That night the Spirit sat in the hangar at the air force base, following the run that had rivaled the rocket car for fireworks. Was the new car jinx with me again? It seemed that it was the first run with the first car all over again. I had managed to conceal my feelings about not having the record for a whole year, because I was busy building the new car. But now there was no hiding the fact that I was more than a little upset over being second best
For one thing, I was tired of spending weeks on aerodynamic design and sophisticated systems only to be blown off by Art, who just came up, wheeled his car off the trailer, and ran for the record. Somewhere along the line there had to be a point where the scientific approach took over and the happenstance attack lost out. The Spirit was the most advanced LSR car that had ever been built, and there was no reason that it should be relegated to second place.
About the second time through my hit parade of woes, Nye came into the hangar and put his hand on my shoulder. "Well, Champ, it's about time we got started straightening out this big mamma," he said. I didn't look up, and he said, "Here's a little surprise for you.
I looked up and saw Bob Koken, a General Electric engineer, standing with Nye. Bob had been with the program in Ontario, and he told me that GE had asked him to come up and help us out when it was learned we were having trouble with deceleration stalls. He asked me to keep his presence a secret because the company still didn't want too much said about being involved with the racing program. I was so happy to see him that I didn't care what the conditions were. I needed help on that engine!
The crew worked on the buckled and torn body panels, and Bob and I worked on the engine. It took us about six days to straighten the whole mess. We ran the engine time and time again at the hangar, and it seemed to be fine. When we were finished, Bob suggested that we start using the afterburner on the next run. "This way you won't have to push the engine as much, and I don't think you'll have as many problems," he pointed out.
So we lined the car up at the north end of the course for the first afterburner run. I was a bundle of nerves. Again I was about to try something new, and I didn't know what to expect. I had seen the Arfons brothers do it many times and figured that I, too, could hack it; so I plopped into the car like a kid going off a diving board for the first time, knowing the water was cold beneath. You just have to jump in, and, in a few seconds things will be all right. At least that's what you're told.
We lit the engine, and I held the car with the brakes while I checked all of the instruments. Then I slammed the pedal to the floor and lit the burner. And, man, I was gone. I was up to 400 by mile one and felt like yelling, "Yippee, Tex Breedlove rides again!" The ride was fantastic. I could see why Walt and Art had used the burner all along. The burner gets you to the moment of truth in a hurry. I liked that because I wanted to get the record over with.
By the time I got to the measured mile I was goinG like Jack the Bear. The air speed indicator pointed to 600 mph. I thought this speed would shut the competition up for a while, but I still leaned back and pressed harder on the accelerator. I knew I couldn't make the car go any faster because of the stop on the pedal, but it gave me a kind of thrill to try. Then I got a terrifying sensation--I began to lose sight of the horizon. At first I thought it was an optical illusion because of the 600 mph speed. "It must be like the parachute sensation," I told myself. I quickly realized that it wasn't an illusion. The front end of the car was lifting. I was starting to fly!
The car veered off the course to the right, and I pulled hard left on the wheel. Nothing happened. The front wheels were off the ground. I slammed the engine off, hit the button for the first chute and felt it tear off. Once again in my haste I had fired it too soon, and the speed had ripped it off. It was like having the same nightmare again. It was all happening once more, and I knew the next step: I would fire the second chute, and it would go. I sat with my thumb frozen over the button for the second chute. Then I pushed it, and, exactly according to the nightmarish script, nothing happened.
I realized I had to keep calm and reason the thing out because I knew that I would not get a second reprieve from the telephone poles and the ten-foot-high dike. "If I touch the brakes lightly, ever so lightly," I reasoned, "maybe the torque from the back wheels and the decreasing velocity will bring the front end down so I can steer again." I moved my boot nearer the brake pedal. It would have to be done gingerly. I touched the brakes easily and let up, and then repeated the operation. It worked. The nose eased down, and I had steering again.
The car now had to be stopped with the beefed-up disc brakes, but that, too, would have to be a delicate maneuver. I couldn't risk having them burn out. There was nothing else. The speed had dropped to 475 mph; so I lightly pressed the brake pedal, let up so the discs could cool, and then repeated the operation. The car was drifting to the right, but it was slowing down. Four hundred. Three hundred fifty. Three hundred. I flashed by mile zero and eased the brakes down again. The car entered the soft salt at about 200 mph, and I started braking harder. Finally, the car smoked to a stop about two miles past the end of the race course and sank about 8 inches into the soft, briny mud.
This time there was no laughing jag. I was mad, I was tired of having problems, and I wanted the record back. Yet this run had scared me so badly that I knew I must get back in the car as quickly as possible or I might never run again. I'd heard how if, when you are thrown by a horse, you don't get right back on, you may be afraid of horses for the rest of your life. Well, I hadn't been thrown by the Spirit, but it had done everything else to me. I had to get right back in it.
It wasn't as easy as I thought, though. The brakes had stopped the car effectively, but they had just about melted away in doing it. The discs were fused into the aluminum wheels, generating such heat that the paint had burned off the frame members up to six inches away from the brakes. The centers of the wheels were badly discolored from the heat, and we had to cut the brakes off the wheels with a torch. The brakes were completely ruined. They had turned to molten masses of metal and apparently had just barely hung together. I had backed off at just the right times to let them cool and solidify. Otherwise they would have melted off after their first application.
We started working on the car in the hangar, but it soon became apparent that we would have to take it elsewhere. We just didn't have the equipment to work there; so I called the air national guard in Salt Lake City and asked if they had the tools and machinery necessary to complete the modifications to the Spirit. We were going to have to build bigger fins for the front of the car to prevent it from lifting, and the whole body was going to have to be strengthened because all of the panels had buckled again from the tremendous pressure. Fortunately, for us, Colonel Mulder at the air guard told me to bring the car right in.
The air guard really helped. We had the entire run of the facilities and even borrowed some men to help work on the car. It became a major project. We just took over. We spread out body panels all over the hangar, raised the car on the main hoist, and, in general, filled the whole place. Over in a corner, three guardsmen louvered the straightened panels. We thought that louvering would relieve the pressure, strengthen the panels, and eliminate the buckling. It really was some operation--that is, until the general showed up one day. He took one look at the whole mess and went straight into orbit. "What is this?" he bellowed. Colonel Mulder and I stared at him. I certainly couldn't tell the general that I was a hot-rodder and this was my hobby. But I figured that if I didn't come up with something fast we were all going to Leavenworth for using government property and personnel.
I walked up to the general and said, "Sir, Colonel Mulder has been kind enough to let us use this empty hangar and has agreed to let me pay the men for their services and to pay for the equipment we're using to rebuild the Spirit of America. It's been sort of an air guard project from the beginning. The California Air Guard has given us technical assistance; so when we had trouble on the Salt Flats, I knew to come here for the technical know-how I needed."
The general unpuffed a little and said, "Well, I guess if these men are off duty and you are paying them, and since the air guard has helped with this project before, it's all right. Get back to work, men."
The colonel let out a sigh of relief and work resumed. I hoped Goodyear would pick up the tab, and consoled myself with the thought that, if not, the bill wouldn't come in for quite a while anyway. I invited the general out to the Flats to watch the run, and I think he would have come if it hadn't been for a trip to the Pentagon that he couldn't get out of. When we returned to the Flats, Colonel Mulder and some of his men were with us. The general told him to go!
We returned with the car after eight days of hard work. I was tired and wanted to be alone; so I went for a walk. I was walking on a dusty street behind the State Line Casino when I came face to face with Art Arfons, who had returned to the Flats that day. He, too, had wanted to be alone. We looked at each other and smiled. It was the first time we had seen each other since he broke the record the first time, and we had both anticipated the moment. In the background the giant cowboy sign at the casino flashed on and off. The western setting completely surrounded us. It was almost as if the two gunfighters had met in the street at sundown, when one of them should already have been out of town. Hollywood would have called it "Gunfight at the State Line Casino."
Art kicked his cowboy boot in the dust and spoke first. "Now that you've got your car straightened out, Craig, I guess you'll break the record again."
If I had had a gun belt, I would have had my thumbs in it. Instead, my hands were in my jacket pockets. I said, "That's right, Art. I'm going to break the record tomorrow. You were right about the J-79. It really is powerful."
Art said, "Well, what I want to know is if you break my record of 536 and go, say, 546, and I come back and go 556, what are you going to do? Do you intend to come back and keep up this game of Russian roulette, where we go back and forth until one of us gets killed and that's the end of it?"
I looked at him and said, "Yeah, I guess so, Art."
He said, "Okay, that's all I wanted to know," and we both walked away. The stage was set.
Next morning the car looked amazingly good as it sat on the salt, ready for a record run. We had made the necessary modifications and had even touched up the paint that the last run and the repairs had damaged. The new, larger fins had been installed, and the body panels were all louvered. I felt that our flying and panel-buckling problems were over. Another insignia adorned the car--that of the air national guard.
I quickly got into the car and went down the check-list. Again things were moving smoothly. The car was ready. The first run was fast and smooth, and when Joe Petrali handed me the slip of paper at the other end of the course, I was not surprised to see the average: 544 mph. Now all that lay ahead was the run back.
I adjusted the throttle stop and prepared for my third afterburner run. I blazed through the timing traps at a sizzling 566 mph and established a new world's land speed record of 555.127 mph.
That night in the motel we developed the tape from the recorder that would tell us our wheel loading--just how much weight was on each wheel. The loadings would be an indication of the attitude of the car--in other words, was it about to fly or were the new fins doing their job? I was extremely troubled when I saw how light the front end had gotten on the last run. There were only 200 pounds of pressure on each front wheels--pretty light for an 8,000-pound car! I knew that it had not been far from taking off again. I also knew that Art was ready to run as soon as we had used up our time on the Flats.
We had the salt reserved for another week, but I didn't know what to do with it. I certainly didn't want to run the Spirit any faster. As a matter of fact, I didn't want to run again at all. I kept thinking of the conversation that Art and I had had in the street and wondered which one of us it would be. We were both too proud ever to quit in second place. I knew Art would go faster than my 555 mph, and he knew that I would come back after that, light front end or not. Maybe it would be better if we did shoot it out in the street.
