Following the 600 mph run, I went into the trucking business. My motivation was easily determined. I knew that a great deal of the income to be derived from the Spirit would come from displaying the car around the country. The big shows paid well for such attractions. And the car was mine for three years only. I knew I had to make as much as I could from it within that time, because after that the car would be whisked off to a museum someplace, as the first car had been.
Now, Goodyear had sponsored the three-wheeled car on a nationwide tour; so I asked them if they planned to do the same thing with the four-wheeled car. When they said yes, I asked if I could supply the transportation. The Seven Santini Brothers of New York had hauled the first car and ended up making more money on the deal than I did--and I had owned the car. Goodyear was a little upset with them anyway. For one thing, the Seven Santini Brothers had had to build a special van to haul the car to auto shows and important events across the country--the van was part of the program and was specially constructed to facilitate easy loading and unloading of the car--which was fine except that the truck had Michelin tires on it when it showed up for the Goodyear tour!
Whatever the reason, the company said yes to my proposal to haul the car myself. So I was in the hauling business. Since I was to be paid commercial rates for each trip, I bought a 40-foot, low-bed moving van. After we'd built ramps inside it to hold the car and installed an electric winch, we were ready to start the Breedlove Trucking Company. At that precise point Goodyear decided not to schedule the car for any appearance after all. There I sat with a 40-foot van. My own schedule was so sparse that it wasn't feasible to hire a truck driver and pay all of the expenses necessary to operate the van. I was really in a jam.
After some discussion, I worked out a compromise with Goodyear. They agreed to fill out my own schedule by sponsoring some appearances at major auto shows and special events. In this way I could at least cover the cost of the van and the modifications. So, inauspiciously, my second nationwide tour began.
This tour wasn't as hectic as the first one had been, because I went mainly to the important events. In fact, there were times when days went by without a public appearance. There weren't too many big events, and I liked the pace much better. Most of the showings were fun, especially events such as the New York Auto Show, which draws about two million people each year.
At the New York show the Spirit was placed just inside the main entrance, and I later learned that it was the first time a vehicle of any kind had graced that spot. It was probably the last time, too, because the mobs of people that swarmed around the car finally caused the fire marshals to ask that it be moved. It was near the end of the show, however, so they finally relented and allowed us to keep the car in front of the doors.
After the New York show, it was a round of exciting events --the Daytona 500, the Indianapolis 500, Mardi Gras, the Kentucky Derby, and on and on. I was living exactly the way I had always wanted to--making good money, a part of the glamour of the nation.
Lee, however, was less happy about the situation. She had expected to see me around the house more than usual now that I had broken the record and retired the four-wheeled car. Yet, the work on the van and the tour that followed had taken me away immediately and I hadn't spent too much time at home for almost a year.
I found myself more and more in demand for speaking engagements and personal appearances and I was so wrapped up in the show-biz flavor of the whole thing that I felt I couldn't give up the tour. Realistically, too, the tour was somewhat of a necessity because I knew that one day I would have to give up the car, and when that day came, I would be out of work--and income. I was a little like a baseball pitcher with a sore arm. I could see the end of the gravy train, and I wanted to hang on as long as possible.
Then I began to do a lot of television commercials and those, too, took me away from home. One in particular almost wrecked my marriage. I had taken Lee to Nassau for a week so she could get away from things for a while and relax, and I had promised her that I'd do no business there, despite the fact that it was right at the time of the Nassau Speed Weeks. I had really meant it, and I had even paid our own way--no deals with Goodyear or anything. However, I had left word with an advertising agency in New York, which had contacted me before about doing a soap commercial, that I would be at the Nassau Beach Lodge. We hadn't even stretched out on the beach on the first day before I got a phone message. I was asked to be in New York for the filming of a commercial the next afternoon. Lee absolutely had a fit, but we had to leave that evening. There were no other plane connections that would get us there on time.
But if I was living it up--despite some troubles--one guy was not: Art Arfons. He was back in Akron, working feverishly on the Green Monster so it would be ready for a crack at the title the following season.
Art had put dual wheels on the rear of the car to try to overcome some of the tire problems he had been experiencing. The torque of the J-79 was so great that it had caused the body to shift and overload the right rear tire, while the high speeds and increased weight had placed too much strain on all the tires. Art thought that the extra tires on the back might distribute the weight better and eliminate the problem, but when I heard about what he was doing, I knew that my record wasn't in jeopardy because the extra wheels were to be exposed. I was confident that they would add so much air drag that the car wouldn't even go as fast as before. Even if the tires held up, I knew the car wouldn't go fast enough. At 200 mph an additional 200 or 300 pounds doesn't mean too much, but at 600 mph this same drag is increased to 2,000 or 3,000 pounds. This is just too much extra drag to overcome, and Art was adding that sort of drag with the exposed tires.
Nye and I went up to watch the run the following season, when Art first had trouble with the tires rubbing the fenders. The car did get up to about 540, but the crew had so much trouble that they had to take the car back to Akron and work on it again.
While they were back at Art's shop, they welded a big shovel spoiler--a big air scoop--to the underside of the car to try and help with the torque problem. They hoped the addition of the scoop would keep the car level, but I knew that the scoop could only add more air drag. We didn't even bother going back for the second run, and in one way I'm glad. It turned out to be pretty hairy, and it would have scared the wits out of me.
What happened was that when Art took the car back, he was really ready to pour the coal on. Some of the people there told me that the crew ran the car at 100 percent power with afterburner, and when it started off, it was moving pretty well. But something went wrong as the car approached the mile. Somehow it got up on the right wheels and just hung there for a few seconds--at about 550 mph! Then the right front of the car dug in, and the Green Monster literally rolled down the salt for more than a mile with parts flying about as if the whole machine had exploded. When the car finally came to rest, everyone was sure that Art was dead, but fortunately he escaped with only cuts and bruises and some slight damage to his eyes from the salt, which had been ground into them. The car was a total loss, and that was about it for that particular Green Monster.
Art built another car the following year, but he only ran it on dragstrips. As a matter of fact, in 1969 he established the world's quarter-mile record with the car at 267 mph.
Firestone dropped out of land speed record competition after Art's last crash, and I can't say that I blame them. It is murderously hard on tires. My tires were 18-ply, and by the time we pumped them up to 250 pounds pressure, they were almost as hard as the old solid rubber tires. But it didn't matter. After the last run my tires looked like old rags. They were still strong, but there were bits of fabric showing everywhere, because the rubber tread was very thin (they had been designed this way on purpose--to dissipate the heat). The forces exerted on the car were so great that the bits of fabric as they ripped off had made dents in the body panels a quarter of an inch deep. The salt thrown off the tires actually sandblasted the body away in places. So, I can understand why anyone would cringe when they saw the punishment a piece of equipment takes at 500 and 600 mph.
Well, the gunfight was over, but I wouldn't be surprised someday if another one started.
Campbell inspects the Bluebird before his 403 MPH
run
The late Donald Campbell before his try for the record in the
Bluebird
Once Art was no longer a threat, I renewed my acquaintance with Donald Campbell. In 1967 he stopped in Los Angeles to see me. I felt honored. Donald was on his way to Australia to run for the wheel-driven land speed record, which officially still belonged to John Cobb. You see, my record was for jet-propelled cars, and even though it is considered the absolute speed record, there is still a category for "orthodox" cars. Donald spent two days with me, and we talked constantly about the effects of speed and aerodynamics. He hoped to go 400 mph and break that record. I was pulling for him.
After Donald, there were no contacts. Nobody ran against my record, and I was like a king without a kingdom. There was no point trying to break my own record.
I was about to go out of my mind. I had nothing else to do, so I worked a great deal on the design and plans for a jet-powered boat to break the world's water speed record; but getting a sponsor was another story. When Bob Masson of Goodyear's public relations department approached me on becoming a tire dealer, I practically leaped at the idea. I flew to Akron to discuss the plans for the new service center with Charlie Eaves, who is vice-president of marketing for Goodyear.
While I was waiting for the deal to come through on my tire dealership, I continued working on plans for a jet-powered boat that would go 400 mph on the water and beat Campbell's water speed record, which was then in the 200s; I went to Houston to talk with the people at Humble Oil, and they were interested in my $100,000 proposal. They said they might put as much as $50,000 into the program if I got an additional sponsor. Things were rolling pretty well. I had constructed a model of the proposed boat--with Art Russell's help--a sleek-looking craft that had lots of horizontal stability built into it to keep it from flipping at high speeds. I was getting excited again.
The problem was, as I got more excited, Lee got more upset. I was again obsessed with building a racing machine, and even though this was a boat it was no different in her mind--she felt I was neglecting her and the kids. My own three children were staying with us quite a bit, and the strain of watching five of them was getting to her.
We were getting nowhere. I felt that I had to turn to the boat and the tire store to keep my mind occupied. I had been on the go constantly since my airplane-building days. I had never been without one crash program or another, and I just couldn't stand the "peace and quiet" of the house. It is easy for me to see why some retired men drop dead about six months after they quit work. Inactivity would kill me, too.
Lee couldn't see this. To her it looked as though I was just trying to stay away from the family and was using the boat as an excuse. We fought a lot over it, and neither of us would give an inch.
I was really fired up about the water record at the time. Donald Campbell was running his Bluebird boat on Lake Coniston in England and was doing speeds of well over 250 mph. He was about to run for the record and would probably retire after he had broken it. Too, he had established the LSR for wheel-driven vehicles on his Australian run, at an average speed of 403.1 mph. I was really happy for him. So far as the water record was concerned, he had told me that if I wanted to run for the record, he wouldn't mind. But first he wanted to set the record over 300 himself. He felt that it would be the last feather in his cap before he retired to the life of an English country gentleman.
Prospects were looking up. My jet boat and new store were under way, and I was looking around for something else to do, when suddenly tragedy struck.
It began one evening as I sat in the kitchen, eating a sandwich and drinking a glass of milk. The television was turned on in the game room, and I was listening to the commentary. The news I heard crushed me. Donald Campbell had flipped his jet boat on Lake Coniston at 310 mph. He was dead.
I got up and went outside to the swimming pool and sat there until about two in the morning. It took me several days to get over Donald's death. I thought of our pleasant meetings and everything about him--even the fact that he had shared the same birthdate: March 23. My idol was gone, but I haven't forgotten his many kindnesses.
However, the deal for the tire store, which came through about this time, helped me to recover somewhat. For a start it took me away from all boat plans, and Lee was excited at this development because it meant I would be leading a more normal life. I was going to be a businessman, and that would get me away from racing; she felt it would prolong my life-span considerably. It didn't work out quite as she had hoped, however.
For one thing, I was down at the store site in Torrance constantly. As in everything else, I had to have my nose in every brick and piece of tile that went into the building. It was just like the race car; I had to see it all. I might as well have had a pair of bib overalls on and been right in there slinging mortar with the rest of them, because I was there from daylight to dark, looking over everybody's shoulder. After working hours I studied the plans so I could suggest modifications to the contractor next day. There was no hope for me, Lee felt.
So the second blow came when I informed her that I was also going to be a racing tire distributor for Goodyear. She could see the handwriting on the wall. It would mean taking a tire truck to all the drag races--every weekend--and she knew exactly which one of the employees would drive it--Craig Breedlove, owner.
My one saving grace, in her eyes, was the fact that I was in the tire store all the way. To get the franchise, I had been asked to put up $80,000 for the inventory. I, of course, hadn't had that much, what with the new house and everything, so I had worked out a deal with Goodyear. I had $78,000 coming to me from my contract with the company as a racing consultant, so I had offered them the rest of my contract for the tire dealership. They had accepted. But, as a result, the store actually represented everything I had coming from my racing successes, and I was determined to mind the store--figuratively and literally--pretty closely.
Still, the extent of my financial exposure frightened me, so I hired Dick Clemmens, a Hollywood agent, as my manager to get more personal appearances for myself and the Spirit. I only had one year to go with the car, and I figured I had better really make hay while the sun shone. Unfortunately for Lee, Dick did get quite a few dates for me, and even before the store was completed, I had started to travel a lot again.
When the store was finally ready, it was a beautiful place. I not only had tires and tire services but sold appliances (General Electric--you remember the deal with the J-79 and the GE engineers) and auto and speed accessories and did minor engine tune-ups. I even had started marketing a line of Craig Breedlove speed equipment. A friend of mine made the stuff, and we split the profit. The store was some operation. I had eight employees, and the grand opening was a gala affair complete with Goodyear vice-presidents and the mayor of Torrance and everything.
I hired Bard Rudder, a friend from the race tracks, to manage the store, because I had a heavy travel schedule and had to keep moving on the show tour. I badly needed the money I got from appearances while the tire store was getting started.
It looked as if things were going well; I had the show tour and the store. But I still wasn't happy. I wanted to do some racing of some kind--any kind. So I got pretty excited when the idea struck me that the auto manufacturers would gobble up the chance to set records on the Salt Flats with regular production cars. With this plan I first went to Ford and laid out my ideas for their Mustang, but they were lukewarm about the whole thing. It was left at kind of a don't-call-us-we'll-call-you stage, so I went to Chevrolet and proposed the same thing for their Camaro. Chevrolet liked the idea and asked that I leave my proposal with them for study. Finally, however, they turned it down after long consideration, although sometime later they hired Smokey Yunick, a race car builder from Daytona Beach who had built many stock cars for them in past years, to build up two Camaros to run at the Salt Flats. He built them, and the cars broke many records. That should have been my break, and I felt I deserved it. After all, Chevrolet had used my idea.
Shortly after Smokey broke the records, I got a call from American Motors. They asked me if I would be interested in preparing two of their AMXs to run at the Flats. And--they wanted me to drive them. The worm had turned. Now I would have a chance to go out there and blow off that Camaro. The American Motors offer not only gave me a chance to run again; it gave me a goal.
Craig and his wife Lee broke 106 national and international
records in this AMX
I had six weeks in which to prepare the car. The runs had to be made in that period because the AMX had not yet been introduced to the public, and American Motors needed the record runs to pump up their introductory advertising campaigns. Getting the cars ready meant reworking the suspension and steering systems, so they would handle well at extra-high speeds. I also had to take the engines apart completely and rebuild them. I had to balance all of the parts and make sure everything was perfect inside. And it all had to be done with stock parts because there certainly weren't any speed parts for the AMX at that time, as there had been for the Camaro. Then there were the roll bars and a million little speed gimmicks.
Weather was another consideration. The Flats were too wet. Right after the Camaros had run on the circular course, it had rained, and it clearly might be weeks before it dried out again. So we went to Goodyear's proving grounds in San Angelo, Texas. All we needed was a closed circuit course for an official record, and Goodyear had a five-mile circular course that would be fine for the runs.
It was sweet victory at San Angelo. I averaged 175 mph with the 390-cubic-inch-engined car, and 160 with the 290 engine. In the process I broke 106 national and international records--including every one the Camaro had set. Oh, yes, there's one other point. Lee went with me as my co-driver. I had convinced her that the publicity would do wonders for her ego, which the housewife bit had pretty much shattered. It did help, and for the next few weeks she was happy again. In 1968 we even did an ABC network television special together. It was called "The Racers," and we felt close again.
Following the television special, I put together a proposal for a new Bonneville streamliner and went to American Motors. It was to be a wheel-driven car as opposed to the thrust-driven cars I had been running. The car would be called the American Spirit and was designed to break the international class B, C, and D records, using American Motors engines in each category. But if, in the event, the B-class engine should happen to exceed the unlimited wheel-driven record, we wouldn't mind that, either.
Craig poses with his newest dragster, American Spirit, which
is designed to go 300
MPH.
The company liked the idea, so I came back to the shop and started the project. It seems that every car I ever got involved with was a crash-program affair; this one was no different. We started building the car in August, which meant there were only about four good months of weather left at Bonneville, and American Motors wanted the records before the Chicago auto show in November. I had to get the job done in three months, and, as usual, it meant returning to a 20-hour day.
There was one other complication: a few weeks earlier Car Craft magazine had started a contest called The Javelin Speed Spectacular. It was a program in which thousands of kids all over America answered questions about American Motors products and wrote a brief essay on why they were best qualified to be among the nine final contestants going to Bonneville. Car Craft would select the nine finalists, and then we would have a drawing to separate the group into three teams of three kids each. Each team would be given a specially prepared Javelin. They were really fantastic cars, fully equipped with almost every piece of racing hardware imaginable: full race engines, roll bars, suspensions, tires, special paint jobs--everything. Each team would have full liberty to tune their car any way they wished. Then I would drive all of the cars to determine which one was fastest. The kids on the winning team would receive all three cars.
Just six weeks before the Bonneville Nationals, probably the biggest speed meet in the world, I agreed to prepare all three Javelins for the contest. But in addition to the three Javelins and the American Spirit, I was also preparing two AMX's to run at the Nationals: one was a supercharged version, and the other was a carbureted prototype vehicle that American Motors was considering as a special car for limited production, similar to Ford's Shelby GT. I was busier than ever.
We finished the Javelins and AMX's in time for the Bonneville Nationals, and they really looked sharp. The real problem, I found out, was getting five cars, plus all of the parts, tools, and equipment required to run them, to the Salt Flats. The three Javelins were loaded on open trailers; two of them were carried on top of the old Sonic I trailer that had been modified earlier when we took the two AMX's to San Angelo, Texas, for the 24-hour runs. The other Javelin was carried on my old dragster trailer, which had to be modified for the heavier vehicle. But we still needed more vehicles. Fortunately for us, the big van that we had been using on tour with the Spirit of America was at home due to the lull in the show circuit. So we unloaded the Spirit and went to work on the van. Finally, after much cutting and hacking, the two AMX's were snugly secured inside.
Since I also have a 35-foot Freuhauf van pulled by a 55 White tractor that is completely equipped as a portable machine shop and this unit has a 3,000-watt A/C generator mounted just behind the cab, I decided to bring that along, too.
When everything was finally loaded and ready to hit the road, I couldn't believe the incredible sight; it looked like a support unit for one of General Patton's tank divisions. We had two giant tractors pulling two huge vans, one 30-foot lift-gate van pulling two Javelins on a 40-foot flatbed trailer, and a pickup truck pulling the other Javelin on my modified dragster trailer. There were also two station wagons and a new Javelin that American Motors had given me for personal use. As a matter of fact, shortly after that someone in Detroit discovered that I had more cars on loan than Roy Chapin, Chairman of the Board of American Motors.
When we arrived in Wendover, the problems began. The Salt Flats had experienced an unusually severe winter and were still very wet for that time of year, but everything had looked great just before the meet. Some of the water had subsided, and the wind had pushed what remained off the speed course. It had collected in pools at the base of the mountains. Then, two days before speed week was to begin, the wind shifted and the water rose to two-inches deep over the entire course. We couldn't go out on the Flats because of the situation, so I had everyone set up camp at the Wendover Motel. We just sat there, hoping the water would shift before the end of the week.
The Javelins were unloaded, and we drew straws to see which team would get which car. The Spirit of America crew and myself helped the teams as much as we could without showing favoritism. Actually I think each crew member secretly had a favorite.
It was the first time in many years that Wendover had looked like the good old days. About a thousand hot rods were tuning and making sneak runs down the highway, while everyone waited and fidgeted and waited. Finally, the meet was called off. We had no choice but to pack up the "tank brigade" and make the long trip home.
We put seals on the hoods of the Javelins so that in case we had another chance to run them that year, the kids could start where they had left off. But the endeavor had been expensive and disappointing, and when we finally got everything unloaded and unpacked and stored, I was well behind schedule with the American Spirit.
The American Spirit was completed in late October along with six supercharged Bonneville racing engines (two 390 V8s, two 290 V8s, two 183 sixes turbo-charged). The engines were beautiful. Barney Navarro, who built the six cylinder engines, got over 700 horsepower on the dyno, and Jim Ward, who had practically handmade everything for the V8s, was very optimistic, even though we hadn't had time to dyno them.
The streamliner was low and small and sleek, and when it was finished and painted the people in Detroit were happy. We held a press conference for the car at the Century Plaza Hotel in Beverly Hills. It was a fabulous success with one exception: Lee's attorney subpoenaed me with divorce papers right in the middle of the affair. I was shocked, embarrassed, hurt, upset, and confused all at the same time. I couldn't believe that such a thing could happen--right in front of my sponsors and the press.
But this was not the time to falter. I apologized to American Motors and tried to smooth things over. We had decided to take the Javelins back to Bonneville in order to finish the contest before the American Spirit arrived, so I left early with the kids, and Dick Clemens stayed behind to supervise the final preparation of the streamliner for the long trip to the Salt Flats.
When we got to the Salt, weather conditions were bad, and the course was wet. But at least the one good day, without wind and rain, was enough to get the Javelin contest over with.
The American Spirit arrived in the middle of snow, wind, hail, and rain. There was no chance of running that year. To say the least, I was extremely disappointed. Yet, I had mixed emotions. I needed some time to regroup and get myself together, and at least the bad weather would buy me one thing: time. We packed up, brought everything back to the shop, and unloaded again. The Javelins had to be shipped to the winners, and the engines and equipment for the streamliner had to be stored.
It was about this time that Dick Clemens dropped the first bomb: he informed me that I was $36,000 in debt from the American Spirit program alone. The costs had gotten out of hand because the project was put together in such a short period of time that money was spent before it could be budgeted. But that wasn't Dick's problem now; I would have to make good the money from my own pocket.
Dick left, but not before dropping bomb two: the Goodyear store was in trouble, and the $78,000 from the contract was gone. Still, I thought, I had some money left over from the Texas runs. Somehow, I was determined to make it do.
But I was beginning to get desperate. My divorce problems were getting so bad, with depositions and legal entanglements, I didn't know where to turn. Then one of my attorneys suggested that I move to Las Vegas for a quick divorce and make a property settlement when it was all over. That way, at least things would be settled, and I would be able to get back to work again.
It made sense so I moved to Las Vegas. There I decided to do something constructive while I waited: I began taking flying lessons.
Another reason I had agreed to go to Vegas was Pete Fountain, the great New Orleans musician. Pete had told me that it was a great place to relax and, at the same time, hear some good music and see some great shows. He opened there the first night I got to town, and I saw a lot of him during my first two weeks. Pete is very interested in cars and a little afraid of flying, so he had driven his BMW 507, a sleek German sports car, over to Las Vegas, while the rest of his band had flown.
In the afternoons Pete and I went out in the desert and really ran that car. We drove flat out through the back roads, and for a while it was almost like my El Mirage days again. I'll never forget Pete for helping me over that rough period.
The flying lessons were a gas--just like the Sky Kings all over again, only this time I had a life-size trimmer to play with. Then, shortly after I had enrolled in the Hughes Flight School, I met Buster Smith, who would later become one of my best friends.
Buster was taking flight lessons too, and he also was getting a Las Vegas divorce. One day, as Mark Wiley, our instructor, was going over our flight plans, Buster asked me if I would like to move in with him. He said that he was living in his sister's house by himself and that he would enjoy the company. We seemed to hit it off well, and, besides, I could save money. It sounded like a great idea to me, so Buster and I borrowed Mark's pickup truck after our flight lesson and loaded up my belongings.
It didn't dawn on me until Buster was turning up the driveway toward the most fantastic house I had ever seen that Buster's sister was singer Keely Smith.
Her house was a fantastic pad, complete with pool, mirrored bedrooms, sunken bar, ankle-deep carpet--even a bomb shelter--and it was right on the fairway of the Desert Inn Country Club. Buster and I had a ball. We took flying lessons every morning, studied by the pool afternoons, and partied at night. We received our divorces about five days apart. Buster graduated from flight school, and I bought an airplane. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Buster and I became very close, and when the time came to return to Los Angeles, he came along to help me with my business problems.
Buster had been Keely's manager at one time and was very sharp, so when we dug into the bills, things rapidly began to get organized.
A break occurred when I was able to book the streamliner into Clark Marshall's auto show in Seattle. I took the car up there myself to save on costs. But when I arrived at Clark's house in Bellevue (it was January, 1969, and the weather on the trip was terrible), I found Buster had been trying to reach me by phone.
I called him and took the third bomb hit: the flood dykes had broken in Torrance, and my entire 15,000-square-foot racing facility had gone four feet under mud and water. Everything was ruined--the six racing engines, the two AMX'S, tools, equipment books, records--everything.
Buster lent me some money to get a crew over to clean up, and two days later, just as they were getting most of the mud out, it flooded again. Buster told me he could handle everything and just to sit tight. I don't think he wanted me to see the damage that had been done.
When Buster arrived in Seattle, he filled me in on the details. We didn't waste any time even then. We took advantage of the bad weather to set a 24-hour record on a snowmobile at Evergreen Speedway just north of town, averaging 86 mph on a Johnson snowmobile.
That's one of my troubles--perhaps my chief trouble--I can never resist a chance to go fast. In this case, the results were bad. The run put me in bed for three days with an injured back-- 12 hours on a snowmobile had really pounded me--so I missed part of Clark's show and had to take a cut in my fee. And that really hurt.
When we returned from the auto show, Johnson Motors offered me a ride in one of their experimental outboard boats for the World Outboard Championship Race at Lake Havasu, Arizona.
I should have known better--but it was a very fast boat, and I certainly needed the money from the ride. Unfortunately, the boat caught a strong gust of wind in practice and flipped. I was thrown out of the boat, and it landed on me, going about 75 mph. The tie rod between the engines caught me right in the small of the back, and into the hospital I went--again.
Later that spring, American Motors decided it would be far too costly to repair all the flood damage done to their engines and still stand the expense of returning to Bonneville for record runs. So, they said, they were sorry but they were dropping the program. I had no idea where I stood.
