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

by Brock Yates

  Diana chattered her way through the crowd until Dean's small frame came into view. He was speaking with a skinny young man with a large nose, curly black hair, and pouty lips that I recognized as Sal Mineo, another of the nouveau punksters starring with Dean in Rebel. They were in intense conversation, their heads nearly touching while both dragged on cigarettes hand-wrapped in brown paper. Marijuana, "Mary Jane," "dope," "weed," "pot," etc. had first been brought to the public's attention with the 1936 film Reefer Madness which had hysterically depicted how a single toke on a so-called joint could send a teenager on a suicidal death spiral. Twenty years later, most American kids were still swilling beer, with widespread use of drugs awaiting the counterculture revolution of the next decade. The film colony had long experimented with morphine, cocaine, amphetamines and marijuana; Robert Mitchum had been briefly jailed for his involvement with the dreaded "weed" in 1949.

  Automobile racing seemed on the surface to be an activity that would not tolerate even the slightest loss of reflexes, yet drugs had intruded over the years. Achille Varzi, the great Italian Grand Prix driver, had become addicted to morphine in the mid-1930s, while Indianapolis driver Billy Winn was, at around the same time, known to use amphetamines or "speed." During the pioneering days of the sport, before World War I, Grand Prix drivers Jules Goux and Vittorio Lancia were believed to have refreshed themselves with champagne during pit stops, while in the mid-1960s a scandal hit the lesser leagues of European open-wheel racing when the death of Frenchman Bo Pitard revealed widespread use of speed among young, crazily competitive drivers.

  I watched as Dean and Mineo dragged on their joints until the glowing tips nearly burnt their fingers. Then they tossed the butts into a nearby ashtray and separated with a strangely affectionate touch of the fingers that left me wondering if the rumored bisexuality of Dean was in fact true.

  Diana seized the moment to rush up to him, and made a quick, cursory introduction. He eyed me, head down, eyes shifting.

  "Diana tells me you're into cars," he said.

  "Yeah. A little. I do some writing. I was at Le Mans."

  Dean nodded and took a drag on a freshly lit Chesterfield. "Bad shit," he said.

  "The papers say you're gonna start racing after Giant is finished I said.

  "Bet your ass. Stevens has me locked down until late September. Then I'm going. And fuck the studio."

  "You gonna stay with Porsche?"

  "Yeah. I tried to buy one of the new Lotuses. Cool. Lightweight. Quick. But they're fucking me over with getting one in time so Von Neumann's got my Spyder coming."

  He was talking about Johnny Von Neumann, the transplanted Austrian who ran Competition Motors on Vine Street in Hollywood, where Dean had purchased his current Speedster.

  "Another Porsche?"

  "A 550 Spyder. He's got five of 'em coming from Germany. Runs like a raped ape. They're winning everything in the small-displacement classes in Europe. It'll be a winner. With any luck I'll have it by the end of September. There's a Cal Club race in Salinas on the thirtieth. Gonna try to make it. Twin cams. Alloy body. Runs 130 easy. Really quick for a little car."

  Dean was relaxing, away from the artifice of the movie industry and speaking about a subject he truly cared about. He seemed to become a normal human being, released from his role-playing. Or was he merely assuming yet another role in his chameleon-like repertoire? That of hard-core car nut and race driver?

  "I'd like to see the thing when it comes in. Maybe do a story on it," I said.

  "Hell, come to the race if you want. Me and a bunch of guys are planning to go, if we can get our schedules set and the movie is over on time."

  "Von Neumann do you a deal?" I asked, figuring that movie people got discounts on everything.

  "Your ass," Dean scoffed. "Johnny doesn't cut a deal for anybody. Guys are lined up to get one of those Porsches. Seven grand on the barrel head. Cash money. Yeah, he'll cut me a little slack on the Speedster by offering me three grand on the trade-in. But still, seven grand is a lot of money."

  He was scanning the room like most of the guests, who, while seeming to be in deep conversation, were constantly shifting their gaze to determine if an upgrade to more important, more prestigious, more potentially rewarding partners might be possible. A tall blonde woman eased up to him and spoke in a soft German accent. I recognized her as Ursula Andress, with whom Dean had been carrying on a much-publicized affair. "See you in Salinas," he said, turning away and into the grasp of the rangy beauty.

  The Hollywood Reporter would soon quip that "Jimmy Dean is studying German so that he can fight with Ursula Andress in two languages."

  A buzz swept through the room. Heads turned toward a couple. I recognized the blonde with the large bust and the wide mouth. It was Zsa Zsa Gabor, one of the famed Gabor sisters, who, along with their mother, had gained reputations as aristocratic courtesans in every city in the civilized world. The man beside her was less familiarsmall, with a flat nose and a dark complexion.

  "Oh my god," gasped Diana. "It's them."

  "Them?"

  "Zsa Zsa and Rubi. Don't you read the papers? Where have you been?"

  "I don't get out much," I said. "But would that be Porfirio Rubirosa?"

  "Nice guess," she laughed. "But you're right."

  Porfirio Rubirosa was the former-son-in-law of longtime Dominican Republic dictator Rafael Trujillo. Rubirosa had risen to power in 1932 by marrying the ruthless dictator's daughter, Flor de Oro, "Gold Flower." When the marriage broke up in 1937, Rubirosa remained a favorite of Trujillo, who launched him on a career as an international playboy, polo star, sometime diplomat, and legendary lover of rich and beautiful women. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, he shattered world records as a Lothario by marrying tobacco heiress Doris Duke and Woolworth millionairess Barbara Hutton for brief but highly profitable interludes.

  Rubirosa considered himself a racing driver and was a prized customer of Enzo Ferrari. He had competed both in Europe and in California amateur races, where posing in the pits and staying out of the way of the more serious competitors appeared to be his primary goals. "Rubi," as he was known, had caused a major tizzy in the film colony by luring the beautiful Zsa Zsa away from her actor husband, George Sanders. Their affair, tempestuous and punctuated by screaming matches and slugfests, would be the source of Hollywood gossip for years to come.

  "They're trying to make a movie together," said Diana as the couple vamped their way into the crowd.

  "I didn't know they could act."

  "They can't. They call it Western Affair and Rubi plays a bar owner and elegant gambler. Kind of like Bogey in Casablanca. But they can't get studio financing and the immigration people are giving him trouble about working here as long as he's a foreign national. My father says the whole thing is a joke."

  "The little bastard must have something going for him if he can hook all those babes."

  "He's a legend."

  "Meaning what?'

  Diana brushed my crotch. It was a feint, an easy move that offered surprising encouragement. "Meaning that the next time you're in a good restaurant and the waiter hands you a large pepper mill, there may be people in the dinner party who'll call it a `Rubirosa. "

  "You mean... "

  "A legend."

  "Hung like a bull moose. Is that what you're trying to say?"

  "You could put it that way," she said, smiling.

  I pondered Diana's revelation as Rubirosa and his spectacular girlfriend mingled. Like countless so-called gentlemen sportsmen, he considered motor racing to be an essential component of his social dossier. He was able to afford high-priced cars like Ferraris and Maseratis and to compete in racing at a relatively high level, depending simply on the superior power and handling of his machinery to outperform poorer competitors. While he had true skill at polo, which demanded some athletic ability, driving a racing car at modest speeds was easily achieved. But when maximum performance-called driving at 10/ 10`" in the trade-was demanded, onl
y the best professionals could rise to the top. Poseurs and part-timers, the ones that the Indianapolis pros called "strokers and brokers"-like Rubirosa-could play at motor racing but never win.

  The party gained in intensity as Rosenman labored at the grand piano, his tinkling finally giving way to the general din of conversation. Defeated, he left his bench and closed the keyboard. Unnoticed in a corner, four young men had installed a set of drums and were quietly tuning a bass and two guitars.

  The apparent leader was a gawky kid wearing horn-rimmed glasses topped by a shiny pile of Brylcreemed hair. Like the other three, he was dressed in an Ivy League-style three-button blue blazer. On a signal, Nicholas Ray stood on the vacated piano bench and called for attention. After a few lusty shouts, the room noise dropped to a soft background murmur and Ray began: "Ladies and gentlemen, as you may know, a new kind of music is sweeping the nation. Bill Haley and the Comets started it with "Rock around the Clock," and in doing so, coined the phrase `rock and roll.' There are others coming along, including Elvis Presley, whom some of you may have heard about. But tonight I'd like to introduce four boys from Lubbock, Texas, who have just signed a big contract with Decca Records. Many in the business think they're on their way to the big time. Please give a big Hollywood welcome to J. I. Allison on drums, Joe B. Maudlin on bass, Nicki Sullivan on rhythm guitar, and the leader of the group on lead guitar and vocal, Mr. Buddy Holly and the Crickets."

  The quartert of skinny kids from nowhere in Texas powered up with what was to become their trademark song, "That'll Be the Day," which had a hammering beat that soon had the crowd shimmying and foot-pounding in frenzied participation. At nineteen years of age, Charles Hardin Holly was a prodigy, whose compositions, including his rock and roll classic, "Peggy Sue," would elevate him to immortality in the music world. Sadly, his pyrotechnic career would end in a frozen cornfield near Clear Lake, Iowa, a mere four years later.

  Automobiles would play a role in only one early rock and roll tune-"Maybelline" released by the brilliant St. Louis guitarist Chuck Berry in May 1955:

  Buddy Holly and the Crickets played four hard-driving sets that lasted until well after midnight. Exhausted, their tidy blue blazers soaked with sweat, the foursome gave up in the face of deafening cheers and demands for more. It was over, and the crowd drifted back to drinking and talking.

  "That was fabulous. Holly is an unbelievable talent. They're already talking about him doing a movie," said Diana, brushing back her hair, which had become frazzled with enthusiasm. She grabbed my arm. "Let's get out of here," she said.

  "My place or yours?" I asked.

  "Oh god, give it up," she laughed. "That line went out with Gable and Lombard. Just follow me."

  We left the party, still at full din, and raced back south on Laurel Canyon and into a night that I will remember forever.

  I GOT UP LATER THAN USUAL. JUANITA, THE MEXICAN maid, offered me a cup of coffee while Diana slept. She admitted to being an illegal, having crossed the border from Tijuana two years earlier and hoping to seek citizenship once her English improved. Aside from Diana, myself, and Juanita, the house was deserted. Diana's parents were on vacation in Italy, which had opened the door for my late-night arrival and a magical interlude with their daughter. She was beyond my wildest dreams.

  Seated beside the pool, with only the distant murmur of traffic on busy Wilshire Boulevard to the south breaking the morning solitude, I reflected on my good fortune. A struggling writer hooks up with a Hollywood beauty for a night of insane passion. Then she eased onto the patio, wearing only a terry cloth bathrobe and a wide smile.

  "You were up early," she mused.

  "You had me up all night," I said.

  "So I noticed. How could I forget? You were wonderful," she said, smiling.

  "You weren't so bad yourself."

  "Thanks. I guess you bring out the best in a girl."

  "When you're a house guest, you have to do your best to please the hostess," I said.

  "Hump the hostess. I've heard about that," she laughed.

  The conversation was going nowhere. Diana took a long sip of coffee and looked away. "So what now?" she asked.

  "Back to work, I guess. Up to my garret and writing. What about you?"

  "I'm leaving today for New York. Gwen Verdon is opening in the musical Damn Yankees. Lots of parties. It'll be the big hit of the Broadway season."

  "So maybe I'll see you when you get back."

  "Sure. That'll be fun."

  And so it ended. At least for the moment. Diana Logan was on the move. Her life was an endless roundelay of parties, premieres, intercontinental travel, and elbow-rubbing with the rich and famous. Later in the day, following a long and amusing lunch at Musso and Franks, she dropped me back at Nick Ray's house, where I retrieved my MG. From there it was a descent, socially, psychologically, and financially, from Beverly Hills into the mundane world of Studio City, where reality greeted me like a stray dog.

  As September arrived, humid and hot, the Yankees and the Brooklyn Dodgers were headed for the World Series. The Dodgers, who would soon shock the baseball world by defecting to Los Angeles, had already rattled the establishment to its very foundations in 1947 by hiring the first black player, the brilliant Jackie Robinson. A supremely talented athlete, Robinson was destined to lead the Dodgers to their first World Series victory later that October, beating the hated crosstown Yankees four games to three and thereby shaking what was believed by many to be a curse against the beloved "Bums."

  Sadly, the savagery in racing would not let up. A major sports car race was run in early September on the Irish Dundrod circuit, a 7.4- mile patchwork of narrow public roads closed off for competition. Many of the same machines that had raced at Le Mans were entered; the lethal Mercedes-Benz SLRs for Moss and Fangio, Hawthorn's winning D-type Jaguar, Castellotti in his Ferrari, and other topranked European professionals. Also in the field was the usual collection of gentlemen amateurs, semi-professionals, and struggling nobodies in manifestly slower cars.

  News of the race was carried in two paragraphs in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner under the headline, "Three Die in Irish Car Race."

  A cluster of slower cars often ridiculed as "back-markers" were heading down a straightaway toward a narrow cleft slicing through peat banks and a blind drop-off called "Deer's Leap." Two of the machines, driven by veterans Ken Wharton and Jim Mayer, had tried to squeeze past a Mercedes-Benz gullwing coupe being driven lazily by a French aristocrat and rank amateur, the Vicomte de Barry. As they poured over the brow and into the trough, Mayer's Cooper was squeezed by de Barry's Mercedes up an earthen bank. In a wink, Mayer slammed into a concrete post on the roadside and his car disintegrated in a ball of fire. Two more cars, driven by the experienced Peter Jopp and a rising British star, Bill Smith, sailed into the melee. Somehow Jopp skated through the inferno, but poor Smith slammed into the Mayer wreckage and was killed instantly. Later in the race, which was dominated by Mercedes-Benz with Moss and John Fitch teaming for the victory, another British amateur, Richard Mainwaring, died in a single-car rollover.

  The Dundrod circuit, such as it was, would never again stage a motor race and would serve as a classic example of how a network of public roads could no longer accommodate a field of modern, high-speed racing cars. Automobiles running 170 miles an hour on country lanes lined with every conceivable roadside hazard simply could not be tolerated in the modern world. By the end of the decade, most major automobile racing would be run exclusively on dedicated circuits designed specifically for the sport.

  But amid the increasing death and carnage on the world's racetracks, carmakers in Detroit and in the European industry continued to build faster road cars. Not only were Ferrari, Mercedes-Benz, Jaguar, Corvette, and Porsche creating two-seaters that would exceed 150 mph on the open road, but even fusty old Pontiac, the longmaligned "maiden aunt's" car from General Motors, was experiencing a shot of engineering hormones. The last of the major domestic brands to resist the shift to
high-powered V-8 engines, Pontiac finally relented with the introduction of the 200 hp "Strato-Streak V-8"

  The Division's revival and its sale of 553,000 vehicles helped the industry reach record-shattering sales of 9,188,571 vehicles for the year. Total revenues exceeded $11 billion, with nine-hundred thousand workers across the nation receiving paychecks from the automakers.

  By that time, one in six American businesses was connected to the auto industry. The powerful V-8s, with their advanced automatic transmission, were added to flashy models offering a plethora of power options. Svelte four-door hardtops with their wraparound windshields, outrageous frostings of chrome, and lurid three-tone paint work, triggered what economists described as an "explosion" of business.

  But universally ignored by the moguls in Detroit was a strange, eggshaped, wheezy-powered economy car from Germany. Designed prior to World War II as a "people's car" for Adolf Hitler's Third Reich, the Volkswagen Beetle sold 25,000 units in the United States in 1955-a paltry number when compared to the domestic industry's output. But the Beetle was the triggering mechanism for an invasion of imported automobiles that would, in twenty years, completely alter American automobile commerce. In 1955, a total of 57,115 imported cars were sold in the United States. Four years later, that number would escalate to 668,070 units and the floodgates would open in the heretofore provincial and isolated Detroit automobile industry.

  For the short term, however, flashy, over-the-top, mega-powered, multi-colored "insolent chariots" would dominate the highways of wildly optimistic America. Pontiac's headquarters staff, in its namesake Michigan city, was abuzz with the expected elevation of fortytwo year-old Semon "Bunky" Knudsen to the general managership of the division. The son of General Motors powerhouse William "Big Bill" Knudsen, "Bunky" was a certified car enthusiast who would soon introduce the Pontiac Bonneville "Wide Tracks" with 300-plus Tri-Power engines.