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It is a galaxy of metallurgical refuse, a dormant constellation that resembles nothing if not dark matter, whose gravity is sucking the carnage off the interstate and out of the skies into its lair.
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On the off chance that this obelisk is still intact and not deconstructed and reconstructed into somebody’s swing set, I start perusing the maze of boneyards that lurk behind the casinos, like metallic spider webs… I am in the State Line Casino, a building divided between the two states of Utah and Nevada and their respective mores, with its coffee shop in Utah and the one armed bandits in Nevada. The local Highway Department had collected the remains of Infinity and had fenced it off in a surplus yard in the vicinity of Wendover, behind the casinos. The remnants of the car had been left on the Salt Flats for three years as a rather macabre reminder of how high the stakes were pushed in the Land Speed Record Wars. I am looking for the jet car known as Infinity which had crashed out here in 1962. Your nose is tickled by the smells of pork and jet fuel, a vaporous stimulant that is much more inspiring than the motel’s coffee. And it is surreal, although it is difficult to determine which is more other-wordly, the topography or the machinery.Īs the rising sun exaggerates the curvature of the horizon, you are struck by the eerie silence of the dawn, a sonic void interrupted by the sporadic tumult of preparation for the day’s record runs, the raising of canopies, the spinning of generators and the sizzling of bacon. It is futuristic and it is a page out of the past. If you had ever landed on the moon, you would know it is a space with an infinite horizon, rife with possibility. You are not even sure if you are on the same planet anymore. You are no longer on the set of a western. You motor out of this border town to the Salt Flats and then stop when it appears you can see forever. Whatever it was that the prop man brewed for Randolph Scott and John Wayne to imbibe out of tin cups around the camp fire scenes, it couldn’t be any worse than this stuff, you say to yourself.
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You wake up in Wendover, a town that Craig Breedlove compared to the Western motion picture facades on the old 20th Century Fox lot in Culver City nearly forty years ago, and the one detail that makes that metaphor still applicable is the brackish coffee you are swilling out of a styrofoam cup as half of the motel’s free continental breakfast. Seeing that junk out there bothered me, it sure as hell did.’” - “Enemy in Speedland,” Sports Illustrated, 1965.Īt 5:30 am the phone in your motel rooms rings like a rubber band to the temples. ‘The kind of guy you run into maybe once a year but you get to like. “‘Glenn Leasher was a hot rod buddy of mine,’ Arthur (Arfons) explained.