Swift Happening At The Glen

Grand Prix racing produces many things: excitement, crowds, money, traffic jams, hard-won victories and the odd bloody knuckle. Thus it is no wonder that the sport also produces poetry. Road-racing fans, being the most literate of the car crowd, are the bards of the sport, and the U.S. Grand Prix at Watkins Glen last week generated a couple of memorable efforts. As usual, the speed freaks chose to inscribe their verses on the walls of pit row or, failing that, those of the nearest Port-A-John. Two of the poems took the moon as a metaphor. The first could be titled:

THE GHOSTS OF FITTIPALDI'S PAST

The moon, a gibbous goblet
In the praisemonger's phrase,
Decanted its leaden rays
On the foregathered faithful.

Huddled in trees and stoned on apple wine,
Beneath the grass fires and the burning Johns,
They studied on the sky: the clouds
Turned on the crowds, and the crowds
Turned on the moon....
Down the night, furious as usual,
Out of control in his controlling way,
Rode Rindt, too late for Sunday's grandeur,
Early to his inevitable grave, and grave
In death as he was in victory here
In the moon of '69.

Then Courage, shards of courage,
Spat sand from his scorched mouth,
Dead among the Dutch....
But Emerson, alive, too quick through the Esses
To be stopped...yestermoon's winner....
Fittipaldi sat in the first row, next to Hulme
Humming nicely now,
And Stewart, alive, the clothing designer,
Hirsute champ, high-pitched pal and self-promoter,
Canny co-owner of the whole wide world,
If not the Glen,
Now as then sat on the pole.

But only the moon could say
If Mark or Mario
Would drive today....

The second verse, briefer and therefore more memorable, was derived from an old hippie metaphor: "There are nights when the wolves are silent and the moon howls."

Ah, ah, the moon. Everyone at the Glen last week was watching the moon for a weather report. You could not get it from the local newspapers, or from the local TV. If it had a ring around it on Saturday night, the moon could predict whether Hurricane Ginger would disrupt the racing activities along the East Coast and thus profoundly affect events at Watkins Glen.

The two best road racers in America, Mark Donohue and Mario Andretti, were committed to running in a 300-mile Indianapolis-style race at Trenton, N.J., one which had been rained out the week previous and rescheduled on the date of the Grand Prix, where both were also entered. Without Donohue and Andretti, Watkins Glen would lose a grand come-on: Would an American at last win the American Grand Prix? Scotland's Jackie Stewart had already wrapped up the world championship, and second place in the point standings had been clinched by Ronnie Peterson. Names like Peterson, Jo Siffert and Jacky Ickx are not quite household words among speed followers. O.K., so Peter Revson was there, driving a Tyrrell-Ford just like Stewart's, but Revvie—who could very well become the first North American ever to capture the Can-Am Championship later this fall—was a long shot. And Sam Posey, the steatopygic star of many a minor-league race, was also on hand, winning, finally, the 18th place on the starting grid of 29 cars in a fragile Surtees-Ford. "You just gotta wait and keep trying," allowed Sam. "You gotta let it happen."

In a way, the Glen this year was a happening—a Woodstock-on-wheels. As Stewart turned his faultless laps on Saturday in pursuit of the pole and its concomitant $2,000, shirtless longhairs—male and female—hunkered on platforms in the treetops across from the start-finish line, smoking him on. Up the road apiece, peasant-blousy hippies were dealing "organic apple cider" and angelic smiles to any who would stop at two bits per shot. Others had organized an ox roast—how medieval can you get? Nailing down the primal nature of the event was prize money totaling $260,000 and the reek of manure that emanated from the freshly bulldozed earth behind the unfinished pit area.