It Ain't Over 'til It's Over
Jim Knapp, Joysticks

Some of you know me, some of you don't. I run a seriously fast Honda that currently holds two World Land Speed Records. I'll be 58 Monday and have been racing on and off for over 40 years. Until last night, I was beginning to think I had a pretty good grasp on "reality."

This story is to warn you racers to always be the student! Our egos and faster and faster nature are both our wonderful friend and fearsome Master. Be mindful of the game we are all playing!

I could never have imagined what happened in this story. I always figured I was safe up in the front of the car, a solid steel firewall separating me from the engine and all the mechanical and chemical problems that can occur back there. No way any fires, explosions, or spills could come forward against a 200+mph headwind, right?

And I knew I was really safe when I felt the chute hit. That always meant all was well and I could relax.

Well, Bob Herda knew all that, too. And he's now dead. A brilliant engineer who built amazing race cars that challenged the barriers of Bonneville Land Speed Records is gone. Just like that.

Yogi Berra pointed out that, "It ain't over 'til it's over." Last night at the San Diego Roadsters Club (SDRC) meeting I discovered the horrific truth of that statement.

Bob wanted a record, and built a car to go after it. Keenly into aerodynamics and widely known as a stunning engineer, he fashioned a high tech frame and wrapped it in a flawless body — no holes, no bumps, no blemishes of any kind. He even installed an on-board breathing system with a high-pressure oxygen bottle so he wouldn't need a parasitic opening for intake air.

He ran it many times, always chasing speed.

Fast forward to August 1969, the day of his final run. What follows is a somewhat fanciful, although essentially factual, account of what happened. I say "essentially" because I was not there and have only assembled some of the details. I write this so that perhaps you will learn, as I did last night, that, "It ain't over 'til it's over." The story of Bob's death most certainly saved my life, if not directly, then at least by making me more respectful of what we do out there.

That 1969 event had been a frustrating meet. To get more speed in the car, they had switched from alcohol to nitromethane, but inexplicably the motor would not run right. Seems some kind of gunky stuff kept forming in the fuel lines. They had to keep flushing everything out. Bob was not to be deterred. Once it was all purged, the motor responded eagerly.

So off they went to the starting line.

Bob suited up and climbed into the car. The motor responded with the erotic cacophony of disjointed explosions that only Pop (nitro methane) can make. Put the hammer down, though, and the confusing mayhem transforms instantly to "orderly" mayhem — that is to say, "hang on!"

Bob left the line that day with a strong burst. Climbing up through the gears, the motor ran cleanly, now free of the strange gunk that had clogged its arteries. The very same gunk that had done such a perfect job of sealing the fuel tank from alcohol leaks. The gunk that was no match for the corrosive temperament of Pop.

The fuel began to leak. And leak. And leak. And Bob kept his foot into it, hammering his ride toward the 300 range. Unaware of the evolving scene, just four feet back.

Funny things happen to airflow. Unpredictable things, even with the best engineering. The investigation would reveal that pressure under the car had somehow gone negative, pulling the belly pan down from the firewall that separated Bob from the engine compartment behind him. Drain holes in the belly pan, made tiny to lessen wind resistance, were not able to expel the gathering fluid, and it continued to collect. At the back of the car. We're accelerating, remember?

At last, through the final lights. Off the gas.

Like me, Bob probably contemplated the scene for a moment before tossing the laundry. Your car may be fishtailing or bouncing, or it may be wonderfully solid, as if "on rails." Either way, when the chute blossoms, reassuringly slamming you forward into the belts, the release drains every cell of your body.

Phew! It's over. I'm safe! All we do now is wait, as it all slows down.

I'm sure Bob was feeling the same kind of relief as the sudden deceleration sloshed the puddle of nitromethane forward and the fuel ignited on the hot exhaust manifolds. The burning fuel immediately found its way under the firewall and into the driver's compartment. A few seconds later it melted the high pressure oxygen line, only insuring that it would all happen more quickly.

It was over so fast that when the car rolled to a stop moments later, there was no hint that the car was on fire, or had been on fire. Witnesses 50 feet away saw no problems. Until they got closer.

• • •

Thank you, Bob. And thank you to the men who told me that story. I had been thinking that with a good coat of paint, my half-rusted floor boards would probably be okay for one more season. But after last night, the entire car is coming apart for a complete Magna Flux and re-do. And brand new floor boards, firewall fixtures, and wiring routing.

This is serious s... And, "It ain't over 'til it's over."

Always The Student,

Jim