, Craig, just call."
I called Bob, and we were friends again.
The painter lettered the emblem on the back, and next day Bob Stamm, the company photographer, took the photos of the car that would go in the press kit. Howard waited for the prints and mailed a set, air express, to Akron. The press conference, set for the next day, at the Ambassador Hotel, was a huge success.
The car was a gem. It was larger than the first car, and it had four wheels--no more motorcycle controversy over this one. It sat there in its glistening blue splendor with a large 'Goodyear' on each side at the front. In the back were the emblems of the other sponsors. Right in front of the exhaust opening was a freshly-lettered "Goodyear"--framed by the official company diamond.
After the press conference, Howard called me over and said, "Craig, uh, there's something I want to say."
I looked at him suspiciously and said, "What, Howard?"
He stammered and said, "Well, it's about the lettering. Bob thinks 'Goodyear' on the back is too small."
I turned scarlet and said, "Now, look, Howard...."
He interrupted and said, "Hold it, Craig, I've got it all figured out. Just listen. The 'Goodyear' is small because the diamond takes up too much space. Just do away with the diamond. Make the letters as big as the whole diamond border is now. Then everybody will be happy, and I can go home."
I said, "Okay, Howard, but you're going to call Bob and tell him. I won't go that far."
Howard was already running to the phone. "Okay Craig, that's great. That's great," he called over his shoulder.
