Looking at these photos of the young Rodríguez brothers reminds me that I should stop bitching about how sterile and safe racing has become. Ricardo died at 20, Pedro at 31.
Just ridiculously young.
It’s strange to me that when I look at these photos, I don’t feel the same way I did about a similar juxtaposition of photos from de Portago’s career. Looking at the de Portago photos, I felt a certain, well not joy exactly, but they felt right. Young de Portago playing racing driver in a kiddie car somehow proved that he died doing what he loved.
These photos, however, give me a different feeling, even though the comparison is almost exactly the same. The photo of the young Rodríguez brothers in racing helmets might give me the same feeling, but I can’t help but think of what Pedro must have felt like getting back into a car after Ricardo’s death. How difficult it must have been to climb back into the racing car, but not being able not to. The idea of racing as a passion appeals to me, but in this light it’s more racing as obsession—as addiction—and while I can understand that, it makes these photos feel more heartbreaking.
The Nostalgia Forum never fails to amaze me with the endless fountain of motorsport minutae. Forum member cstlhn uploaded these photos from his trip to The Glen for the ’64 USGP. This notion of wandering through the pits, capturing these moments of drivers and techs going over the car; getting close enough to the rear end of that Honda to reach out and grab the car; and going over last minute strategies is just so marvelously compelling—and sorely missed.
In March of 1960 Zych, Nicholas, Spankey, Kelley, Kelley Sr. and Tierno of the infamous BARC Boys made the trip down from New York to Florida for the Sebring 12 Hours. Good thing they packed their cameras.
The #63 OSCA piloted by John Gordon & John Bentley
Usually I’d take this opportunity to once again extoll the virtues of closeness in photography; remark on the shooters standing this close to the track; and bemoan that racing today’s photography may be more colorful, but is certainly less dramatic. But instead I’ll do the unthinkable and just shut up and let these shots of photographers crowding the track speak for themselves.
Spa start '65
Jacky Ickx (IT), Scuderia Ferrari SpA SEFAC 312B3.. Monaco Grand Prix, Monte Carlo, 03/06/1973.
I would love some sort of web tool that would let me click on these photographers and see their shots of the race.
There seems to be very little information out there about the Baby-Vanderbilt; presumably a support race for the 1915 Vanderbilt Cup; held that year in San Francisco as part of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition. Unlike the Vanderbilt, which ran as a longer road race throughout the area, the Baby-Vanderbilt seems to have been run entirely within the grandstand area as a sort of miniature circle-track race. This image is from a stereoscope of the start of the race, and provides a rare opportunity to see an early 3D(ish) image of a cyclecar race. I’ve animated it here to approximate the 3D view the stereoscope provides.
In my searches for more information, I came across a marvelous post at The Garage Blog telling the story of motorcyclist Bob Mibach pausing to dig through the chicken coop at a farm with a “motorcycles for sale” sign. In a moment of barn-find perfection, he came upon one of the Baby Vanderbilt racers: an Indian twin powered and very restorable little pile of smiles. Could it have been the Indian-powered machine that propelled Harry Hartz to victory in 1915?
Restored Baby-Vanderbilt Racer
There seems to be precious little information out there on the Baby-Vanderbilt. Here’s a thread on the Nostalgia Forum, that mentions film of the event that doesn’t seem to be online any longer. Please pass along any more info if you come across it.
German carmakers sure have an unfair advantage when it comes to testing a racing prototype. Who needs a test track when you have easy access to the Nürburgring? And why box it up and ship it when you can just take the Autobahn there? Here’s the Porsche development team testing out at 550 Spyder on the Autobahn in the weeks before the 1954 Mille Miglia. How amazing is that VW “Barn Door” Transporter? Looks to be the same one they used as the support vehicle for the Mille itself.
I have a slot car of that #351 Hermann/Linge Spyder, I’ve always loved that car and the legends that surround it.
via Gmund Brokerage, which is jam-packed with fantastic VW & Porsche info. More on #351 at Type 550.
The title of this post might seem hyperbolic at first, but in many ways it’s fair to say that the Fred Wacker Allard J2 made the American public think twice about opening their streets to road racing. The early 1950s were an amazing time for American racing; a time when both enthusiasts and local governments were having a remarkable love affair with street racing. Small towns could close their streets for a weekend, invite some barnstorming sports car drivers to town to have a bit of a race, and tens of thousands of spectators would flood the town’s restaurants and hotels. There seemed no end to the tourism and local business dollars that could be raised for little more than the cost of some hay bales and few extra police officers on duty.
The Fred Wacker Allard J2 at the 1950 running of the Watkins Glen Road Races
That romance came to a swift and brutal breakup during the 1952 running of the Watkins Glen road races, when this Allard piloted by Chicagoan Fred Wacker (a fascinating sportsman that I’m sure we’ll examine in greater depth in the future) had a brief tussle with a Cunningham. During the second lap of the featured race of the weekend, Wacker was following the Briggs Cunningham and John Fitch Cunninghams up Franklin Street as they approached the state park. Fitch began to prepare for the right hander by heading to the left side of the racing line, crowding Wacker’s Allard. They both swerved a bit when they realized how close they were to one another: Fitch back to the right, Wacker edging more to the left; closer to the throngs of spectators at the side of the street. The Allard’s back end came out slightly, clipping the curb and throwing the car’s rear into a group of people sitting on the curb(!). A 7 year old boy was killed, and 10 others were injured.
Fred Wacker and crew at the 1950 Watkins Glenn
There had been injuries at other runnings of American road races, including the fatal crash of Sam Collier during the 1950 Watkins. While safety efforts ramped up a bit, the bulk of the danger seemed limited to the drivers. If these swashbuckling racing drivers wanted to take their lives in their own hands, communities continued to allow in on their streets. Once spectators were in harm’s way, however, community sponsored road racing all but dried up overnight. The close-call between drivers and an overcorrection to avoid a crash happens dozens of times every race weekend, but the proximity of spectators turned what should have been a minor racing incident into a tragedy for the sport.
It’s easy to mourn the loss of small-town races, and easy to imagine how great they might have grown through the 50’s had this crash not spotted the entire sport in American eyes. But the truth is that spectator safety standards were so lacking that it was only a matter of time before an incident like this would have happened. Even so, it’s a shame that rather than take more gradual steps to increase safety for spectators and drivers, we saw the rapid extinction of the road race. While that extinction created the great American racing palaces that would come (Road America, Lime Rock, The Glen), I would sure like to see (legal) wheel-to-wheel racing on public roads again.
Seeing this color photo of Alfonso de Portago (among the last captured before his fatal crash) on Automobiliac last summer, I was inclined to agree with Bradley that there’s something haunting about it; an eeriness about how calm the moment seems, but with the dangerous proximity of the walls and the spectators and the nearby buildings hinting at what might happen when his tire catastrophically deflates moments later.
Young de Portago
Juxtaposed with this much earlier photo of young de Portago sitting pensively in his kiddie kart—before his legend as a racing driver and playboy would take hold—these bookends of de Portago’s life in motoring somehow makes the tragedy of his demise more palatable. Sure, it’s easy from my comfortable vantage point to romanticize the danger of the era and glorify those who died “doing what they loved”, but these photos of de Portago show that there might just be some truth to it.
Browsing through Flunder’s tremendous build thread on the Early 911S Registry forums, I was struck by this interesting phenomenon of the competition 911s of the early 1970s: Fuchs 7R fronts and Minilite 9×15 rear. The combination creates a marvelous stance and an interesting big & little wheel combination. Mismatched wheels may look a bit jarring to contemporary eyes, but there’s no question that it’s a racey look. This is racing, after all, and we’re after results, not beauty. If it just so happens to be beautiful—as I think it does in this case—then all the better. Some commenters have suggested that the wider Fuchs weren’t yet available, or weren’t as strong as the Minilites.
ST 2.3 1971 Oldenkott Pipes
Flunder’s entire thread is worth a look. I was discussing with a friend recently the concept of rare parts hoarders. I’m sure you’ve run into a few, they’ll have benches full of rare race parts, mechanical fuel injection systems or period turbos wasting away in the corners of their basement. Usually I get grumpy about these folks, that they’re speculators holding onto parts for their increasing value with no intention of ever putting them into their cars.
Flunder has proven that there are still “good” parts collectors. After a 3 year search for a seemingly endless list of rare factory race parts (factory aluminum door skins, plexiglass, conrods, the works), he put together a stunning tribute to the Group 4 racers of the early 70s. “Tribute” is probably the wrong word, this thing is probably more authentic than most surviving Group 4 cars.
Chiquita
Irwin Kremer 1970 ST
Thankfully, he also went with Fuchs in front and Minilites in the rear. It’s probably going to cause some folks to scratch their heads on the street, but it’s these small acts of courage that make me enjoy the vintage sportscar world so much.
This is a shot any contemporary ad designer would kill for.
This photo has been sitting on my hard drive for years. There’s something about the mood of it that I find mesmerizing. Whether it’s the moment captured, the perfection of the composition, or simply the colors—that Jag and the Baracuta-ish jacket are almost a perfect match.
Every once in a while I try to find the source of this photo again, that mountain makes me think this might be Palm Springs, or maybe Riverside. But I must admit that I’m at a loss. I guess where it was doesn’t really matter to me, what does is how this captures a spirit, an emotion, an atmosphere that makes me want to be in this photograph.
Update: Commenters seem to unanimously think that the venue is likely Pomona, and I’m inclined to agree. Martin wrote in with, “The C-type belonged to Carlyle Blackwell, who was a CalClub racer, and that looks very much like Lance Reventlow in the red jacket.” What do you think? Is that Lance?
