We sat in the trailer, drinking coffee and waiting. The snow flurries turned to drizzling rain and persisted. It was so cold that nobody even went outside. We just sat there and talked about nothing for three days. We got tired of each other's company and very, very tired of the Salt Flats.
The crew had been there for eight weeks, and they were already talking about the holidays. We were all irritable, and there was no escape from the boredom. The State Line Casino, the railroad station, and Earl Heath's service station became more like home to most of us than anyplace else we could imagine. I had gotten away for two days when I went to New York and for week in Salt Lake City when we modified the car, but it was all work on those occasions. There had been no diversion.
We got into a parachute controversy one day while sitting in the trailer, and it resulted in our changing the whole system. I guess we were all looking for something to do, and we had experienced some problems with the chutes; so the system was a natural target. Moreover, we had both ends of the chute-expert scale working for the project.
I had brought Jack Carter, a dragstrip chute expert with me from Los Angeles, and Goodyear had sent Fred Neberger, a Ph.D. who had written his thesis on chute designing. The two had worked together to a degree, but they still had their own particular beliefs on how chutes should be made and used. Although I had tried both systems and honestly felt that Jack's was a little more dependable, the Goodyear people had talked me into using Neberger's design since they couldn't imagine a dragstrip chute-maker being able to design and make chutes for anything as fast as the Spirit. Fred had designed and developed the Hemisflow chute that was used in the Gemini recovery program.
The Goodyear fellow was probably the leading authority on parachutes in the United States, maybe even in the whole world, but he was in a strange environment, and it was a new ball game for him. He shook his head when he watched Jack Carter working out of the back of his '58 Chevrolet station wagon with a sewing machine older than he was. But Jack's chutes worked every time, and his success baffled the experts.
During the great chute debate and coffee-drinking session, everyone agreed that the main problem with the chutes--aside from the ones that tore off--was pulsation. They would fill with air, deflate, and fill again, giving an uneven slowing action to the car. We had two 90-foot lines on the chutes. I thought that the chutes were too close behind the car and that the lines should be lengthened. Some of the guys disagreed. I think they finally went along with the program just to have something to do. We all agreed on one thing, lengthening the lines wouldn't hurt--so why not try it?
We added 30 feet to each line, but that made the Goodyear chutes fit so tight in the packs that I thought they were going to come out hard. Neberger disagreed. We tried one of Jack's chutes. With the longer line it fit in the chute can better than the Goodyear chute. So I worked out a compromise: we would use the Gemini-type chute as the primary one and Jack's as the backup chute.
Everybody was happy. Ten minutes later when everybody was bored again, somebody said, "What do you think about the brakes?"
Craig inspects brake damage following a ride in the Spirit of
America--Sonic I when the chutes
failed
I said, "Look, we've got to get out of here. If we sit around much longer, we're going to have the car so messed up it won't run at all. Let's talk to Petrali about the weather forecast."
We went over to Joe's timing shack, and there were the USAC men arguing about the wiring on the timing lights.
"I see you guys are reworking all of your systems, too," I said.
Joe looked up and said, "Yeah, if this weather doesn't break soon, we won't even be able to tell you what day it is with these things, let alone your average speed."
"I know the feeling, Joe. What's the forecast for tomorrow?" I asked.
"More of the same, the weather bureau says."
"Well," I said, "I think I'm going to try a run tomorrow.
Everybody looked up and said in unison, "You're going to do what?"
"I'm going to run tomorrow. That's what we're here for, isn't it?" I asked.
It was a while before they were convinced that I was serious about running. While everybody else had been gabbing during the last few days, I had been getting more and more impatient. I knew that the salt, although wet, was not any rougher than it had been before the light snow and drizzling rain. If the wind died down, we would be in good shape. Nobody had ever run in weather that bad, but nobody had ever wanted the record that badly either.
I told the crew and the USAC people that we would try a run in the morning just as soon as wind and rain permitted. If it stopped for even a minute, we would go.
I awoke next morning to the sound of hail on the motel roof and thought, "This ought to be nice to run in." I rolled over to go back to sleep but tossed and turned. Finally I looked at the clock. It was 4:00 A.M., and I got up. I puttered around the room for a while, and Lee woke up.
"What is it, Craig? You're not going to the Flats, are you?" she said.
"I don't know. It's been hailing but it's calm now. I'm going to get dressed anyway," I said.
She was wide awake with this and very concerned. "Are you sure you know what you're doing, with this talk of running in bad weather, and all?" she asked.
"I'm not going to run in bad weather. I'm just going to be ready for the first lull in the bad stuff. When I run there may not be any sunshine and the weather may be cold and damp, but it will be all right to run," I assured her.
We both got dressed and talked for a long time about a lot of things, mostly about the kids and their adjustment to our racing lives. And we were pretty proud of all of them after taking stock. They were good kids. They minded well and were intelligent. Most of all they loved us; so we were proud.
Nye knocked on the door, and we surprised him when we opened it, coats on and ready to go.
"I was up at four," he said, "and it was hailing, but it's not bad now."
I said, "I know," and started down the steps to the car.
The crew had the car ready when we got there; so we sat in the trailer, waiting for daybreak. It came cold and bleak, with no rays of sun, no sign that the weather would get any better. The wind was gusting pretty badly, and it looked as if the hopes for a run were ended.
I walked out of the trailer, and it was blustery. Over at the tiny USAC shack that protected the track stewards from the wind, I asked, "Talked with Joe, yet?"
"He just called and said it was calm in the measured mile," they answered.
That was all the encouragement I needed. I called the crew and told them to get the car ready. If the calm moved this way, we would be ready to go. The skies were black, but it had already started to get less windy, with gusts no more than eight or ten knots.
I got in the car, and I was nervous. I didn't really want to run, I finally admitted to myself, but I knew that if I didn't run today, the place might be under 12 feet of water tomorrow. Then it would be too late.
I waited, and Nye came up to the cockpit. "The wind has died down, Craig. Are you sure you want to go?" he asked.
"I don't have any choice," I replied.
The business end of Spirit, showing chute housings, lower
right and left
He stepped back from the cockpit and gave the signal to start the engine. I got it fired up, got course clearance from the USAC men, and was ready to go. I moved the engine up into military power--the power necessary just before you light the afterburner--and the car started to slide forward on the tires, despite the fact that I had the brakes locked tightly. I was at the point of lighting the burner--the point where it's all over with and you're gone--when Ben Torres, the USAC steward at our end of the track, started waving his arms, screaming, running in front of the car-literally taking his life in his own hands. I slammed the engine off and threw the canopy open.
"Stop, Craig," he screamed. "Joe just phoned. The wind has picked up to 40 knots in the mile. The signs have blown down and the timing lights are damaged."
The wind hit us in a minute, and I thought it was going to knock over the trailer. We had to take down the striped canvas, leaving the metal frames bare. Then it started to hail and rain--unbelievable. I kicked a tire on the van and headed for the car. Back at the motel I was sure that it was all over for the year. Lee and Nye and I talked it over, and they finally got me out of the fit of depression I was in. They reminded me that the weather had changed back and forth all week and that until the rains and heavy snow really came and the course was completely underwater there was still a chance.
The following morning we went to the Flats. It had again stopped raining. Nye went over to the Spirit and starting wiping off the canopy and the windshield. Joe was drying his timing lights. The crew was standing around shivering and grumbling. It looked like a repeat of the past five days.
Joe came down to the place the car was parked and said, "We're ready if the weather cooperates, Craig."
I said, "I guess we are, too, Joe. I'm going to get in the car and wait for the first glimmer of good weather. Then we'll try again."
A
dejected Craig Breedlove walks away from the Spirit of
America--Sonic I after near
tragedy
I got in the car and got my safety harness on. At that instant there was a break in the clouds, I could see a bright orange beam of sunlight way down the course, coming through the jet black sky. In another second there was another one. Suddenly it started, one, two, three, and the whole sky was opening up. It was as if someone was opening a shutter and letting a stream of light come down. It took the whole edge off the blackness that had surrounded us for five days.
Nye ran over and said, "Joe says it's great in the mile. "I replied, "Let's get it running."
By the time we had the engine fired up, there must have been a dozen light rays coming down. I checked everything, returned the two-fingered victory sign to Nye, and lit the burner. The Spirit was off in a spray of salt water, moving swiftly and surely toward the measured mile. Miles three and four flashed by. I could see the timing lights. The measured mile was bathed in sunshine. It looked as if a giant spotlight was illuminating the whole area. The car was nearing 600 mph and the front end felt light, but I could steer it. I flashed out of the mile and cut the engine. I waited for the proper time and hit the button for the first chute. It didn't work. I waited one mile, hit the second button, and felt the chute pull. It caught, and the earth seemed to tilt again. I hung from my shoulder harness and seat belt, my goggles pulled away from my face by the force. It was as if some giant had taken hold of the chute and hung the car from a nail. Then the force diminished, everything became level again, and I eased on the brakes. The car came to an easy stop at mile zero.
The Spirit of America--Sonic I poised to take the world's
land speed record
I had averaged 594 mph and the record was only one more run away.
Jack Carter's chute had stopped the Spirit. When we checked we found that the first one had been packed so tightly in the can that it took Joe's Jeep to pull it out. Fred was shocked at the chute failure but guaranteed me that he could fix the problem. I told the crew to put two of Goodyear's chutes on the car and get ready for the return run.
Chutes help Breedlove slow down after traversing the measured
mile
Walt Sheehan asked how the power had been. "It was perfect, Walt," I said. "Now I want you to give me 610 and not a mile an hour faster. The car seemed to be just skimming when I left the mile; so I don't want to push it any more than I have to."
Walt made some adjustments to the engine, and we set the throttle stop. "That should give you your 610, Craig," he said.
"I hope so. I think it will fly right over Floating Mountain with 620," I answered.
Then we made a second decision. We would pull the car back an additional half-mile and use a five and one-half mile buildup instead of the usual five. The extra half mile would give the car a chance to smooth out at the top end before it reached the measured mile. The salt was smooth for the buildup run; so the strategy was sound.
I got in the car and felt good. I knew that this would be the last run in Sonic I. It would never go any faster, because we had reached the point beyond which all of the negative lift in the world wouldn't keep the car on the ground. The J-79 was powerful and the car was streamlined, but we had reached its limit. I figured 610 mph was it.
The Spirit comes to a stop after setting a new world's land
speed record
When I lit the burner, it was with a feeling of confidence. The sun still shone brightly, and the engine sounded like music. The run was smooth, the acceleration rapid. When I reached the measured mile, the air speed indicator pointed to 600 mph. The car was running true. As I left the mile, the needle just passed 620 mp. I figured Walt couldn't have gotten any closer than that.
I had complete control of the car as I cut the engine and just sat there for a second, enjoying 600 mph. Then I pressed the button for the chute and felt it catch. Everything was going to be all right. I remembered what Nye had jokingly said to me that morning--"You know it's kind of damp out here. When you finish the run, how about parking the car in the garage so we don't have to get our feet wet?" As the car slowed, I wondered if I could do it. I stepped on the brakes a little harder than usual, and the car slowed quickly to 200. I let the discs cool and then pumped them again. Next, I turned the car to the left, in the direction of the recently reerected striped awning that had served as a garage for two Spirits. The big car slowed down and came around to the left.
The car was down to about 50 MPh as it approached the camp. The crew was going out of their minds. To them I had just conquered the world. Putting that car under the awning was my salute to the finest crew in the world, and they knew it.
They were doing cartwheels and rolling in the rain-soaked salt when I got out of the car. They grabbed me and hoisted me right to their shoulders.
"Hey, wait a minute," I yelled, " we don't have the speed yet."
One of them screamed, "We don't care. Anybody that can park that monster in the garage has to be able to break the record."
When Joe came with the speed, a second cheer went up. I had gone 608.211 on the return run. My average was 600.601 mph. I knew that record would hold. Lee ran over and I grabbed her.
"You're going to quit now. I've got a husband back," she bubbled.
My dad grabbed me and said, "And I've got a son back. "
I looked over to Joe and said, "Sorry about running over your wires." He just broke up. He was constantly yelling at everybody for running over the wires with passenger cars.
He said, "That's okay, the season is over, but just wait until next year. I'll put a rule in the book about it." He smiled and grabbed my hand.
And the season was over. The skies opened up and deluged the place with water. I remember later walking around with water above my ankles and oil cans floating by. There was no doubt in anybody's mind that it was all over.
I looked at the Spirit, sitting there with its nose sticking out from under the awning, water running back toward the canopy, and I thought, "Well done, my good and trusty steed."
