FORGET HISTORY - IT'S OLD AND MUSTY, ANYWAY

 

THE REALLY BIG SHOW

In 1963, World War II was yet to be a distant memory for nearly anyone alive. For those not having experienced it personally, Hollywood readily fulfilled the void with movie epics like "The Longest Day," released in late 1962. Indeed, in 1961, 1962 and 1963, a new "war" movie was released roughly every seventh week.

Europe as a whole had yet to rebound fully from WWII's nearly total devastation (which had a lot, if not nearly everything to do with the U.S. becoming an economic powerhouse in the 1950's and 1960's) and Germany in 1963 had yet to reach its halfway mark in that effort, not declaring the process completed until 1985.

What's WWII got to do with anything?

Well, besides "a whole bunch," sports car racing's birth in the U.S. is largely attributable to WWII's United Kingdom-based U.S. military personnel, most particularly of the Eighth Air Force, many of whom returned with and, even if lacking "wheels," at the least promoted the idea of racing two-seat sports cars.

Using the Sports Car Club of America (-25 pts. for anyone missing the "SCCA" thing) as the benchmark for U.S. sportscar racing's birth, the club had yet to turn 20-years old when Ferrari neared the end of its sports car racing dominance in the mid-60's.

It was WWII which would spur the United States' launch into super-power status and while it had demonstrated a clear, indisputable mastery of military might then and since, Europeans at best considered U.S. manufacturers, race cars, drivers and the like as boorish -- the Automobile Club L'Ouest today still believing the same (except of Patrick Dempsey and Jerry Lewis, of course).

For its part, the U.S. saw mainland European sportscar types as effete snobs and, particularly with respect to the ACO, still do -- excepting those connected with a certain U.S.-based sanctioning body who have carried too far their abject appreciation of Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roche Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette.

JUST TELL "U.S." WE CAN'T . . .

Beforehand and nearly unnoticed in the world of racing (excepting in the early 20th Century when Henry The First used racing to market and help develop his production cars), Ford engines began significantly impacting motorsports in the early 1960's.

Using an English Ford Kent engine massaged by a couple of fellows named Mike Costin and Keith Duckworth, together as "Cosworth," teamed with Lotus and Jim Clark in 1960 and pretty much changed the world.

At first based and developed purely on the Kent 1000cc engine's displacement, following larger-bore versions of that engine found their way into sports car, F1 and, for the street, the Ford-turned-Lotus Cortina (a well-maintained, original 1965 Lotus Cortina today sells for, roughly: US $45k; UK £30k; Euro €34k; and, assuming Greece abandons the Euro, Drachma 3,329,583,865k, give or take a Drachma or two).

Even though the Cooper Climax shocked the senses in the 1961 Indianapolis 500 and before that could lay claim to having laid the groundwork for what Lotus founder Colin Chapman would achieve, if not perfect, the "Garage Owner" (as Enzo Ferrari once derisively termed chaps like Chapman and Cooper) phase of formula racing, in which racing chassis were built in a myriad of mostly British household garages (among them retired racing great Morris Nunn, who says "Hi," Tony) independent of in-house engine programs -- the latter aspect shifting completely to engine-building entities like Cosworth and, later, Ilmor.

That a racing-chassis constructor would build cars without also building the engines fitting within plainly was a watershed moment in F1, if not motorsports altogether.

Running counter to that trend, Ferrari was starting to take knocks from all sides of racing, as was another Italian carmaker, Maserati. The latter would provide headaches galore to future car historians ("matching numbers" being of higher stature than most church statues, um, saints), Maserati's mechanics at one point relegated to assembling engines and cars using new, used, borrowed and shifted parts to field its racing cars. (Maserati would be sold in 1968 to French car manufacturer, Citroën.)

Save someone tied to Ferrari through production, sales, ownership or a devotee, most folks tend to think Ferrari and "automobile factory" as synonymous.

In many respects the company is that, of course, but because Merriam-Webster doesn't include hard numbers when defining "factory," vast gulfs can exist in production capabilities and, ultimately, quantities between those entities which produce "cars" for public consumption and, yet, still be classified as a "factory."

Somewhere between Webster's Collegiate Dictionary definitions, Karl Marx On Economics (surely we don't have Commies in motorsports, do we?) and Real-World Capitalism (sorry, I'll try to restrain the use of "bad" words like "hard work," "innovative," "industriousness" and "capital"), Ferrari's economic situation was worrisome at best.

Perhaps more true of Ferrari than many -- even American manufacturers upon whom the phrase was most often hung -- "win on Sunday; sell on Monday" was crucial to Ferrari being able to put food on the employees' family plates.

More so to the late Enzo Ferrari, "winning on Sunday and selling on Monday" was crucial to his personal pursuit of "winning again the following Sunday," because while crafting cars for public consumption was among Ferrari's loves, racing cars was his life's passion, as represented in Enzo Ferrari's eventual use of famed "Prancing Horse" symbol on Scuderia Ferrari cars long before Ferrari, the car company itself, began production.

(BTW - According to one version of lore regarding the Prancing Horse design: A badge displaying a prancing horse on a shield, originally the insignia of a WWI Italian fighter squadron, was given in 1923 to a young, bold, race-car driving Enzo Ferrari by Count Enrico Baracca, father of dead Italian fighter ace Count Francesco Baracca, the elder Baracca having taken admiring notice of Ferrari's hang-it-all-out racing bravado and seeing much of his son. A second variation of the above has Francesco Baracca's mother as the badge's presenter. A third has Enzo Ferrari's mother, Adalgisa, buying the badge's airplane remnants from Francesco Baracca's crashed SPAD S.XIII biplane, then giving it to her son as a birthday present. Yet another: given that the Prancing Horse supposedly didn't appear on a Ferrari race car until about 1932, some claim all of the preceding is horse-hockey, that Enzo Ferrari based the Prancing Horse emblem on Stuttgart, Germany's city crest and, given the presence of Mercedes and Porsche in that "stadtkreis," Ferrari was reluctant to admit to Stuttgart being the inspiration for the Ferrari emblem.)

Back to the real world, well, the 1960's at any rate: In a Catch-22 existing between carmaker Ferrari and Scuderia Ferrari, Ferrari's principal conundrum was the company's physical constraints in splitting artisans' time between fulfilling a consumer demand that exceeded allotted production and that of fielding a winning race enterprise.

When product sales lag, cash flow lags. A lagging cash-flow then constricted racing funds or, alternately, "advertising" which prodded consumer purchases that in turn funded the racing that in turn . . .

And while Scuderia Ferrari did very well in Formula One racing, winning six championship titles of the 16 contested from 1950 through 1964, many insist sports car racing was his favored racing pursuit -- Le Mans being at the top of that list.

John Surtees, OBE, and 1964 Formula One championship winner for Ferrari, was later credited as saying, "At Ferrari in those days you started with a handicap; until Le Mans was over you couldn't really do the work you wanted to do, and needed to do in Formula One."

The simple answer (particularly those possessing the "God Complex" referenced in Part I) was "hire more people," but which likely would've consequently required more factory space, both of which cost additional capital.

Unlike Carroll Shelby's Ford association, Jim Hall's thing with Chevy and, to a lesser extent at the time, Roger Penske with whomever, Enzo Ferrari didn't have an interested "Big Brother" to lean on when he needed a new widget or thingamabob. While it's probable Enzo Ferrari had a back door, he darn sure didn't need one to sneakily pass anything through it.

WHAT TO DO? WHAT TO DO?

Though Ferrari today employs many modern techniques in its vehicle construction, remember that Ferrari enjoys, if not downright promotes a reputation for having hands-on "artisans" craft its cars from bumper to bumper front to rear, such being even more the case in 1963 when Enzo Ferrari reportedly squelched, some say at the last possible moment, a deal to provide needed capital to Scuderia Ferrari and sell the Prancing Horse's commercial sales side lock, stock and carburetor to the Ford Motor Company.

The supposed Ferrari take on the soured deal was twofold: Enzo Ferrari wished to continue at the head of an essentially independent Scuderia Ferrari; and, "Scuderia Ferrari" wished to compete in the Indianapolis 500.

Though Ford reportedly wasn't uptight and out-of-sight to the first part; the second was seen as problematic inasmuch as Ford engines had just begun a soon-to-be domination of the Indy 500 grid.

(A manufacturer's universal desire, whether then, now or probably well into the future apparently is to dominate a racing series, often through means beneficial to one manufacturer but to the detriment of others, often leaving unsatisfied a race fan's desire for straightforward, on-track competition.)

Whoever, whatever, however, it is clear "Ferrari" was a deal that suddenly wasn't, leaving the head of Ford Motor Company, Henry Ford II, less than a happy camper.

The repercussions of the imploded Ferrari deal were about to change the face of sports car racing far and wide, the egos of manufacturers, racers and even sanctioning bodies about to be tested as never before . . . while fans would eventually take it on the chin.

END OF PART III

It’s likely the next part of this series won’t hit until after the conclusion of The Miami Grand Prix at Homestead-Miami Speedway this weekend. HMS is going to be a pretty busy place this weekend, what with the Rolex Series, Continental Series and the newest kid on the block, the Showroom Stock, er, Sportsman Showcase series. Also Known As the “Run What You Brung, Within Limitations, Of Course” Series, it actually has an outstanding future. For one, I’ll be watching with interest. Hope to see you there.

Later,

DC

THE DISCOVERY OF LIFE’S BLOOD

PART II

As the immediately above coyly suggests, this a continuation in a series which Ol' DC's God Complex emergences.

Formerly believed to be the exclusive domain of those in the medical establishment, should the reader not yet have heard of the condition, no worries, you've already got it. Indeed, just about everyone suffers from it; if not constantly, then intermittently.

The term’s origination is attributed by some to Ernest Jones, whose psychoanalytic first take on the idea was a person believing themselves God was therefore suffering a God Complex. One supposes, it was kind of like a superiority complex on high. Then again, maybe “acid,” too. No, probably not. Jones was dead by the time Timothy Leary declared himself God during a “business trip.”

The idea has since evolved a little and, simply explained (at least to those given of God Complexes): "I can do (fix, correct) it!"

A slightly more complex (uh-oh, the "c" word is starting to multiply) explanation but not quite as complex (see!?) as that which more substantially imbued others may offer: The God Complex is an unshakable belief that one can simplistically solve a complex problem if only given free rein to do so.

"Afghanistan's Taliban Man? Nuke him," e.g., "Transform the country, via a release of the nuclear genie, to glass."

No more Taliban Man; done; troops home; happy days are here again.

The problem? The resultant, not just nuclear fallout (get it? "fallout?"; "not just?" Oh, I just slay myself sometimes!).

The idea is that the undertaking of a simplistic solution actually tends to splinter into many more problems of equal and, perhaps, greater negative consequences.

Example: “Put Barrack Obama in the White House, he'll fix everything, oh, by the end of his first term and happy days will be here again.”

Well, for whatever reason, it didn't happen that way. In fact, it wouldn't have happened that way because an economy, any economy, is so complex that no one person can understand it, let alone "steer" it -- in any direction. (I ain’t gonna go any deeper.)

INTO THE FAST LANE

After decades of thought -- the bulk of it clearly to the contrary -- the conclusion now reached from this quarter is that "sports-racing prototypes," of any ilk, suck the big one.

"Nay, a travesty! Heresy!" the reader exclaims.

The preceding perspective arises from a fellow so enamored with sportscar racing that in his awkward latter teen years he built and then attempted to race a Cox Chaparral 2C slot car (left).

The L.M. Cox Manufacturing Company put out, perhaps still does, all manner of cool but more mature "toys" like the German Stuka dive bomber.

No, purchasers of the Cox Stuka didn't hop in and fly to some ghetto whereupon loosed was ordnance upon hapless souls.

But it did fly, in a fashion, its tiny single-cylinder, two-stroke, naphtha-fueled engine churning out a wonderful castor oil aroma that also reminded of hard-accelerating Ferraris and Alfas.

People peripherally aware of such flying machines tended to identify them only as "model airplanes" when, in reality, most any male child of that time period built models of many things, all of them using that wonderful new-fangled plastic stuff, all involving the careful application of some great-smelling glue, and darn near all of 'em involving military objects having decals carefully arranged.

DC The Younger, being of advancing post-pubescent age, had gone beyond the static, forging into self-powered models.

And, as explained in Part I, DC The Younger wasn't having much luck with the other gender (not that he was having much luck with the same gender, either. Then again, he wasn't trying to have much luck with that same gender. Oh, never mind).

So, given DC The Younger's advanced age and model-making skills developed during far more youthful times, he proudly took his electric motor-powered (way ahead of the curve on this deal; think about it) Cox Chaparral 2C to the slot car track which, mind you, was a scaled replica of Daytona International Speedway's 3.56-mile road course -- even complete with 31-degree banks -- and promptly, thoroughly got his butt kicked. Embarrassingly so. Then again, what butt-kicking ain't embarrassing?

MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO 'ROUND

How to reverse embarrassment? (Bob Stallings knows the answer to this one . . .)

More knowledge and more money.

Principally, though, one inherently knew that money trumped all things. For if one has enough of it, one can purchase knowledge -- even should it reside in someone else's head.

DC The Younger's father, DC The Elder (at right, on left with Gen. Curtis Le May, right), some years earlier refused to be the source of funding the "frivolous" activities of youth, suggesting DC The Younger venture into "the real world and get a job," which DC The Younger had by age 11.

(Of course, no one, but no one has ever likewise been so abused and, to this very day, deep psychological scars remain from the denial of my doing whatever desired at whatever time wanted.)

The wonderful side benefit, said DC The Elder, would be "more women, too."

(Yes, dear father, that point got me rolling because Cathy Sheppard was chiefly on my mind in 5th grade but, also, dear father, then learned were lessons that revolved around oddly coincident "dry spells" in which if no money were in the pockets, no "women" wished to be seen on my Schwinn bike's handlebars, it complete with plastic, fantastic multi-colored tassels).

("Car?" you inquire? Ha! In those ancient times guys, and only guys, mind you, were outright incredibly "lucky" to have a motor vehicle of any sort by age 18. Even Jim France had to borrow his big brother's Volkswagen in those times now since long passed. My older brother, likewise many years ahead of me, had already altogether booked it to South Florida for formal education's sake and took "LuLu" with him. Today, though, nearly everyone gets a car at 12 -- and a cell phone at six. Think exaggeration is at hand? Just look in any middle-school parking lot. Shoot, in prehistoric times it was little ol' ladies who couldn't see over a car's dashboard).

Such a relative POC was the Cox Chaparral 2C slot car -- it's hard plastic veritable unibody overburdening a woefully underpowered motor -- that soon learned was the art of tubeframe construction; the "winding" and "rewinding" of electric motor armatures; gearing; the shaving of tires; and, lightweight livery.

Still, at the base of acquiring the knowledge and the parts was money -- a pump-jockey's 90-cent-per-hour job providing such.

Mastering the racing skills in the garage and on the track, DC The Younger soon became the functional equivalent of Reinhold Joest, who still was a decade-or-so from outlasting, outrunning, besting and embarrassing the uppity Porsche factory team.

(Now, how can such success be a "bad-sign thing?" Trust me, anything at all can become such if placed long enough in the hands of Ol' DC).

Yet, emulating within the small-world ranks the cars Jim Hall built and raced in the real world simply wasn't enough.

OFF TO THE RACES

As a side benefit of living his life within Florida's "ground zero" racing boundaries, DC The Gettin' Older personally witnessed Hall's Chaparral (eventually including the 2F) along with witnessing the craftsmanship of drivers like Mike Spence, Phil Hill and, the best of the best "gentleman" drivers, Hap Sharp.

Peter Revson, heir to the Revlon fortune before passing along, was cool, but he was a jet-setter. Indeed, Revlon probably was the one who invented "jet-setting." But, once again owed to the "money" thing or, perhaps more appropriately, most others' lack of it, Hap Sharp contrasted Revson's suave, debonair style.

Sharp, like Jim Hall, in fact, was a Texas oil man, much like Tracy Krohn (at left), only friendlier (Tracy, such ain't to say you can't be fun. It's just that Sharp was "funner." Oh, never mind.)

Sharp didn't inherit anything other than the time of day. He (like Krohn) started with little and roughnecked his way into financial security -- and in his later years got to go racing, only the powers that be at the time didn't have a "Sportsman" trophy to give to guys, like John Pew (at near right w/ Grand-AM’s Gary “Bigbabu” Cummings, photo by Vickie Miller, courtesy of JohnPewRacing.com), who eschew such. Like Pew, Sharp's measure of himself was one taken against the likes of Dan Gurney, Spence, Hill and, earlier, Roger Penske.

Seen, heard and smelled also at the same time were Holman and Moody's Ford GT MkII; NART's Ferrari 330/P3; and, at Sebring, Pedro Rodriguez proving a Ferrari Dino 206s could go off-roading at the real hairpin.

Furthermore competing before this writer's eyes at Daytona and Sebring were drivers like A.J. Foyt, (left) who over the course of three decades drove four different generations of cars in sportscar competitions: a Pontiac Tempest (also at left); a couple of Ford GT40 MkII's; a Porsche 935; and, a Porsche 962 or three, as well.

Once seen on a prototype car at Daytona was a duct tape demonstration of such measure that its creative-use applications blew minds everywhere for months, if not years afterward, while the Ferrari 512's two drivers -- Mark Donohue and David Hobbs -- soldiered to a third-place finish. That car was the very antithesis of Penske's squeaky clean immaculate image, as found in a previous season's sparkling clean, neat-as-a-pin Sunoco Blue Penske Racing Lola T-70.

Indeed, in Central Florida alone, Hurley Haywood (at right, on 2012 Rolex 24 podium, again) competed in so many different cars over such a considerable time frame that it's entirely possible no webpage exists with enough space to list 'em. (Now Hurley, before your bowels uproar and you cancel my $16,000-under-invoice deal on that new 2012, gray 911S, I'm likewise admitting to having seen you drive all those cars over all those years. I'll cite you as "still the most handsome race car driver, ever" in a future work. K?)

Yet, a review of all those years, heck, of all those decades even unto the very present, yields three constants: 1) The "factory" cars depart racing more quickly than they emerge; 2) Privateers like Hall or, even, Enzo Ferrari, could at best only momentarily compete with the factories; and, 3) the GT class cars are what is constant.

END of PART II

Oh, and should you know the contents of Part III, give me a ring, please.

Later,

DC

HUMPTY DUMPTY

DAYTONA BEACH (19April, 2012) –

Yes, it’s time to update some rather longstanding but old copy. It’s hard to imagine, but in the intervening time period one other race has transpired since the previous post. Wow.

Here’s why.

This is my hand after peanut oil fried part of it:

 

 

 

 

 

This is my hand after the skin started coming off sometime later (No, Dr. Lowe, I haven’t rushed a thing):

Need more be said?

Now, back to the world of Grand-Am, finally.

Having long ago learned one tends toward "manufacturing" luck -- good or bad -- it's time for yours truly to make like a ball and get rolling straight into some good ol' self-made trouble.

So, hang in there; a wild hair is a-growing.

Long before most 'lectric guitar listeners knew of Eric Clapton, he, Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce as the rock group "Cream" once wowed yours truly with a song featuring "Slow Hand's" guitar, along with Bruce's vocal and a (natural) henna-haired Baker pounding his drums (one might fairly inquire: "Did Baker know any other method?").

The band's cover of a William Bell-written blues song, "Born Under A Bad Sign," spoke to DC The Younger, screaming (as best as could stereo speakers of that day), "This is you, boy!" -- the song's strains converging just slightly beyond the hour when Ol' DC's Leydig cells cranked-on-high and "la femme" was simultaneously discovered.

"Bad luck and trouble's been my only friend,

I've been down since I was ten,

Born under a bad sign

I've been down since I began to crawl

If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all."

Following on the footsteps of rejection by every woman chased, miraculously coming when diversion of mind was most needed, "sports car racing" arose.

Yet, in an age when a $6,700 Shelby GT350 (yes, I’ve seen an invoice) was clearly an expenditure to be absorbed by only the most frivolous of frivolous playboys, DC The Younger was left pining for yet another object beyond his immediate grasp. (Does the preceding, combined with that which preceded the preceding, indicate an "objectification" of women?)

Proving still far more elusive were the absurd fortunes spent on a newfangled type of sports car, a "prototype," for how could anyone afford a state-of-art $100,000 race car!? One could live an entire life on such money!

‘ROUND, ‘ROUND, I GET AROUND

Kevin Doran, in case you don't know him, is a respected, successful sports car racer -- especially as viewed from this quarter.

Raised by a "racing father," James Edward Doran (the first two initials of whom, "JE", prefix the four in-house race car designs of Doran Enterprises), Kevin Doran likewise has a talented “little” racing brother, David, who still competitively drives all manner of racing creations. (David is one of those whose talent exceeded sponsorship) (Now, what in heck is the difference between "those" and "whose" -- one letter? One lousy letter! The first letter! And yet the two words' pronunciation is entirely different. Little wonder the English language is the world's most difficult).

Um, sorry. It's just one of them Ol' DC deals.

Doran, hired by the likes of Al Holbert specifically to go Indy Car racing, was later convinced by Holbert (who said something along the lines of, "Well, if you want to keep your job . . .") to take a path Doran has mostly pursued since, but was a part of the team earlier enough to be in its pit for Holbert's first Rolex 24 At Daytona win -- the first of many Rolex 24 wins in which Doran would have a direct role.

Indeed, it's beyond luck's scope to think a guy like Doran was "just hanging around" sufficiently enough to have collected the plethora of Rolex 24 At Daytona wins in which he's been involved -- from chief wrench to car constructor and nearly each position between (including floor-sweeping, though Doran's probably done more of that as a team owner than "officially" so). Why, if Doran was a driver, he’d have almost as many Rolex 24 wins as Scott Pruett (at right).

Along with championship and race wins scored for other folks, Kevin Doran has won his fair share of both for hisownself.

Kevin Doran's racing genius even helped fashion at least a couple of racing's more iconic race cars, one being the Ferrari 333 SP. Yep, Doran (in picture at right, on far left in headset, looking downward) was on the ground floor of that car's creation and, with the late Gianpiero Moretti, campaigned the famous No. 30 MOMO Ferrari 333SP.

Years later and for the umpteenth time, Doran would head yet another victorious endurance team -- Didier Theys, Fredy Lienhard, Mauro Baldi and Massimiliano "Anti-Ax The Max" Papis -- winning the 2002 Rolex 24 At Daytona -- with a Chrysler. (at left, with Theys driving)

Well, kinda sorta.

Yes, yes, we all know the record books have the car listed as a Judd-powered Dallara, but it also had a lot of "Chrysler" in it.(The “real” Chrysler at lower right, pictured with Yannick Dalmas and Olivier Beretta, L-R)

The Chrysler sports racing prototype's original mission, undertaken in conjunction with eccellente Italian race-car designer Dallara and a quite successful Viper-racing Hugues de Chaunac (Oreca; to which David Donohue had considerable ties), was so far in front of the race-engineering world that "so far" actually is a hugely inadequate descriptor of what the triumvirate attempted.

"Hybrid," though, gives the reader an idea of the car's originally intended direction, albeit one plagued with embryonic hassles, before Chrysler dumped the project and sportscar racing altogether in 2001 but emerging in NASCAR the same year. (Mere coincidence or effectuated Mayan apocalyptic presaging? You be the judge).

To thus say Kevin Doran has fairly well "seen it all," at least insofar as racing is concerned, would be accurate if not entirely understated and, without doubt, qualifies Doran to ask a question posed of this writer just days ago:

"Would G/A drop DP for 2013-14 due to poor participation, or do they run it out until only 2-3 cars show up? Let me know your thoughts on this one."

Well, Mr. Doran, having already given the subject three or four years of thought and, given the amount of work pouring into the answer while hoping yours was not a rhetorical nor sarcastic question, the following is only my opinion and my opinion, only.

The simple answer: "Don't really know."

But such hasn't previously prevented Ol' DC from containing hisownself.

And it is in the details to follow where Ol' DC expects trouble to arise (if such hasn't already with Mr. Doran) . . . you know, being born under a bad sign and all.

But such will only continue with the next installment, inasmuch as the lawn needs mowing right now and it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

END OF PART I

Later,

DC