by Burt Levy
"I'm never broke," he corrected me. "It's just that my resources are generally tied up in high-yield but unfortunately nonliquid assets, and as a result I can find myself temporarily between money. Anyhow, can you pay for breakfast?"
"Yeah, why not," I agreed with a helpless laugh. "After all, why should a high-line, well-to-do person such as yourself be expected to carry any loose change in his pocket?"
"Thanks, pal," Cal said as he headed toward the door. "You saved me having to crawl out the damn men's room window again. . . ."
After breakfast I finished my walk up Franklin Street and looked into the barber shop and the bakery and a bunch of dumb little tourist shops that sold ice cream and Indian curios and stuff. It was amazing how similar and yet how different Watkins Glen was from Elkhart Lake. Especially when you got to the far north end and looked out over Lake Seneca, which was huge, deep, steel gray, and serious compared to the cozy-looking water at Elkhart. It disappeared off to the north like a small ocean, and was wide enough east-to-west so you had to squint your eyes to make things out on the opposing shoreline. Down at the south end of Franklin Street was the entrance to the other big tourist attraction, a woodsy glen full of steep rock faces and tall, spindly waterfalls with a stone stairway that went all the way to the top and took more than an hour to climb. I know, because I did it.
After that I just wandered around looking at all the cars and people flowing into town. Traffic was tied up in knots with armband people unloading hay bales and Porsches and Jags and MGs double- and triple-parked while the owners jawed back and forth about where to eat and where to drink and where to buy ice, not to mention all the rank-and-file tourists making the rounds of the restaurants and curio shops and wandering right across the damn street whenever they felt like it. Big Ed said it took him fifteen minutes to drive the five lousy blocks from the north end of town to where I was waiting for him in front of the courthouse, and the gurgling noises under the Jag's hood left no doubt he was telling the truth. "Think I better shut it off?" he asked, staring bug-eyed at the temperature gauge.
"Well, it might be better to go around again if we can get a little clear running outside of town. You shut her off when she's hot and she'll get even hotter."
"She will?"
"Sure," I said, hopping inside. "You shut an engine off and the water stops circulating and she climbs even higher. It's OK if you're just gonna leave it cool, but you're prob'ly better off to see if we can find a place to give her a run up to 40 or so and push a little wind through the radiator."
That made sense to Big Ed, so he chugged us down toward the south end of Franklin Street, past the gas station and the Glen View Souvenir Shop to where the racecourse swept hard right and then curved immediately left as it climbed up the long, steep grade of Old Corning Hill. And all of a sudden we were free —out of all the traffic and meandering pedestrians—charging up that hill as it curved gently to the right and just kept climbing and climbing and climbing! Big Ed wound the Jag all the way out in second and upshifted to third—foot to the floor!—and you could feel that hill sucking the guts out of the Jag's engine. Made you wonder what a TC or a TD would be like? Why, you'd be lucky not to lose r.p.m., even with the throttle mashed clear to the stops. And then I started thinking about the big, hot-rod Chrysler we'd crammed into Tommy's Allard, and how maybe he knew what kind of "bigger stick" he needed for a place like Watkins Glen after all.
The road flattened out at the top and then dropped through a shallow, tree-covered gully just past the Seneca Lodge, and then it headed into some narrow, sweeping esses coming up out of the trees and a pretty decent straight section with a gut-hollowing dip where the road dived abruptly under a railroad bridge. We were doing maybe 65, and you could really feel the Jag coming down on the springs at the bottom and then getting all floaty-light as it rocketed off the hump on the other side. It didn't help any to look over and see Big Ed's eyes were wide as saucers and that he'd bitten off the business end of his cigar and apparently swallowed the rest. And I could see why when I looked up and saw the road take a flat, gentle sweep to the right and curl back to the left ahead of us. That's where Sam Collier got himself killed in Briggs Cunningham's Ferrari during the second lap of the 1950 race, and it was all too easy to see how it must've happened. Like all the really dangerous spots at Elkhart, this was simply a nondescript little bend in a narrow road. But it was approached at top speed in fourth gear and the fast guys took it without lifting. Or at least they talked about taking it without lifting. What made it so dangerous was the penalty: There was simply no place to go if you misjudged it. A solemn-looking grove of trees stood off to the left like a congregation of green-cloaked monks with their hoods up and heads bowed in prayer. Waiting . . .
So I was pretty relieved when we came up on a bunch of smallbore racers out learning the course and Big Ed had to back off and fall in at the end of the queue. Especially after I saw what was coming up next. We'd climbed I don't know how far uphill since we'd left downtown Watkins Glen, but as we braked for the hard right at School House Corner, the track suddenly lost all that elevation in a big hurry. The roadway plummeted downhill through a series of wrenching, bob-sled-run switchbacks with trees close in on all sides, pounded across a humpbacked stone bridge at the bottom, and started climbing again through another dense, green forest until it broke through at the top and the oiled gravel turned to hard-packed dirt. There was a dramatic, broadsliding right called Archy Smith's Corner and then hard on the gas down a long straight and over a bumpy railroad crossing that tossed the cars in the air so's you could see a foot of daylight under the wheels if the driver had the moxie to keep his foot in it. Then came another pavement change—to cement this time—as you passed the entrance to Glen State Park and found yourself cresting a gentle rise to one of the most spectacular and daunting sights in racing. There you are, way up at the top overlooking a carpet of treetops with Lake Seneca spread out all wide and deep and somber down below. You're entering Big Bend, which is a fast, endless sweep to the right taken in top gear with no guardrail at all and the fear of tumbling oblivion stuck under your left elbow like an armrest. It was another of those spots that separated the men from the boys, and I didn't need Cal or Tommy to point it out to me. The pavement changed yet again as the road descended into Watkins Glen like a hawk swooping out of the sky, and at the bottom there was a sharp left at Milliken's Corner followed immediately by a 90-degree right onto Franklin across from the Jefferson Hotel. It was 6.6 miles all the way around, and I'd have to say I thought Elkhart was scary right up until I took my first ride around Watkins Glen. The Glen wasn't as fast on lap average because of the tough climbs and the fact that there weren't so many long straights, but it was narrower, had steeper grades, ran over four different pavements, and was generally reckoned to be more demanding by the drivers.
Besides, people had died there.
We partied it up at the Seneca Lodge that night with Cal, Tommy, Barry Spline, and a bunch of the MG guys, and Cal was in pretty good spirits even though he hadn't located anything to drive. Then again, staying in good spirits and keeping his confidence up were never problems for Cal—especially when he had a minor-league snootful—and you had to keep that sort of appearance up if you ever expected people to hand over the keys to their race cars. I caught myself thinking what a sweet deal it would be if Cal could drive for that Ernesto Julio wine guy from California. Not that Ernesto didn't already have a super-duper driver in Phil Hill, you understand, but Cal was my friend.
Friday the Cunningham team arrived with their big transporter and freshly pressed white coveralls and set up an impressive bivouac in a roped-off corner of the Jefferson Hotel parking lot on Franklin Street. They had the same three cars and drivers, and you could see the cars had been painstakingly hammered out and touched up and hosed down and polished to a smooth, gleaming finish during the two short weeks since Elkhart. You could do that sort of thing when you had a lot of willing hands available (and moreover, enough cash to put paychecks
in those same hands come the end of every week). Briggs did it all with a scale, style, and sense of commitment that put everybody else in the shade, and it says a lot about the guy that most everybody seemed to like him anyway.
Phil Hill and Chuck Day showed up with Ernesto Julio's silver C-type, which they'd left in Wacky Arnolt's warehouse in Chicago after Elkhart Lake, flew home to California, then flew back again ten days later to pick it up and drive it east for Watkins Glen. Seems there was some special deal cooked up for Johnny Fitch to drive it in the unrestricted Seneca Cup race Saturday morning before Phil Hill took over again for the big Watkins Glen Grand Prix feature later in the afternoon, while Fitch hopped back into one of the Cunninghams. I guess Briggs's team wanted a firsthand reading on the C-type from one of their own drivers, and Ernesto Julio was happy to oblige (with, of course, the unspoken understanding that Briggs would be the car's new owner if it got fetched up against a tree someplace). Phil Hill didn't seem too put out about it, and reckoned he'd have no trouble landing something else to drive in the Seneca Cup. I wished him luck, but I was actually a little depressed about it, seeing as how the presence of a known commodity like Phil Hill on the market cut the odds on a Seneca Cup ride for my buddy Cal Carrington even further.
And all the while, streams of cars and people kept pushing their way up Highway 14 into Watkins Glen, stuffing that little resort town until it was ready to burst at the seams. The drivers could hardly even practice by noon on Friday, seeing as how all the roads were clogged with people looking to get into town or looking to get out of town or looking for friends they were supposed to meet or trying to find a place to stay. And there were more people coming all the time! In fact, that was one of the hottest topics Friday night at the Seneca bar:
"I heard there's over fifty thousand spectators here!"
"I heard it's more like a hundred thousand!"
"That's what I heard too!"
"Hell, you can't get a room anyplace for a hundred miles!"
"Really?!"
"Absolutely!"
By closing time, it was up to roughly a half-million people (give or take a few) and there were no rooms available at any price in all of upstate New York. . . .
Ernesto Julio arrived at the Seneca driving a brand-spanking new '53-model Packard Caribbean convertible in kind of a deep plum with creamy gray leather and it was unquestionably the first one that anybody had ever seen. The rumor was that he'd flown into Syracuse that afternoon, taken a cab over to a local Packard dealership, and bought that car right off the transporter—like I said, it was the very first one—just so's he'd have something nice to drive for the weekend. Truth is, the ten-day Garage Thrash I'd endured to get Tommy's Allard and Big Ed's XK120 ready had left me a little out of touch with the staggering flash, style, and wide-open money tap you found around sportscar racing. But it only took a couple hours in the field or a few drinks at the bar to get accustomed to it all over again. Why, these people talked about flying across country to pick up race cars and buying brand-new Packard convertibles and taking off for Europe or Palm Beach or Bermuda whenever their busy racing schedules allowed like it was nothing. And it was all too easy for a dumb, blue-collar grunt like me to get intoxicated with the smell and taste and feel of it and start to thinking like he was really a part of that life instead of just one of the damn supports holding it up.
The party in the Seneca bar was going full steam, but I didn't much feel like joining it. So I just kind of hung around in the parking lot, wandering up and down the haphazard rows of cars while a brilliant, icy-blue sliver of a moon climbed over the tree line, gleaming off the chrome grilles and jaunty fenderlines of all the MGs and Jaguars and Aston Martins and Ferraris and Porsches and Allards and OSCAs and Siatas and Frazer Nashes and even Ernesto Julio's brand new Packard convertible. They were all so wonderfully different, you know?
It was getting pretty cold outside, but the more I listened to the muffled whoops and hollers coming from the lodge, the less I felt like going in again. What I really wanted was to call Julie, but it figured to be pretty late and I was afraid her mom might answer. But damn if they didn't have a pay phone screwed to the wall right beside the stairway to the main dining room. And, wouldn't you know it, I had a bunch of loose change jangling around in my pocket too.
It rang and rang, and just about the time I panicked and went to hang up before anybody could answer, someone picked up the receiver. "Whoozis?" an angry voice demanded from the other end of the line. It was Julie's mom all right, and, as you can imagine, she was not sounding exactly pleasant.
"Uhh, hi there," I said like I was handing her a dozen roses, "is Julie home?"
"Whaddaya mean, izza my Joolie home? A'course a'my Joolie's home. Why, it's past a'middanight, fer'Godda sake."
"Jeez, is it that late?"
"A'sure it is. Whattsamatta wit'you, anyways?"
"Uh, gee whiz, Mrs. Finzio, I . . ."
Then there was a big commotion at the other end, and next thing I knew, Julie was on the line with me. And the funny part is, I knew it was her before she even said a thing. It was like I could just feel it, you know?
"Buddy?" Julie asked, still half asleep. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," I admitted, feeling stupid as hell since I really didn't have much of anything to say. "It's me."
"Is anything wrong?" She sounded a little worried. Really she did.
"Uh, n-nothing, honey," I told her. "Nothing at all."
"Then why are you calling so late?"
"I dunno," I mumbled, kind of shuffling around on my heels. "I just wanted to, you know, talk to you. . . ."
"At twelve-thirty in the morning?"
"Gee whiz, is it that late?"
"Yeah, it sure is." Now she sounded sort of angry. But just a little bit, you know? "Say, have you been drinking?"
It being a race weekend, that pretty much went without saying. "Jeez, I'm sorry," I told her, sounding particularly lame. "Hope you're not sore about it."
"It's my mom who looks sore about it," Julie said with just the faintest hint of a laugh. And I could almost see her old lady standing there in her bathrobe—hair up in curlers, eyebrows arched, arms folded tightly across her chest—wagging her head disgustedly while sparks shot out of her eyes.
"Well, I guess maybe I better hang up and let you go back to sleep."
"I guess you'd better."
"Well, g'bye then."
"G'bye." She went to hang up, but I could feel her stop and wait for a moment. "Buddy?" she said softly, her mouth right down next to the receiver.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for calling."
That sent a warm, soft sort of ache rolling through my system, and when I hung up and looked around again, it reminded me how perfect it would've been to have Julie up there with me that weekend. That very minute, in fact, standing there in the parking lot of the Seneca with the stars and the pine trees and that waning sliver of a moon overhead and muffled laughter filtering out from the bar. There was just enough chill to make us want to snuggle up together as we headed off to bed in our own little cabin. It sounded pretty damn good to me, you know what I mean?
I made my way back to the cabin wrapped in all sorts of dreamy-steamy fantasies about me and Miss Julie Finzio. But they disappeared the instant I opened the door and discovered Big Ed sprawled out on the bed like a sleeping hippopotamus and snoring up a storm. Jee-zus , I'd never heard a noise like that in my life! At least not from a human being, anyway. It was like thunder through wet gravel or maybe a slow freight passing over a creaky old railroad bridge, and so it took me a long, long time to drift off to sleep, and not one minute of it was that deep, pure, warm black hole that leaves you feeling rested and refreshed in the morning.
But no matter what, Race Day brings its own special buzz to perk you up, and I was up at the crack of dawn with my eyes popped open like fried eggs. Why, I didn't even have a hangover. It was overcast and damp outside, with a chilly dew beaded up over all the cars in the p
arking lot. You could smell hot coffee and frying pans full of sizzling bacon and hash browns over in the kitchen, and I decided it would be a great idea to have myself a real major-league breakfast feast, since this was probably going to turn into a very long day. But as I passed Big Ed's XK120, there was no missing the way the front bumper was right down on the grass and the dash cowl wasn't any higher than the MG parked next to it. Something was very definitely wrong, and it didn't take much investigating to reach the conclusion that all four tires were flat. It could've actually been kind of funny—at least after the initial flash of anger wore off—and certainly in line with the sort of pranks and hazing that rookie drivers get as a matter of general principle. Only the sonofabitch who pulled this stunt was downright malicious. Instead of just letting the air out (or maybe even unscrewing the tire valves and walking off with them), this rat-bastard had snipped the valve stems clear off with a pair of side-cutters, so I'd have to somehow get Big Ed's car up off the ground, pull all four wheels, find some way to truck them into town, locate a new set of inner tubes that would fit our 6.00 X 16 Dunlops, dismount and remount all four tires, get the wheels balanced, bring everything back, put them on the damn car, and then get Big Ed's Jag back down to the paddock before the roads closed for the first race. So much for breakfast.