Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years

by Brock Yates

  On the whole, safety, both for the drivers and the spectators, who often watched road races from behind snow fences and other flimsy barriers, was a minor consideration and would remain so until the end of the decade. Modest efforts to protect spectators had been made after an incident at Watkins Glen in 1952, when a CadillacAllard driven by millionaire Chicago sportsman Fred Wacker hit a child sitting on a curb between the legs of his father. It happened on the opening laps of the Watkins Glen Grand Prix, a race started in 1948 in the tiny upstate New York village around a 6.6-mile network of public roads. The Allard had skidded while slowing for a corner on the village's main street. It struck the seven-year-old, killing him instantly. The ensuing outrage prompted the state legislature to outlaw further competition on state highways and forced the Watkins Glen organizers to move the Grand Prix to local county and town roads until a permanent, closed circuit could be built.

  A year later, AAA champion driver Chuck Stevenson lost control during the annual 100-mile race at the nearby Syracuse State Fairgrounds and tumbled upside-down into a group of spectators. Miraculously, no one was seriously injured, although when the Stevenson car was righted, a small boy was found crammed in the cockpit. The Stevenson car had made a perfect landing on top of the child, leaving him uninjured. These and other incidents were essentially ignored, and the issue of crowd safety would have to wait until a shocking disaster rocked the world out of its apathy.

  The sports car craze was attracting an entirely new demographic mix. Because the automobiles were expensive, high-speed toys, with little utility for everyday life, higher-income customers made up the market. Upper-middle-class enthusiasts were buying the British and German imports, which generally cost three times as much as a basic Chevrolet or Ford. Sports car ownership was instantly appealing to upwardly mobile men and women, and the presumed sophistication embodied in the ownership of a European sports car-as opposed to mundane "Detroit Iron"-packed tremendous social cachet.

  This trendiness was affirmed by the presence of the celebrities who populated the pits of the sports car races and who often competed themselves. In the east, TV broadcasters Walter Cronkite and Dave Garroway drove in races, while bandleader Paul Whiteman and opera star James Melton were regular attendees. On the West Coast, superstar Clark Gable was often seen at the races, as was fellow actor Keenan Wynn. Competing in his own Maserati and Ferrari was international playboy Porfirio Rubirosa, the ex-husband of Barbara Hutton (whose son, Lance Reventlow, would become a major presence in the sport). Sexpot actress Zsa Zsa Gabor often accompanied Rubirosa, adding a glitter and panache virtually unknown in the grittier world of AAA championship competition, where the likes of Vukovich, Bryan, and McGrath went to war.

  While the schism between the two forms of the sport would remain unbridgeable, the entry of such mainstream companies as Chevrolet, with its new Corvette, indicated that Detroit now recognized that the dynamics of the automobile market were quickly changing. The enthusiasm for imported sports cars was growing by the day. Tiny firms like MG, Jaguar, Porsche, and even Volkswagen imported only a handful of automobiles, but they were making steady inroads among many influential customers. While many Detroit executives laughed at these "silly" little machines and predicted that they would soon wither away, others, like GM's Ed Cole, who had ramrodded the Corvette, realized that America's new fascination with power, speed, and performance would not abate and that European sports cars had awakened an enthusiasm in a critically important segment of the market.

  Cole, among others, understood that motor racing was about to explode in interest among the public and that, if exploited effectively, it could become a major sales tool for the industry. Lincoln and Chrysler were already using success in the Mexican road race as sales promotion, while the entire industry was looking south at the struggling but growing world of stock car racing. A former Daytona Beach service station operator named Bill France had formed the National Association for Stock Car Automobile Racing (NASCAR) and was steadily expanding his rough-and-tumble "Grand National" series from the Piedmont Plateau of the Carolinas up and down the East Coast. Already, Hudson, Ford, and Plymouth were entering cars in the series. Other Detroit brands were sure to follow. "Win on Sunday, sell on Monday" was about to become a mantra for Detroit in the booming world of stock car racing.

  In the meantime, the Indianapolis 500 remained the pinnacle of the sport. Men like Vukovich offered the only recognizable racing names to the general public, whose sporting distractions were mostly restricted to major league baseball and college football. There was a small claque of enthusiasts who followed the various forms of motor racing, but their numbers were minuscule compared to the multitudes who followed the fortunes of such household names as the New York Yankees, the Brooklyn Dodgers, and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

  Years would pass before the rising thunder of motor sports would be heard by more than just a tiny percentage of the American public. That is to say, until the sport grabbed headlines through its single unique component-the omnipresent chance for violent and sudden death.

  As the nation eased out of the traumas of World War II and Korea, a new Eisenhower-style brand of optimism swept the public. Breakaway pastel colors displaced the gray, woollen drabness in women's clothing, while gadgetry infused the households of the nation. Fancy refrigerators, electric carving knives, bigger, clearer televisions, FM radio, and Waring blenders joined nylon, Dacron vinyl, and other synthetics to make easier living through chemistry. With this new technological exuberance came a fascination with power and speed on the highway. That in turn energized technology, where competition within the automobile industry and on the racetracks of the world caused quantum leaps in performance. The advances would not come without penalty.

  BILL VUKOVICH RETURNED TO INDIANAPOLIS IN May 1954, loaded for bear. His crewmen, Jim Travers and Frank Coon, had modified the three-year-old Kurtis-Kraft roadster with an advanced fuel-injection system developed by them and their friend Stuart Hillborn. The car's owner, Howard Keck, remained the same elusive personality, still insisting that his name not be associated with the car and remaining in the shadows as he opened his Superior Oil Company in Los Angeles. Other than the old machine being painted a pale yellow to replace its original battleship gray, the Fuel Injection Special number 14 appeared outwardly unchanged from its two earlier appearances at the Speedway.

  While the "Mad Russian" or the "Fresno Flash," as the press chose to call him, remained a favorite, other serious men were posing a challenge. Jack McGrath, at thirty-four, was a year younger than Vukovich and also a veteran of the California midget and hot-rod wars. The son of a successful Los Angeles meat packer, he was not only a brilliant driver, but an accomplished mechanic and engine builder who maintained his own race cars. He had been recruited in 1949 by wealthy Wichita oilman Jack Hinkle to run his Indianapolis cars. Unlike Keck, Jack Barron Hinkle was a likable extrovert who got deeply involved with McGrath's racing efforts. Working with another mechanic, Jack Beckley, the trio was known as the "three jacks" around the big-time racing AAA championship trail.

  While McGrath drove the dirt miles with expertise, his metier was Indianapolis, where raw speed on the paved rectangle appealed to certain drivers. Many others were awestruck by the place, fearing the blinding speeds required on the long straights and the blind, sweeping corners bordered by starch-white cement walls. But not McGrath. From the moment he first saw the Speedway in 1948, he relished its special challenge. After hooking up with Hinkle a year later, he became a major force in the 500-always among the fastest, but never yet able to win.

  "Gentleman Jack," as he was known among the press, was tall, lean, and courtly, a soft-spoken Californian who seemed to have nothing in common with the rough-hewn Vukovich. Despite this, they were friends off the track and often exchanged thoughts on race tactics and car setup. They were members of a rare and exclusive fraternity-men willing to face the ultimate challenge in seeking glory in the most dangerous race devised by man.
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  While McGrath and Vukovich were at the peak of their powers, other, younger, more restless men were ready to make a challenge. Jimmy Bryan was a rangy, brush-cut, cigar-smoking Arizona native known among his peers as the "the Cowboy." Brash and goodhumored, Bryan was an ex World War II pilot. He had come up the hard way, cadging rides in junk race cars, living in the backs of station wagons between races, and even scavenging corn from farmer's fields and trading empty soda bottles for eating money. Bryan had migrated across the country, racing sprint cars in the East, midgets in the East and West. He was a vagabond in a helmet, ready to manhandle any car that would withstand his heavy foot.

  Unlike Vukovich, who hated the dirt fairground miles, and like McGrath, who excelled on the smooth expanse of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, Bryan loved the rough-and-tumble world of dirt tracks, where his audacious, never-lift driving style worked to his advantage. After several seasons spent struggling with second-rate machinery, he had broken out in late 1953 with a win in the Sacramento 100-miler at the wheel of Bessie Paoli's Springfield Welding Kurtis-Kraft. Even better days lay ahead.

  Another young lion, Bob Sweikert, a twenty-eight-year-old charger from Hayward, California, had at the end of the 1953 season abandoned the seat of the Dean Van Lines dirt car-a stark white, upright Offy-powered machine built by Los Angeles craftsman Eddie "Zazoom" Kuzma. Owned by Southern California sportsman Al Dean, who operated the prosperous coast-to-coast Dean Van Lines moving company, the Kuzma was regarded as one of the finest race cars in the nation. Its owner quickly replaced Sweikert with Bryan, thereby setting the stage for his breakout into the top ranks of the sport.

  McGrath and Hinkle arrived at Indianapolis in early May 1954 ready for war. They unloaded a spanking-new, bright yellow KurtisKraft 500B roadster, an updated and improved version of the nowaging Keck car assigned to Vukovich. Bryan appeared with the Dean Kuzma, a car intended more for the dirt tracks than for the Motor Speedway, but nonetheless a contender thanks to the man behind the wheel.

  McGrath was fast in practice. An expert engine man, he seemed to have perfected the use of the explosive engine additive nitromethane-"nitro" or "pop," as it was known in the garage area. The stuff was so potent than only a few drops in a tank of methanol were needed to add an instant 50 horsepower. But if used imprudently, pistons would be fried, crankshafts cracked in half, and blocks shattered. Only a few men, including McGrath, seemed to understand the nuances of its use. With a dollop of "pop" in his car's tank, he quickly dominated practice, rushing past the vaunted 140-mph barrier and winning the pole position with ease. His time for the four laps against the clock was a record-shattering 141 mph.

  Meanwhile, there was endless grief in the Vukovich garage. Broken piston rings became a curse for the crew, and several practice runs for the defending champion ended with the car being towed into the pits with a broken engine. Tensions were rising as Vukovich watched men like McGrath and Bryan rush around the Speedway at speeds far in excess of those recorded by him and the Fuel Injection Special the year before.

  In frustration, he began to demand that Travers use nitro. Travers refused, claiming the stuff was an aphrodisiac offering quick bursts of speed but hurting the reliability needed in a 500-mile endurance contest. Loud arguments could be heard behind the closed doors of the Keck garage as pressure mounted.

  Vukovich finally managed to qualify the car, in nineteenth place, deep in the thirty-three-car starting field. The so-called railbird experts among the press and opposing crews claimed that his run with the old Kurtis was over; newer machinery, the gossip went, and more audacious drivers were prepared to displace him and end his brief reign. No one had ever before won the big race starting so far back in the field. The Mad Russian, they said, was finished.

  Not quite. Driving with an intensity and an audacity seldom seen in motor racing, Vukovich attacked as soon as the green flag fell. His driving was relentless. He passed cars low in the corners, his left wheels on the grass; then high, his right wheels nearly scraping the retaining walls. He was a hunter. The rest of the thirty-two drivers were helpless prey. By the half-way point, he was leading, with only McGrath and Bryan capable of hanging onto the frenzied charger.

  Bryan had long ago learned from Vukovich's style and his fearless, defiant approach to driving.

  It had happened in a midget race years earlier in Vukovich's hometown of Fresno. Bryan had come north from Los Angeles to run at the local track, where the Vukovich brothers, Bill and Eli, were famous for their brawling tactics. During the race, Bryan was slammed by Vuke as they fought for the lead-typical Vukovich intimidation move. But rather than back off and give way, Bryan slammed back, shoving a wheel nearly into Vukovich's cockpit. A small war began. Wrestling for the lead, the pair repeatedly ramrodded each other in a raging metal-to-metal duel.

  When it was over, young Bryan climbed out of his car to see Vukovich coming at him, his helmet still on. There would be a fight-a tough middle-weight against a tall, raw-boned kid from Arizona. Ready for war, Bryan was stunned when Vukovich's face spread into a toothy smile and he exclaimed, "Son of a bitch. Now that's how I like to race!" The pair shook hands, and a bond of mutual respect was established.

  As the 500 thundered into its final laps, McGrath had been forced out of contention by two long pit stops. Bryan was left to fight the champion with a crippled car. The front spring had broken, as had a rear shock absorber. The Kuzma had become a high-speed coal cart, unleashing merciless damage on Bryan's body. The pounding of the cobbled bricks on the front straightaway caused the seat bolsters to gnaw at his midriff, opening up bloody welts. His ribs near the breaking point and his hands worn bloody from fighting the steering wheel, Bryan refused to lift, even when the throttle pedal shattered. On the verge of collapse from the pain, the pounding, and the violent shuddering of the wounded car, he soldiered on in second place. Somehow he managed to keep pace with the flying Vukovich, who held the lead with his unique style, which embodied high-speed power and grace.

  As the checkered flag fell, the pair crossed the finish line almost nose to nose-except that the struggling Bryan was a full lap behind the winner. McGrath came in a few seconds later, in third place.

  As Vukovich was receiving his winner's trophy and a long kiss from Marie Wilson, the star of the popular TV show My Friend Irma, Bryan was sprawled on the floor of his garage, semi-conscious.

  His crew called for medical help. The Speedway medical staff dispatched a young nurse to take a look at the wounded driver. When she entered the dark space, Bryan was lying next to the grimy, oilsoaked Kuzma that had almost beaten him to death.

  She leaned over and asked, "How are you feeling?"

  Bryan's eyes opened to spot a pretty face a few inches away. Suddenly a broad smile swept over the grime. "Hey, babe, I'm doing great! How about you?"

  Such was the way of men who rode next to death, but refused not to seize the essence of life in every moment. Bryan was a towering physical presence with incredible hand-eye coordination. He was able to adjust his expert dart-throwing skills so that he could pop carnival balloons, despite the fact that the game's operators had purposefully made their darts out of balance. He loved outrageous practical jokes, including his notorious employment of powerful M-80 firecrackers at unexpected moments.

  But Bryan's injuries were too severe for him to run the next weekend at the Milwaukee 100-miler. Because the track had been paved after seventy-seven years of running as a dirt horse track, and because the Fuel Injection Special was being retired from competition by its owner, Howard Keck, Vukovich was persuaded to take Bryan's place in the Dean Van Lines cockpit.

  He qualified the car on the pole, then retired with steering problems and returned to Fresno, where he opened his Vuky's 500 Service station. He had plans to open more around the Fresno area, and often could be found pumping gas for his customers. He drove to and from work in one of the two Indianapolis 500 pace cars that he had won.

  In the meantime, Bryan regained his heal
th and the Dean race car seat, where he went on a late-season tear, winning four 100-milers in a row and claiming the national driving championship with a burst of audacity that elevated him to Vukovich's top contender for the 1955 Indianapolis 500 title.

  In September I returned to upstate New York to celebrate homecoming at my alma mater, the tiny but respected Hobart Collage in Geneva, a lovely little city planted on the shore of Lake Seneca, the largest, deepest, and perhaps the most beautiful of the five Finger Lakes. It had been five years since I had partied my way to a "Gentleman's C" in English and History, and a reunion with my classmates seemed in order following my ordeal in Korea. During my sojourn, friends suggested that I attend a pair of automobile races that might offer background for a story I was researching for Liberty magazine on risk-taking in sports.

  My first stop would be Syracuse, where the New York State Fair was staging its annual 100-mile AAA championship race. I drove north from Manhattan on the newly opened New York State Thruway, a 559-mile toll road that ran the length of the state and would serve as a prototype for the $101 billion, 40,000-mile Interstate system the Eisenhower administration would launch two years later.