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The early Mormon church just couldn’t seem to get along with its neighbors. After getting kicked out of several states at gunpoint (Ohio, Illinois, etc.), in 1847 they set their sights on a semi-mythical valley of salt 1,000 miles away in what was then Mexican territory. On the 150th anniversary of the Mormons entering the Salt Lake Valley (1997) I wrote a piece for our local paper about a trek to honor their journey.

The idea for the trek was started by two companies who do such things as a business. The Mormon Church soon realized that it would be known as “The Mormon Trek” by the public, so without actually sponsoring it, the Church supplied money, legal expertise, and “boots on the ground” organization along the 1,000 mile trail.

The highest and toughest section of the trail is Rocky Ridge, where many died of exhaustion or froze to death in the 1800s. It’s roughly between Jeffery City and Atlantic City, WY on the continental divide.

Sounds like the place to be for a story…let’s do it!

I called the Church “media relations” office to see what credentials I’d need to join their party and was politely told that world class media had been covering the Trek for months (true) and that all the credentials had been issued months ago. I took that as an invitation to join up.

Figuring about when the train would be in the area of the Ridge, I threw some gear into my pickup and headed out before dawn to see if I could find them. On a dark highway, somewhere north of Farson, WY, a large stake bed truck carrying plastic porta-potties roared past me. Where else could a pack of pink plastic potties be headed, out here in the middle of Wyoming, but for the dang wagon train? I followed the truck discreetly as the sun climbed into the sky.

Turns out it was headed for the noontime lunch/rest/ potty rendezvous site on the banks of the Sweetwater River. That was perfect for me. I found the “wagon master” and asked if I could spend a couple of days with him to write my story. He said, “If you can convince the Press Liaison Office, which is located in a trailer behind the Atlantic City Mercantile bar in Atlantic City, it’s OK by me.”

I knew the Atlantic City Merc from my oil drilling days (see A Summer in Butch Cassidy Country) so with the sorta recommendation from the wagon master, I was soon in possession of the prized yellow bandana, which gave me press status.

Whew!

The several-hour round trip put me back into camp just in time for the evening meal. The nice lady in Salt Lake was not kidding when she said “world class” media. Film, TV, and print crews from Germany, Japan, the Philippines, Italy, and more were there. The BBC had a film crew doing a multi-part documentary. Sygma Photo News of New York and Paris sent a photojournalist expressly to cover the Rocky Ridge crossing and the trail into Salt Lake. Around the campfire “Sygma” and I seemed to hit it off, especially when he found I had my own vehicle.

The following day was a 20-mile slog through choking dust. Few photo ops, so my new Sygma friend (sorry I can’t recall his name) and I jumped into my truck, and along with several other vehicles scouted photo spots for the next day’s climb over the Ridge. A World Class photojournalism lesson.

We saw a troop of Boy Scouts, several mountain bikes, and even what must have been a rental van, bump, scrape, bang and spark their way over the Ridge heading west.

The next morning following the pre-dawn prayer, we got what can only be described as a gut punch. It seems after previously okaying handcarts (but no wagons) over the Ridge, the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) who manages the area had decided “No Handcarts” after all. “For your own safety” they had changed the route to cut out the Ridge! The organizers of the Trek had known about the decision for weeks, but waited until morning prayers to tell us so we would not have a chance to raise hell with our BLM minders.

The organizers estimated that as many as 10,000 people had joined the Trek, for an hour, for a day, or even longer as it crossed this great country of ours. It was Feel Good Americana at its finest, and without asking for government permission of any kind. Imagine that! BLM jerked the Ridge just because they could, and the organizers decided to “go along to get along.” A double-doublecross!

I did manage to salvage one of the shots Sygma and I had scouted. That’s the BBC film crew in the foreground. Choking dust!

The new BLM-approved route resulted in an easier, shorter day, which left time for a few people with handcarts to load into pickup trucks and return to the Ridge on their own. Gordon Beharrell had come all the way from England to honor his ancestor who had made the journey, and would not be denied! Sygma got the shot he wanted too, and it appeared in National Geographic if memory serves.

It was actually a pretty good solution. Faces were saved, egos were stroked, and the late afternoon light was better for photos than the flat midday light would have been. Oh, and the prayer was a really nice touch, too.

The handcart women seemed to have an earthy fire about them. Sygma’s favorite lens target was a remarkable young woman named Nanc’ Adams who had been with the trek for the entire 93 day journey. To get the whole experience, she often walked barefoot carrying her 4-year-old daughter on her shoulder, while pushing or pulling a cart.

Apparently that was a fairly common practice back in the day. “ Save your shoes for the rough parts” to be sure they will last the whole 1,000 miles.

As the trek got closer to Salt Lake someone thought to check where the handcarts would be featured in the annual 24th of July PIONEER DAY PARADE.

The 24th is bigger in Utah than the 4th of July. It celebrates the day Brigham Young and his pioneers first entered the Salt Lake valley on July 24th 1847, and Brigham said “This Is The Place.”

For some reason the Parade’s previously promised inclusion had been canceled. “Besides, our parade was planned months ago.” Sound familiar?

On June 22, both the Washington Post and the New York Times ran splashy front page stories on the Trek. The City of Ogden, which is just north of Salt Lake, saw it and contacted the Trek to invite them to participate in their much smaller Ogden celebration.

When the good burghers at the Salt Lake Parade realized not only had they fumbled away the prize of a lifetime, but that it was now going to OGDEN (awk!) they reversed their reversal and re-invited the Trek back to Salt Lake. The Parade set new attendance records and the handcarts stole the show.

The animosity between Salt Lake and Ogden goes way back to 1869 when the completion of the transcontinental railroad near Ogden brought money, booze, and painted ladies to the previously isolated “City of The Saints.” Ogden is still pretty much a railroad town today.

The whole Trek was happy worldwide news. Everyone loves a success story. I think the best story was in the local Ogden Standard-Examiner with a two-page foldout of barefoot Nanc ’Adams pushing a cart while carrying her daughter, with the “This Is the Place” monument in the background.

And it looks like a Sygma photo to boot. What a grand adventure!

Thanks for listening.

Duane

What could a retired hooker with a deformed face teach a 15-year-old rich kid from Detroit, a kid who would one day become president of the Packard Motor Company?

James F. Joy (1810-1896) sent his only son Henry Bourne Joy (1864-1936) to the Joy Mining District in Utah at the tender age of 15 to try his hand at gold mining and hopefully gain some “life experience.”

What better life coach for the homesick young man than the now retired “soiled dove,” bartender, nurse, and counselor, Mary Laird.

Mary (Maggie) Devitt was working as a dove at the tavern in Fish Springs, Utah when she got into a fight with another gal, who pushed Maggie onto the floor and smashed her face with a heavy old-fashioned liquor bottle.  The blow so disfigured Mary’s face that she was known thereafter as “No-Nose Maggie.”

Maggie lay in a coma for two and a half days while her co-workers, assuming she would soon pass away, took what few possessions she had including the clothes off her body.  A young miner passing through the settlement saw Maggie’s plight and, women being in critically short supply on the frontier, loaded her onto his buckboard and headed for his mining claim in Joy, Utah, some 50 miles away. 

Somewhere during the journey, Maggie regained consciousness, and realizing she was on her way to a new life, clambered onto the seat of the buckboard with her new young man, who hopefully provided her with some sort of covering.  Such was life in the mining camps on the frontier in the 1800s.

Maggie, whose last name was now Laird, and her new hubby built a one-room structure near the only spring in the area, and it became the center of life for the little community.  It was supermarket, doctor’s office, pharmacy, saloon, and counseling center.

After three years in the mining camp, the now older and considerably wiser Henry Joy returned to his native Detroit. He became president of the Detroit Union Railroad upon his father’s death in 1896, and also assumed the presidency of Packard Motor Car Company. 

Packard was one of America’s “Three P’s,” PACKARD, PEERLESS, and PIERCE-ARROW, storied marques known for high quality, luxurious automobiles. Packard’s advertising slogan was “ASK THE MAN WHO OWNS ONE!”  

Henry realized that automobiles would never amount to much until buyers had actual roads to drive on, not just the muddy tracks that passed for highways. In 1913 he became one of the principal organizers and the first president of the Lincoln Highway Association (www.lincolnhighwayassoc.org), which advocated building a “rock highway” from New York City to San Francisco. 

Henry had apparently acquired a taste for the great open spaces during his time in Joy.  He spent at least one month of each year–in the latest model Packard–traveling the 3,300 mile length of the “Lincoln,” which was still overwhelmingly dirt.  Much of his time was spent in the Utah desert, including Fish Springs, since Utah was the most harrowing section in the whole country.

The US Army sent a convoy across the Lincoln in 1919, which took over two months to complete, much of the time stuck in the mud.  The experience convinced a young lieutenant named Eisenhower of the need for a true transcontinental highway.  As president in 1955, “Ike” signed the Defense Highways Act, authorizing the construction of the first interstate highways.

Packard Motor Company played a huge role in winning both World Wars; manufacturing cars, trucks, and engines.  The Packard-Merlin Rolls Royce V-12 powered the English Mosquito and the Spitfire, American PT Boats, the iconic American P-51 Mustang, plus many other war-winning machines.

Henry died in 1936, just as WWII was starting to take shape, and Packard was once again shifting to a wartime footing. Without the leadership Henry and his father James had provided, Packard foundered in the postwar economy and faded from the scene in the mid-1950’s.

The Joy smelter burned about 1917 and the decision was made to close the mine.  Maggie stayed on as Joy’s only resident and her store, saloon, hotel continued to serve the occasional sheep herder, cowboy, and desert wanderer.

One bitter cold night a young man from “The East” had a little too much to drink, said good night, and stumbled out into the darkness.  They found his stiffened body the next morning about 100 yards from Maggie’s door, and buried him where he lay.  Passersby still tend the grave.  It’s marked, but unfortunately with no name.

Maggie passed in 1934, and  Lady Laird Peak now officially looks over the valley where she ruled and Henry Joy came of age. 

Her building is gone but the spring and the mountain peak bear witness to Maggie’s lessons of life, love, toughness, and the will to survive against all odds.

Thanks for listening.

My dad’s sister Rena met a handsome young officer named Bud Ziegler from Illinois during WWII,  and the following story became part of our family lore.

One of the true financial buccaneers of THE GUILDED AGE, John W. “BET A MILLION” Gates, was born in 1855 in rural Illinois.  Starting as a hardware store clerk, Gates blustered and bluffed his way up the social and financial ladder until one day he found himself riding across the country in J.P. Morgan’s private rail car, passing the time betting Morgan $10,000 a pop in 1890 dollars, on which raindrop would make it to the bottom of the window first. 

As a young man, Gates used to love hearing traveling salesmen (known then as drummers) tell stories of travel, conquest, and money as they sold him hardware stock.  One day, a drummer had a new product, barbed wire, which he claimed was going to “change the world!”  When Gates discovered the largest manufacturer of barbed wire was his mother’s cousin, who lived right there in Illinois, he said goodbye to his pregnant wife and took the train to Chicago.

Isaac Ellwood, “Colonel Ike,” was the lord of the wire world in 1876.  He looked at the plump young yokel who claimed to be a salesman, with a letter from his mother, and on a lark gave him “the whole state of Texas.”  Others had tried to sell “bob wire” to the Texas ranchers and been run out of town.  In fact, there were several carloads of wire sitting on sidetracks that weren’t worth the cost of sending them back.

After a long dusty train and stagecoach ride to San Antonio, during which Gates won enough at poker to sustain himself for several months, he tried his first sales calls.   The range bosses were sure no sissy Eastern wire could hold their longhorn cattle, and the cowboys were sure if they ever did fence in the range with “the Devil’s Wire” they’d be out of a job.

Gates was sure that if he could just show the ranchers that the wire would work, he could “sell the hell out of it!”  Weeks went by with no sales, until one sultry night on his hotel balcony, watching a medicine man draw a crowd on the plaza below, Gates was struck with “the Big Idea.”  For an appropriate fee, the mayor issued a permit to construct a corral in the middle of the plaza, to put on a “ROUNDUP OF LONGHORNS!”

While Gate’s hired laborers sunk a circle of sturdy poles into the ground and strung barbed wire on them, Gates distributed flyers and posters for miles around advertising “THE MEANEST LONGHORNS & THE TOUGHEST COWBOYS — LOCKED IN MORTAL COMBAT!”  The big night arrived and torches lit the plaza, liquor flowed, and Gates was busy taking side bets from cowboys anxious to double their money with this silly city slicker.  The “KILLER LONGHORNS” (which were actually the most docile creatures Gates could find) were driven into the corral, the gate closed and Mexican caballeros spurred their horses outside the fence, firing pistolas and waving fire brands over the animals.  After a few frantic attempts at escape, in which the steers bellowed with pain, the wire thankfully held and the whole herd cowered in the center of the circle, with the crowd cheering the new KING OF THE RANGE!  Gates pocketed his winnings, and started taking orders for “bob wire” just as fast as he could write them.

Barbed wire did change the world (or at least the western U. S.) almost as much as the coming of the railroad.

Uncle Ike Ellwood’s factories began running 24 / 7, and when Gates realized his sales were the source of the newfound prosperity, he insisted on being taken in as a partner.  Ellwood laughed him out of his office, so an angry Gates set up shop to make his own damn wire.  Although Ellwood held multiple patents on the wire and its manufacture, Gates managed to elude prosecution by locating his machinery where he could move it across the state line by night, when things got hot, and appropriate officials could be “convinced” to drop the charges.  This earned him his first nickname: MOONSHINE GATES.

Gates soon realized the real money was in steel, so in 1889 he sold the wire business to his partners and set his sights on becoming the equal of the titans of the age, Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller and the great J.P. Morgan,  King of Wall Street.

Soon Gates was buying steel directly from the refineries.  He convinced the other “wire pirates” to form a stock company (in which he owned 51%) to buy their own steel mill which eventually became part of US STEEL.

While competitors were paying Ellwood a royalty on wire they manufactured, and buying their steel at retail, Gates and his combine were underselling them and making huge profits to boot.

The Bessemer process of making high quality steel was developed in Europe in the 1850s.  The new steel was key to making the wire and railroad rails that spanned the U.S. in 1869.  U.S. plants were slow to adopt the new process, so most high quality Bessemer steel “pigs” were imported.  Showing no sign of bashfulness, Gates showed up at J. P. Morgan’s office one day and proposed a scheme to buy as many pigs as he could in the U. S., then go to Europe and buy all that were available there.  This would create a shortage, thus inflating the price.  Morgan would supply the money and he and Gates would split the profits.  Seeing a way to jab his archrival Andrew Carnegie, J. P. lent him the money and the whole scheme succeeded marvelously!

By 1898, Gates was ready to slow down, and decided to return to Texas. He had sold a speculator named Arthur E. Stillwell the steel rails to build 778 miles of railroad from Kansas City to a swampy town site on the Gulf Coast, optimistically named Port Arthur after his son.  Gates offered to buy 51% of the railroad, then got his friend E. H. Harriman of the Union Pacific to buy the other 49%. Gates built a large mansion in Port Arthur, a municipal sewer system, docks, port facilities, and even a library…named of course the John W. Gates Memorial Library.

A local wildcat oil driller named Pat Higgins had run out of money drilling on a hillock known locally as Spindletop and offered to sell Gates 51% of the well in exchange for financing.  Knowing nothing about oil (remember there were only a few hundred cars in the U.S. then, only a few thousand in the world, and most crude oil was refined into a kerosene-like product as a substitute for whale oil in lamps) Gates accepted Higgin’s offer.  On 10 Jan 1901, Spindletop blew in, spouting the wooden rig, men, and oil 160 feet into the air. Gates immediately bought out Higgins. 

Gates built a pipeline to Port Arthur, where a refinery was built, along with docks and a deep water port.  When J. D. Rockefeller (STANDARD OIL) offered to buy the new company for 25 million (around $700,000,000 today) Gates turned him down.  When Rockefeller angrily refused to sell or transport his oil, Gates reportedly said, “Then I’ll build my own damn oil company” and  TEXACO was born.

John W. Gates died in Paris in 1911.  Services were held in Paris and Port Arthur, and his body lay in state for several days in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in New York City.  He is buried in a huge mausoleum in the Oaklawn Cemetery in Yonkers, N. Y., alongside his son (who never married) and his wife, who apparently spent most of her married life at home.  Both died shortly after John, and a few of Gate’s cousins split his fortune.   One of the heirs, (Colonel) Edward J. Baker, took part of his money to build a luxury hotel in St. Charles, Illinois, and hired my uncle Bud Ziegler as a young bell hop.  Bud retired as the General Manager, and my beautiful Aunt Rena was often the hostess for gala parties. The hotel is still operating and worth a visit.

.

In case you missed the Golden Globes recently, Jane Fonda received an award for her contributions to entertainment. “Hanoi Jane”–to males of a certain age (you can Google that)–looked good and accepted the award graciously. During the ceremony a film I had never heard of about the Vietnam war, titled F.T.A  … , was mentioned.  

 As one of the above mentioned “males,”  I certainly knew what F. T. A  meant  (F_ __ The Army).  After a little phone tag, the film appeared on my screen. 

It starred Hanoi Jane and Donald Sutherland, who played Hawkeye in MASH the movie (Alan Alda played him on the long-running TV series).  The troupe did a self-funded Bob Hope style tour of the Pacific Rim, usually playing in venues right outside military installations. The message was defiantly anti-war, and wildly popular with the troops.  How they avoided being arrested I’ll never know! F.T.A was billed as Free The Army …. heh heh.  In 1971, as the War raged on,  clips of the show were spliced together to make a 90-minute film.  It’s not great cinema,  has the feel of a college project, and  was shown for exactly one week before mysteriously disappearing. Fortunately, someone saved a copy to be shown 50 years later.   I loved it. It’s now available on Amazon. By the way, buy a copy of the original MASH movie while you’re at it. You’ll learn the lyrics to the theme song, a cultural icon. Keep that F.T.A. thought in your head. We’ll come back to it in a minute.

In midsummer of 1967 I got a nice letter from the F.B.I. saying that I had been judged of sufficient moral character to receive one of our nation’s highest ranking military clearances, TOP SECRET WITH CRYPTOGRAPHIC ACCESS. Orders were to report to Fort Devens, MA, for several months of training with the Army Security Agency (A. S. A   in military speak ) as an Electronic Intelligence Tech ( ELINT to those in the trade ).

Having just spent two lovely months in New Jersey (The Garden State!) at even lovelier Fort Dix, I could hardly wait to once again become the guest of Uncle Sam. 

Devens had the reputation of being “The Country Club of Army Bases” and for being military, it really wasn’t too bad.  Most of the barracks were WWII, it was near Boston, they let me keep my Corvette on base, and I got a month off at Christmas to ski with my girlfriend in Vermont.  Beats sleeping in the jungle, I suppose.

After a few weeks, base life settled into a predictable routine :  

Mondays were devoted to a review of last week’s lessons, and desperate hangover recovery attempts.

Tuesdays were devoted to new stuff.

Wednesdays were more new stuff.

Thursdays were reviews of Tuesday & Wednesday’s stuff.

Friday was remedial for guys not quite as quick as some others ….and a wild charge to the bars and strip joints right outside the base gate.

That gate was pretty standard military, except that someone, with great pride I suppose, had planted a small garden and taken white painted rocks about the size of footballs, and spelled out  A S A among the flowers.  Nice.

From 2400 hours on Friday (that’s midnight to you civilians) to about 0600 hours on Monday (6 AM when the morning shift came on) those rocks were rearranged to spell F T A.

Happened every weekend.  The divots to locate the rocks were as well defined for one spelling as for the other.

As the weeks wore on, our training became more complex.  Encryption, decryption, signal location, etc. were drilled for weeks until we were finally allowed access to The Compound.   The Compound was surrounded by a tall fence, topped with razor wire, and guarded by an armed Marine.  All four services were represented in our class, which had now sunk to about half its original size.

Inside the first fence was an identical second fence with Marine.  Inside that was a sturdy brick building, and inside that was a full-on bank vault containing the Crown Jewels of American Cryptology.  Pretty impressive, except that some of the equipment used vacuum tubes.  Integrated circuits had been around since the late 50’s, and transistors before that.  Oh well.

After some weeks of fondling The Jewels, in late January of 1968, our little class of now six was called into the Brick House meeting room to be awarded our diplomas, and some cool patches to be sewn onto our uniforms.  Wahoo! Trying hard to conduct a dignified ceremony, our chief instructor said. “You boys is all done good, but North Korea is captured our spy ship PUEBLO, with all our best CHIT on board.   Now we gotta get all new CHIT!!”

It was going to take months, if not years (some estimated 10 years) for the U. S. to recover from this catastrophic loss, and develop new equipment and procedures. I certainly wasn’t going to wait around until then.  

As I motored through the gate for the last time, I snapped the sentry a perfect military salute.  As he saluted back, I could clearly see behind him the outline of F T A in the snow. 

Jane, after more than 50 years, it’s time to let go of all that negativity about you. Can we just be friends. 

Duane 04/3/2021

He was known in the race world as ‘Hunt the Shunt” for his frequent agricultural excursions.    

James Hunt was, of course, a great driver and I got to see him a couple of times.  Pete Fiestman and I were the crew for Bob Lazier’s Super Vee in ’76, and we were the warm up race at the Watkins Glen US Grand Prix that year. Hunt qualified on the pole, set fastest lap, won the race, and won the championship at the final race in Canada a week later.

It actually snowed the Sunday morning of the race, and the Super Vees were the first cars on the track.  Local “blue laws” kept sporting events from starting until after noon.  So we could all get to church I guess. The track was semi-dry by then, but it started to rain toward the end of the  race. 
Our Lola was exactly one year old that weekend.  We had left Carl Haas’ shop at 6 PM Friday before the 1975 race, after a 5-day thrash assembling our brand new baby. We were in line for tech inspection  at 9 AM on Saturday.  That’s about 700 miles folks, towing a trailer, a fair amount of it on two-lane roads, with gas/pee stops, picking up Bob, and going through race registration. 

Fortunately, that was during the energy crisis era and the 55 MPH speed limit.  Everyone had radar detectors and CBs, so we knew where “smokey” was, sometimes 200 miles before we saw the warm glow of his radar.  The truckers usually wanted to know what we had in the trailer, and we were often put in the rocking chair, in the middle of a dozen or so diesels doing 95 MPH.  My handle was Pappa Bear and Pete’s was Snow Flake.  As we approached Smokey’s hiding spot, our “convoy” would slow, like gigantic synchronized swimmers, to the double nickel.  I can still hear all those jake brakes.  Luckily, we had dual gas tanks, a cooler full of food and caffeine, so we stayed “east bound & down.”

We had had a few top 10 finishes before The Glen, but never a win.  As the race wound down, and the track got more slippery, Bob’s amazing talent and the years of driving in Vail’s snowy weather started to show.   We WON going away! It was my first experience in being actually number one.  I had seen a few good efforts, but never a win.  Wow, you never get over it.

On the podium, we got the requisite trophy, laurel wreath and a double magnum of locally produced champagne.  We hurried to pack up the trailer, and watched the two-wide standing start of the F-1 race.  That’s the most exciting part in my opinion, especially with the kink at the end of the front straight at The Glen.  You can’t get two wide through there, and nobody is willing to give an inch.  

After the start, we turned our squeaky AM radio to the race broadcast, and headed for the tiny Elmira airport to get Bob on an airplane.  Watkins Glen had, and probably still has, the worst track access in the known world. Trying to funnel 100,000 people out through farm roads meant the first flight out after the Grand Prix was often about half full, in spite of being booked solid and even over booked.

Pete and I decided we would try to get our race engine to the rebuilder’s shop back in Chicago by Monday morning.  Hadn’t had enough driving since leaving Vail I guess.  As we drove west, letting our trucker friends know of our good fortune, we started to talk about what hopes we had for our little team.  Surely we wanted to win the next race, but what after that?  Could we hope for a national championship, or maybe move up to a bigger series.

Formula 5000?  Maybe something even bigger.

That double magnum champagne bottle proved to be hard to drink out of after it was about half empty  (darkness had descended by now) and it was heavy.   We were pretty sure real racers drank right out of the bottle, and neither had thought to bring a glass.  No matter how low  the non-driving drinker bowed his head, the driver-pourer kept bumping the bottom of the bottle into the headliner before much champagne sloshed toward the exit.  Somewhere in Indiana (I think) we finally abandoned the vino, it was now warm and flat, and poured the rest out the window.  Don’t let anyone ever tell you victory champagne doesn’t taste like heaven though. It was great.  I don’t know what happened to the bottle…wish I still had it.  

 We never could have guessed what that first victory would lead to.  We continued to win races, and attracted Montgomery Wards Auto Club as a sponsor. (Remember Monkey Wards?)  Not funding the team out of our own pockets made a huge difference.  We now had actual uniforms, and we won the Robert Bosch Super Vee Gold Cup National Championship.  

Wards found the fledging Auto Club arm of their Signature Division was a substantial profit center.  It offered a tire and lube service, some race themed merchandise, a monthly Club magazine, and if you signed up for their credit card you could win a VIP weekend at the track (ka-ching!).  They took us to Indy in 1981, where Bob won Series Rookie of the Year.  

Indy is The Big Show, for sure.  A pickup towing a trailer became a fully equipped 18 wheel transporter with professional driver.  Crew travel was by commercial aircraft, with driver and sponsor staff on private jets. Cheap motels and a drive through became a custom made Prevost motor coach  with driver quarters, and a reception lounge for entertaining potential associate sponsors. A matching Prevost  coach had a slide out kitchen that could plate a decent meal about every 60 seconds.  A third coach hauled the tent and equipment that seated 200 or so VIP guests…with an open bar.  I kept looking around going “Wow.”

When you’re setting up the tool boxes on pit lane the morning of a race, you know everyone there has paid his dues, and you’re pretty sure you are with the best in the world at what you do.  Car safety, track safety (there were no pit lane speed limits), and fan safety were just starting to be talked about.

Some people did die for their passion. We were next to Penske Racing on pit lane, and during a stop their fuel hose malfunctioned and resulted in a huge fire.  Their car was burned up, along with about 1/2 inch of driver Rick Mears’ nose.  After he fire was out, I’m embarrassed to admit my feeling was, “Good, that’s one less son-of-a-bitch we’ll have to pass.”  

We had started 13th, in front of some of the biggest names in racing, and were running strong when our Ford Cosworth motor dropped a valve late in the race. We finished 15th, which just about paid expenses.

Indy put the Laziers on the world stage.  Bob’s oldest son Buddy won the race in ’96, driving with a spine cracked in 22 places at Phoenix 45 days earlier.  Tough guy.  He also won the Indy Car Championship in 2000.. Bob’s younger son Jaques has done well, driving for A.J. Foyt and several other teams.  The third generation is winning kart races, so we may see the legacy continue.

Somewhere on that dark night, after the victory at The Glen, the seeds were planted for the years to come.  Racing in the 70’s had some great talent, some great cars, some real characters,  and real risks. We were lucky to see our champagne dreams come true…in spades.

This month’s post is a little tip in case you ever find yourself on the starting line of the Indy 500 on Memorial Day.  I know it sounds unlikely, unless you’ve devoted a large part of your life to motor racing, but hey, it could happen. 

Just a little background. 

My first car was a 1952 Ford Victoria hard top, cream over burgundy, flat head V-8 with  Ford-o-matic trans and a factory-installed spotlight.  We lived in a California tract house that had a carport you walked through to get to the front door, and my beloved Ford often lay bleeding there, recovering from my efforts to make it into a race car.   My mother should be nominated for sainthood. I started from scratch, with a few old tools my dad had in a box, but I was sure if I worked hard and paid attention, someday I’d be a racer.

I went by the old home a few years ago.  Hasn’t changed much.  I knelt down by one of the grease stains on the driveway which could well have been mine and thought “It’s a long way from here to starting line of the Indy 500.”

Well, it was a long trail.  Graduating from high school in 1961, college, Army, marriage, moving to Vail and meeting Bob Lazier, and a chance to work on a race team finally landed me at Indy.

The stands go almost all the way around the track, seating about 230,000 people.  That’s over TWICE the crowd of most Super Bowls.  With the infield seating, that total jumps to 400,000.   When you’re standing on the starting line, YARD of BRICKS, looking down the track, it feels like you are standing in a dark canyon, and some say you can feel the ghosts of men who raced and sometimes died there.  A breeze is usually moaning through the stands, which adds to the effect.

That breeze makes the setup of the car extremely tricky.  Modern Indy cars create so much downforce with their wings and body shape that they could theoretically drive upside down and still stayed glued to the track.  Sometimes there’s a tailwind between turns 1 and 2,  and a headwind between 3 and 4.  Try that mister setup wizard.  And if you get it wrong, or if it changes during the race, someone could die.  

When we were there, the qualifying, setup, carb day, pole day, etc. lasted a whole month, and it was not uncommon to still be fiddling with the setup on race day.  There are literally thousands of possible combinations.

As race day gets closer, 100,000 or so people are in the stands watching you every day.   At the full capacity of 400,000,  the energy of the people and the noise they make is something you don’t hear, you just feel …. and you never forget.

1981 was my first year at Indy with Bob and we qualified 13^th, which put us on the inside of the 4^th row.  On race day you have to get up about 4 A.M. and enter the track with your garage pass through a “secret entrance” behind the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Motel.  At that hour, lines of people are already waiting at the public entrances.  There are stories of competitors who didn’t make the race because they got stuck in traffic.   Bummer !

Once you are safely inside the paddock, it’s time to transport the tools, stacks of tires, spares, timing equipment, and all the pieces you’ve been honing for the last month into place.  The fuel truck comes by and fills your track side tank, which has been about ½ full all month for safety reasons.  There is a saying along pit row “I love the smell of Methanol in the morning,” which is a takeoff on a line from APOCALYPSE NOW.  

By about 12:30, you’ve been on your feet for nearly 8 hours, at maximum concentration, and now it’s time to roll the cars into place.  The marching bands have cleared out, the jets have flown over, Jim Nabors has sung BACK HOME IN INDIANA, and the moment has arrived.  Indy cars don’t have onboard starters, so one guy carries a big electric motor out onto the starting grid, one guy wheels a battery with cables and an on/off switch (that was me in this case),  and the third guy is usually the CREW CHIEF, who is also known today as GOD.

 

All is ready and the crowd is screaming, which sounds like a big wind.  Most of the guys out on the track are racing veterans, all respected as the best at their craft, but this is my first time.  As the seconds ticked down, one of our crew shouted over to me “DID YOU BRING THE STARCH !”

OH SHIT!  Did I forget something?  This is my moment on the WORLD STAGE, my mother is watching on TV, and I’VE BLOWN IT!!

With quivering voice I stammered “Starch? Why was I supposed to bring STARCH?” 

“Yea, you know, for when they say,  “GENTLEMEN STARCH YOUR ENGINES!”

I guess it’s a really old CORNY joke, but I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.  Maybe it’s a rite of passage.  When Mary Holman actually did say “Gentlemen Start Your Engines,” I’m the guy who threw the starter switch…fulfilling a life long dream. 

We finished 19^th and Bob was declared Series Rookie of The Year.  WOW !

Well, that’s my tip for today.  Fortunately, YOU won’t have to fall for the old STARCH JOKE, but then maybe you can pull it on someone else!  Thanks for listening.    

Duane

In the early 70’s, my wife Suzanne and I found ourselves in Vail, Colorado, with no job, no money, and not much direction.  We’d lived in town for a year or so while I kicked around in the construction business.  A friend of a friend from San Francisco was living in our spare bedroom while he recovered from a divorce, and between myself, Suzanne, and Charley, it was down to paying rent or eating.

Spring and construction season were still a couple of months away, so Suzanne took a job as a chili server/cashier at Eagles Nest, the mountain TOP restaurant.   After a couple of days, the self-important manager walked by and pinched her butt.  Suzi nailed him with a wicked right cross, which landed her in the office of Paul, the head of Vail Food Services.

At the end of their “interview,” Paul asked Suzanne if she’d like to work for him as his Executive Assistant.  Paul was right out of U.S. Army Restaurant Management, and most of his staff were older and had been there a while. She accepted the job.

 Charley was a professional menu designer, and knew a lot about restaurants, so he and I often dropped by Food Service just to see what was going on.  During one of our visits, the Austrian Executive Chef came storming out of Paul’s office screaming “All your restaurants are SHIT … and all your food is SHIT too!!”   We were stunned.

I think it was Charley who ventured, “Yea, well, Vail’s mountain restaurants could use some help.”  Paul looked directly at us and said, “Why don’t you two make us a proposal. The Executive Committee meets Tuesday at 10 AM.” 

This was on a Friday afternoon, so we told Paul we might need Suzi to help us on Monday with our proposal, and we all left the office.

As we drove home in my faithful Shelby GT- 350 (Supercharged), we alternately laughed and cried at our good and bad luck.  I was used to making Industrial Design presentations with my Nikon camera and Kodak slide projector, and Charley had pitched plenty of restaurant menu ideas, so we decided to visit as many ski areas as we could to make a killer slide show on ski area food service, being careful not to include Vail since there was nothing good to say.

We had NO IDEA if that would work, but it was all we could come up with.

We rounded up all of the cash and credit cards we could find, called some friends in Utah we could stay with, and set off to do three ski areas in Colorado on Saturday, three areas in Utah on Sunday, be back at the 1 Hour film developer in Denver on Monday morning, then relax in Vail while we put together our “pitch” in the afternoon.

As Charley and I stood before the Vail execs on Tuesday, we realized they knew almost nothing about their own restaurants, food service in general, or HAD EVEN VISITED THEIR COMPETITION.  They were awe struck … and so were we.

As we left the Exec. Conference room, Paul’s boss Jim, who was also new on the job, asked if we could “Do  Something” with their main restaurant at Mid Vail.  The opening day for ski season was just 120 days away.  No budget, no direction, no nuthin …  just do It.

Paul was a huge help.  Due to the short fuse, decisions were made in minutes instead of weeks.  The previous Mid Vail menu had featured Baron of Beef and tossed salad, all served on paper plates with plastic knives & forks…so we had a good idea of “What not to do.” 

“Fast Food” (i.e. burgers) seemed like a good menu choice, mostly due to the anticipated high volume and limited cooking space. Charley and I jumped back into the Shelby and spent a couple of days in Denver with clipboards and stopwatches learning how the pros did it, or did not do it.

LESSON NUMBER ONE:  It seems obvious that in a high-volume specialized restaurant the menu should drive the design of the facility.  That wasn’t always evident.  Sometimes when we looked behind the counter, employees were bumping into each other, but in our case the facility was going to drive the menu, not the reverse.

LESSON NUMBER TWO:  Remember who you are and what you stand for.  McDonald’s was experimenting with candlelight dining after 8 PM, with waiter service.  They obviously fell flat on their corporate asses, but other fast food chains were trying similar dumb stuff, like Baron of Beef!

LESSON NUMBER THREE:  The fewer menu items you offer the more MONEY you make. If you have one item, it’s (1) going to be available, or (2) going to be out of stock, or (3) turned rotten because someone didn’t rotate the inventory. You have one winner with two losers.

Now, consider if you have two items, there are two winning choices and four losers. Imagine you have 10 or 20 or even 30 items: not good odds.  Especially if your suppliers are 100 miles away in Denver, thru two eleven-thousand-foot passes and a raging blizzard.

We hired all our ski bum/New Age/hippie friends, most of whom had at least one college degree.  They were surprisingly capable and surprisingly motivated.  In addition to the kitchen and seating area, we redid both of the public restrooms, the staircases, the gift shop; and changed the color scheme from black & blue (???) to a warm orange and yellow. Using a subcontractor, we replaced the cheap residential floor covering with commercial grade waterproof carpet … no more musty smell !

Paul and our ersatz crew designed and built the kitchen like a straight through racing engine.  It started with several hundred cubic feet of refrigerated storage, followed by several linear feet of prep, followed by the two biggest char grills we could find, about 30 square feet of cooking area that sizzled, roared, and threw flames (loved that). They fed three stainless “order up” shelves, which were accessed by three order takers/cashiers who never moved more than a few steps in any direction all day long.

When it was all finished we offered the best ¼ pound burgers/cheeseburgers anywhere, fries, Coke products (large only), chili, coffee, draft beer, bottled wine, and hot chocolate.  THAT’S IT. No dogs, no salads, no quiche.  Now Get Outa My WAY!

Our full race kitchen ran just OK at idle, sputtered some at part throttle, but at FULL THROTTLE it was the Dragster, F–1, & Indy Car of ski area food service.

I took my trusty 8 mm film camera on the last day of skiing (locals only) on Easter 1975.  What an adventure!

After the season wrapped up Paul informed us that the Mid Vail Restaurant was the HIGHEST DOLLAR VOLUME SKI AREA RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD.

Pretty cool for a dozen or so guys, and a few gals–thank you–who hadn’t a clue what they were doing.  Vail now controls the ski world, owning more than 80 resorts.  Their seasonal EPIC PASS lets you ski Europe, Japan, and Australia, with the US and Canada for one price.  Their Big Risk/Big Reward style and Believe in Yourself management has taken them to the top.

Hello again friends.  For regular readers of this post, I’m happy (and sad) to report that the TRIBUTE we did for Bob Lazier a few months ago continues to get “views.”  They should easily top 1,000 by Christmas.  Bob had a lot of friends, and it’s hard to imagine Christmas at the Tivoli without Bob bustling around.  Miss ya guy!  

You can view the TRIBUTE by going to www.mustangirs.com if you’re so inclined.

With all the buzz created by the FORD v FERRARI flick, I thought you might be interested in a video we shot some years ago as part of an effort to resurrect the Last Shelby King Cobra.  The plan was to have the work done, or at least supervised, by the guys who originally built the car.  Sound familiar?

Sadly, several of the people in this video are no longer with us.  Phil Remington, Chief Engineer and all around wizard (played by  Ray McKinnon in the F v F movie)  has passed.  And of course Shel, who signed the chassis later, is gone too. 

Phil Collins master fabricator, also known as “Granny” in Venice, passed shortly after this film was made.   He had great stories of sleeping in the London subways as a kid during the WW II “Blitz.”  Too bad we didn’t capture them on video.

The late Jerry Titus (Rick’s dad) drove the yellow Can Am chassis #1 in its only two competitive races.  It was destroyed in a crash at the end of the 1967 racing season.   Jerry told young Rick to “Strip everything you can off that tub and throw in the dumpster.”  What would that mangled lump of metal be worth today?  Fortunately young Rick did a great job.  The doors, duct work and other pieces stripped off #1 have recently been found and will be used to finish chassis #3.  

To help you keep the numbers straight, chassis #2 (only 3 were built) has been lovingly restored and is now living in the Northwest.

As often happens with these projects, life has gotten in the way. The mechanicals for #3 have been found, gathered up and sorted, and the wooden buck needed to shape the aluminum body has been constructed (not cheap ! )  

Once the new aluminum  body is complete, it’s back to John Collin’s shop, where John’s son Graham will put it all together.  Jerry’s son Rick will have the FIRST DRIVE !

Time and money will tell.

Dreams do still happen.  This one has just taken a little longer than planned.  Hope you enjoy the video.

Duane

Looking through the slides for the Bob Lazier Tribute (thanks for all your condolences), I found  this gem. 

In 1979, Pete Feistman (Bob’s crew chief) and I decided to cross the Gore Range on a seldom used route.  Pete incredibly still has the map we used!  Those old Nikons took great pictures. What a grand time, hope you enjoy the trip. 

Duane

Hi friends,

In April, my friend Bob Lazier flew by that final checkered flag that waits for us all. I was fortunate to work as one of Bob’s crew members for several years, including when he raced at Indy. In his honor, I’ve created a tribute video.

For a great story about Bob, check out this motorsport.com article about the time when Bob blew away the field at the Indy Legends Pro-Am, at the age of 75, probably the oldest driver in the race, and maybe even the oldest ever to compete.

God speed, Bob. Emphasis on speed.

Duane Carling