Horsepowered

If only we all could realize that
Speed is essentially a relative property…

Rhythmic thunder pounded the earth as Cotton Bob rode high and fast in the late afternoon. His hair blew back from his forehead. He loved the speed of a horse moving at full gallop across an open pasture. Breakneck speed. He spurred Fox, his big red Tennessee Walker, as soon as he saw the cotton field unroll. Cotton. Everywhere the eye could see. An endless sea of cotton. As Fox busted through, bolls flew up into the air encompassing man and horse in one tumbling white whirlwind.

He was on his way back home to his family's farm near the Tallapoosa. Considering the blistering heat, a swim was in order. He thought about how cool the water would feel. Bob whistled a careless tune through his teeth as Fox accelerated. Usually he walked the distance, in order to better observe the forest and to stretch his legs, but this morning he had gotten up a little late and had had to make double time. It was a fun ride anyhow. It always intrigued him, though, how different his thoughts were when moving at a higher velocity. He thought of principles and airy concepts and bits of poems and dreams rather than the woodland critter details that he tended to focus upon when on foot.

The world seemed to part before the coordinated force of a man and his horse. Horsepower. The archetypal abstraction of dynamic propulsion. He could beat Time itself on a horse. Feeling a little arrogant as the wind tried to prevent his thrust, he thought that perhaps there was no such thing as time. There was only the feeling of time. It was relative. Time was consciousness driving itself through the universe at a particular rhythm. That was all. Certain adjustments had a way of, well, wrinkling things up a bit. A second was eternity at the speed of light.


There was a dirt road at the edge of the field. He swung Fox right just before he crashed through the brush on the other side. Again he spurred the horse for the straightaway up ahead on the bridge above the Tallapoosa River. He would have to slow down when he got to the other side because of a steep curve to the left and so now he really made it count.

As he crossed the bridge, he thought he heard something strange. It was perplexing, something he intuitively grasped before he cognitively realized. Danger! The sound of a loud motor or motors. It wasn't a train. It was a...

Two moving metal blocks appeared around the edge of the curve, coming toward him at a very high speed. He noticed blurry numbers painted on the front of each vehicle. It looked like there were men sitting on them or in them somehow, steering against one another. They had masks and goggles on. They must have been going at least three times faster than he was. There was no room to pass. There was no room to turn around.

He could feel Fox tensing up, ready to bolt in the other direction. The horse suddenly reared up on two legs, fighting against the tight rein. Bob was entranced by the brightly colored tracers left in the wind behind the approaching machines.
It was obvious that one of the contraptions was trying to slow down. There was smoke hissing from the tires and the driver was swerving. The other one kept barreling forward.

Time stopped and his will became a laser thought telepathically communicating with his four-legged companion. Jump, you son of a bitch! He turned Fox's head to the left and let him leap off the bridge and into the deep water below. Time began again and as they dropped towards the cool green, he thought he heard a crash on the bridge high above.
He plunged into the baptismal waters whose sounds had nurtured his youthful wonderings on many a July night. He went down touching the bottom and opened his eyes to darkness. It had been too much for the conscious mind to maintain. Blackout.

When he came to, he heard the crackle of a campfire nearby. There was a dreamlike quality in the air. He picked up the familiar sounds of the crickets and the frogs. And underneath it all was the sound he had forgotten to notice, the rushing waters. He could see nothing.

He sat up and felt a wrenching pain in his lower back, which sent a stinger down his right leg.
"Fox!"

There was a snort and a whinny nearby. Thank goodness.

"Whoa, partner. He's all right. Just had a good bath, that's all. You might want to lie back down for a second." A strange voice admonished.

"What the hell? Who the hell are you? Where's my horse? Why can't I see?" By the nasal sound in the man's speech, he could tell that he was from above the Mason and Dixon.

"I'm one of the auto-mo-BILE drivers that you were just playin' chicken with about three hours ago. Hughes is my name. Hughie Hughes. I'm from Jersey." A man with a heavy black mustache and one-piece work suit answered him uneasily.
"Here have some coffee." He handed Bob a cup with his greasy fingers.

Bob threw it back at him, scorching the man's face.
"Bastards! You ought to know better than to be flying around curves like that.
'Bout killed me and my horse!"

Hughes wiped the coffee from his face, still cringing from the burn.
"Well, I got my punishment. Wrecked my auto-MO-bile into the bridge support trying to dodge you. Broke my mechanic's arm. He's still unconscious. And 'bout near killed myself. I am truly sorry. I was trying to whip that arrogant Italian jerk, Felice Pizarro, in his Fiat. You saw how he didn't even blink at you. Goddamn spaghetti boy!"

"Is he still around here?" Bob craned his head, unconscious that he was wearing a blindfold.

"No, No. He didn't miss a lick. He's well on his way back to Savannah by now."

"Well, hell, let's go to Savannah then and have ourselves a time!!!" Bob stood up and yelled in excruciating pain as he put weight on his right ankle. He fell back down.

"You ain't going anywhere for awhile. And he'll be off to another race in another land far far away before you'll ever get a swing." Hughes laughed at the teenager's temerity.

"You got a sprained ankle. Apparently, you opened your eyes when you hit the water and it blew some blood vessels, too. The whites have turned red, temporarily. You look kind've freakish."

Bob didn't say anything. His mind turned to the dinner he was supposed to help his mother prepare for the family.
"Well, maybe instead of coffee, you'd like some of this, seein' as you're stuck around this campfire for the evening." Hughes pulled a silver flask out of his chest pocket and carefully handed it over to Bob.

"What is it?" Bob asked.

"Moonshine. Picked up from an old cooter just outside Tallassee at a trade post called Rance's Shot House, during a pit stop."

"That's my grandiddy's place."

"No shit?"

"Yeah, he made rifles for the Army of Tennessee. They said he was the best shot in the county."

"I don't see the connection to moon..."

"Idiot. Gimme that..." Bob grabbed the flask.

He took a deep swig. It sent shivers throughout his body. He still didn't understand what was going on. What kind've business was this feller involved with? He was using some weird words.

The alcohol unleashed his blood instantaneously. He ripped the blindfold off and with the vapors still flowing through his nasal passage, he tried not to miss a beat. His eyes were blazing.
"Hughes, what the hell is an AUTO-mo-bile?

Hughes smiled.
"Where've you been for the last 10 years, man? It's 1909.

Cotton Bob didn't say anything. He just took another swig and looked up dreamily.

"We've got a long night ahead of us. Here give it back!" Hughes sat down on a log next to the curious young man and took his turn.

He gave Bob the brief history of the automobile as best he could between sips of Rance's moonshine. He hadn't realized that there were many parts of the rural South that had never even heard of the motorcar. That would explain all those strange looks he kept getting from farmers and folk he had flown by in the past couple of weeks.

It was an interesting time. Most people across the country still traveled by means of horse and carriage. All of the roads connecting the cities were dirt and most of them were only wide enough for one vehicle at a time.
In 1895 the Duryea brothers received a patent for the first gasoline-powered automobile in the United States. P.T. Barnum featured their vehicle in his traveling circus. The motorized freak commanded more attention than all the other exhibits combined. Yet Charles and his brother Frank were constantly fighting over credit for the patent and their models failed to evolve with the competition.

Soon others began achieving renown. The first race in the United States took place on April 14, 1900. Top speed: 25 mph. In 1901, the Italian Henry Fournier had been the first to drive a mile in under a minute. A couple of years later a doctor from Vermont and his chauffeur took the first transcontinental endurance ride. They reached the Pacific in 64 days.
Originally seen as a rich man's toy, the recreational potential of the motorcar was exploited through intensive male competitions the world over. This was an exciting, experimental period full of gambling which, inadvertently facilitated the evolution of the industry. A thousand variations of the "horseless carriage" had been racing around for almost 10 years. The engines were getting bigger, the bodies more aerodynamic, the speeds higher, and the character of the race car drivers more reckless and cavalier.

Starting in 1904, W.K. Vanderbilt sponsored a race known as "The Vanderbilt Cup". This had become the most famous race in the United States. 1st prize was a $5,000 silver cup made by Tiffany, along with a $2000 purse.

Hughes was from Trenton, New Jersey, in Mercer County. He had gotten in with the Roebling family there, who were one of the earliest car manufacturers. They had built the Brooklyn Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, and just about every major bridge built since carried their patented support cable. On the side, the family began investing in the burgeoning motorcar industry.
Washington Roebling, Jr was at the helm of the racing side of things. He was a well-to-do intelligent aristocrat with a vision. He had decided to name the company after the county. And it just so happened that Mercer County was named after a Revolutionary War hero who was a direct ancestor of the famous Mercers of Savannah, Georgia. And somehow, Savannah had brought the South into the auto racing world…


Thick billowy cigar smoke covered the back room of the bar over at the Oglethorpe Club, the preeminent men’s leisure organization in Savannah. Nine middle-to-elder aged Southern gents sat around a long table. This was the Savannah Automobile Club and Frank Battey, the president, had called an emergency meeting. Governor Hoke Smith was in attendance.

“Who do you think you are, Barney Oldfield?” George Tiedeman, mayor of Savannah, spoke sarcastically to Battey, who now sat back with a smug grin. He lit a fat Havana and proceeded to blow rings. The other men laughed. The piano player in the background began rolling out the Maple Leaf Rag.

“Yeah, he thinks he’s Barney Oldfield, all right. Look at that see-gar in his mouth.” Major Stephens seconded the motion. Barney Oldfield, the famous circus master race driver, was already a household name in many U.S. cities.

Battey had recently been in touch with key officials of the AAA (Automobile Association of America). Apparently, there had been a bit of a dispute with the ACA (American Car Association) regarding standardization procedures involving European cars. There had also been arguments over holding races in New York. The people there did not like having the roads shut down for the races. And there had also been a number of accidents already, involving spectators. This was attributed to the crowded circumstances but it also may have had something to do with vendors who had gotten away with selling ticklers, bamboo sticks with feathers attached to the end meant to "tickle" the drivers as they zoomed by. But down in sunny Savannah there was plenty of room and no such nonsense. And Battey was 'bout near crazy to get the Vanderbilt Cup to come down.

“Are you trying to tell me, Frank, that you have convinced the bigwig race sponsors in New York City to bring an international racing event to little ol' Savannah?” Governor Smith was still incredulous.

“Yes, guv’nah. That is what I am a tellin’ ya. Imagine all of the European countries and our Northern brethren convergin' on our enchanted little city to participate in the most extra-ordinary automobile race ever held in the entire world. The Southern Vanderbilt Cup. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes. Indeed. The rise of the horseless carriage! The South ain't never seen anything like it!” Battey looked up at the ceiling. The other men laughed again at his boyish demeanor.

T.A. Bryson, first automobile dealer in the South, interjected:
"You always were a dreamer, Frank.This might be just what we need down here to get the industry goin'. I'm in. I'll cover the advertising expenses."

Battey jumped up and raised his glass. His right hand moved back and forth with his voice as he tried to present a mental picture for the others while he made his toast. He took a big puff off of his cigar and blew a cloud above them all.
"The chain gangs will clear the track! The state militia, armed with the ancient bayonet will guard the way against the intruder! The local farmers will sell fresh produce to visitors from Wall Street as they get off the trains! The live oaks and Spanish moss will offer ample shade and a romantic glade for all the young lovers as they picnic. When the drivers fly around La Roche, they'll see a gorgeous marshscape and maybe a glimpse of Bonaventure. A hundred thousand from all over the South will flock to Savannah to have a look-see and to cheer them on as they careen down Victory Drive. Vrooom! Vroom! Vroom! We'll sell whiskey if it's cold and lemonade if it's hot! And cotton will be floating in the air! We 'gon git that trophy, boys. Vanderbilt won't be able to resist! To the Great Savannah Races!"

Everyone cheered.

Governor Hoke Smith now stood.
"All right, Frank. You've sold me. Let's make it a citywide holiday. Wouldn't want the little boys and girls to miss out on the fun, now would we?"...

----

...The campfire seemed to undulate to the beat of the tale.

Cotton Bob was fascinated.
"Did they get the Vanderbilt Cup to come to Savannah?"

"Well...no, they didn't.At least not in1908." Hughes replied. "But they held a number of smaller races and one big one called "The American Grand Prize". The ACA offered a $4000 purse and a gold trophy worth more than the coveted Vanderbilt Cup.
After the races in November of 1908, the sponsors decided to go back to New York. The ACA and the AAA had resolved their differences and thought Long Island might be better after all because of the higher concentration of capital and the greater advertising network. This upset the Savannah car clubs because their races had gotten such a good reception in 1908. It also upset the drivers because the track in Savannah was so smooth and the hospitality of the people so magnanimous.
So, in lieu of having the event inside of Savannah this year, Frank Battey, decided to sponsor a series of endurance races across the South, beginning and ending in Savannah. He himself had drawn out a rough map of all the known roads through Georgia. It's supposedly the first automobile road map of the state. I've actually got a copy in my pack. Beyond Georgia, it was anybody's guess. Navigation alone is the primary obstacle in finishing the race, much less competing. Cars are supposed to race down dirt roads only fit for horse and carriage. And that's how me and you came head to head on that bridge over yonder."

"Wow, that's one helluva story." Bob was still trying to take it all in. "Do you think the races are going to go back to Savannah?"

"I know for a fact that they are. You oughta come. I'll be there." Hughes rubbed his hands together. "For sure."
"We'll see." Bob leaned back and gazed into the fire...

---

Bob didn't make it in 1910 but every day that went by he thought of those cars and how powerful they were and what sort of future might be in store for a fellow who could bring them to Tallassee. Every time his dad went down to Montgomery, he asked to go so that he could pick up newspapers to see the automobile advertisements and reports of the wild races going on in various parts of the country. The Grand Prize Race in Savannah that year was a humdinger that came down to the last second. But the Vanderbilt Cup had still eluded the Savannah auto enthusiasts.

By 1911, Bob had saved enough to make the trip and word was that Battey had finally convinced "Willie K" Vanderbilt to let Savannah host the Vanderbilt Cup that year. All of their dreams were finally realized. Bob's dad agreed to let him use the one-horse carriage, so that he could pack enough supplies to make the journey. It took him a week and a half to get to Savannah. He had some close calls with roadsters driving by but nothing like his experience on the Tallapoosa bridge in 1909. Fox had begun to get used to new sounds. Each night, he would find a cool place to camp in the ample forest and fields of central Georgia.

One night he stayed in a peach orchard. The peaches hung heavy and he took it upon himself to pick a few. And then a few more to share with Fox. After drinking some of Rance's moonshine, he leaned back and gazed into the open sky. The stars jumped around twinkling. There were a couple of shooting stars. He dreamed of the Georgia Peach, princess of the South, wandering through the orchards, singing like a nightingale.
"Oh, where have you been, Billy-boy, Billy-boy,
Oh, where have been, charmin' Billy..."


He arrived at dusk in the forest city on November 26, a couple of days later, the day before the races were supposed to begin.

He came in on Oglethorpe Avenue and was staring up at an owl perched in the moss-covered tree tunnel when a lady yelled at him to stop. He looked down and realized that she wanted him to yield so that she could cross the street. She was dressed in a flowery pink dress. He tipped his straw hat and brought Fox to a halt.
"My apologies, ma'am. I hope you'll excuse me."

"You boys are always lookin' off in the distance. I do hope you'll be more careful next time."

"Yes ma'am, you're right. It's hard for me sometimes just to keep my feet on the ground."
He jumped out of the seat and stepped directly in front of the lady.
"What's a beautiful woman like you walkin' round without an escort for?"

"Well, I'll be. You are a rude one. Indeed. Escort? What's that supposed to mean?" She brushed him aside.

"Ma'am, I don't mean it that way." Bob tried to catch up and she hustled off.

"Could you at least tell me of a good place to stay for a couple of days? I'm here for the big races."

After a few moments, she looked back and smiled.
"Everybody who's anybody is staying over at the Desoto."

"Well, I am somebody. Where is it?" He asked politely.

"At the corner of Harris and Bull St. You cain't miss it." She turned around and continued walking away.

Bob looked up in the air again.
"Savannah. Thank God, I finally found Savannah."

The Desoto, jewel of Savannah, was a grandiose red brick Romanesque building that had been unveiled on New Year's Day in 1890. It was by far the most extraordinary hotel in Savannah. Electricity had arrived just a few years before and the Desoto was decked out with multiple chandeliers and sconces in every room.

On the southwestern portion of the extensive complex, the architect, William Gibbons Preston, designed a wide rotunda. This was the main lobby and public area. In the middle of the circular room was an enormous fireplace, approximately six feet tall. There was a chill in the air and many people gathered here for warmth. The chatter of excited anticipation filled the room. Bob could see the orange flames flickering on their faces as he walked up to the front desk. A dixieland ragtime band offered a rowdy tune in the background. The pop of the tenor banjo really stood out.

"Yes, ah, I am here for the big races. How much are the rooms?"

The lady in front of him smiled at his naivete.
"There are no rooms left, sir. Apparently, there are 100,000 people in the city. All the high falutin' folk booked up way in advance. But you are in luck. The Desoto is opening its doors wide to the visiting public.The city has even opened the jail to guests. They've got the president of Michelin Tire Company in solitary confinement! And he likes it."

Bob was still a bit confused with all of the commotion.
She pulled a small fold-up cot and a pillow from behind the desk.

"If you can find a spot in the back of the rotunda amongst all the others, you're welcome to stay."

"How much for the cot?"

"A dollah."

He grinned, took the cot, gave the woman two dollars, and headed over to one of the sparser corners of the room to set up camp. He found a spot near a window where he could see Fox outside, tethered to a tree. Madison Square. It looked like he was eating some grass near the Sergeant Jasper monument. Night was beginning to come on. He looked out and saw the beginning of a full moon glow.

After getting situated, he wandered into the hotel's tavern. There was a lot of commotion going on in that direction and he was hoping to find out where the Mercer camp was located so that he could catch up with Hughie Hughes, his ol' buddy.
A large group of men were huddling around a tall figure. They were laughing and had been drinking for some time. From the sound of it, they were from different countries. France, Italy, maybe Germany. Bob wasn't too sure. The guy in the center was American. His voice boomed out.
"Yeah, and if you can believe it, the mayor of Thunderbolt, made a public apology."

"Wutta fa?"

"For having the audacity to buy an automobile. The people here thought it was an unforgivable extravagance! Ha Ha Ha!

"Na, ya donna say. Wy eeza dat ta?"

"Why? Damn.You Euro boys shore do have a different sense of humor." The young American in the center shook his head, blowing him off.

Bob leaned over to the bartender.
"Who are those guys?"

The bartender stopped cleaning out a glass and tried to explain.
"Those are some of the race car drivers. Most of them are staying at individual camps situated out around the track but they know that the press is here and if there's one thing about race car drivers, it's that they all want to put on a good show. That's David Bruce-Brown in the center. He might be the best that ever lived. Comes from a filthy rich family in New York. Dropped out of Yale so he could race cars. Definitely got an attitude."

"Who's that Frenchie next to him?"

"That's Victor Hemery. He won the big Moscow to St. Petersburg race a couple of years back. He also won the first Vanderbilt Cup. Last year, Bruce-Brown beat him by second and a half, winning the Grand Prize. It was a helluva race. I just heard him say that he was going to do it again. Right before you came in.
Next to Hemery is Ralph Depalma. Then there's Joe Dawson, Fred Wagner, Louis Chevrolet, Henry Fournier, Felice Pizarro, and Barney Old..."

"Wait, which one is Pizarro?" Bob interrupted the bartender.

"The one talking tryin' to seduce the young lady over at the table under the sconce. Why, you got a beef?"

"Yessiree, bobtail. I do."

Bob couldn't wait another moment. He stormed over to Pizarro, got his attention, and when the Italian turned, Bob punched him so hard in the face that the man flew back out of his chair.

"You like that, boy?" Bob stood flexing over the Italian as he cringed in pain. Then he kicked him in the stomach.

"That's fer my horse!"

Pizarro crooned an expletive that Bob couldn't understand.

Just then the French man poured an entire bottle of champagne over Bruce-Brown's head.
"Behold, the young master! Defies his mama's express orders to stop racing and go back to school. What an insolent little brat!"

Bruce-Brown pushed Hemery back. Hemery tripped over Pizarro and crashed into the table. A German Benz driver who was resentful of Bruce-Brown for changing over to the Italian Fiat team, took a swing while Bruce-Brown was trying to get the champagne out of his eyes.

And then it was on. Germans, Americans, French, and Italians, all brawling in the barroom of the Desoto. And Cotton Bob had set the ball rolling.

He tried to make his way out, dodging chairs and flying bottles. He had settled his score with Pizarro. On the other side of the tavern was a tall lanky man dressed in a plaid coat with a golf cap on. He had a bemused look on his composed face as he watched all of the mayhem run its course.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you know where the Mercer Camp is located?" said Bob.

The calm man smiled.
"I should say that I do. I own all of the Mercer cars."

"You must be Roebling." Bob couldn't believe his good fortune.

"Washington Roebling, Jr. to be precise, my good fellow. Now perhaps you'll tell me why you laid into that Italian."

"He tried to run me off a bridge a couple of years ago. I was just making things right with him." Bob grinned, putting his thumbs under his suspenders. He popped them against his chest.

"So, you're the one. Yes, well. I was aiming to do the same thing. He destroyed one of my cars. Hughes told me all about you."

Bob tucked in his shirt and extended his hand.
"Speaking of bridges, I hear that you had something to do with the Golden Gate Bridge out in San Fran."

"Actually, it was my father. I have to say that I am more interested in facilitating passage across the bridge rather than the bridge itself." There was an existential quality to the man's rhetoric.

"Is Hughes here in Savannah?" Bob turned the conversation.

"He is but I've made sure that he'll stay out of trouble. He's at the camp resting up. I just put him to bed. He's racing tomorrow morning at 7:30. I came here to look for the mechanic but I haven't seen him. I'm about to head back out there. Would you like to come? I'll give you a tour of the track in our new 6 cylinder roadster. The Raceabout."
Bob nodded his head.
"Let's go."

The cool air smelled of sea salt as Roebling drove Bob down the track on the South side of Savannah. The yellow roadster with black stripes hummed along quietly, almost completely drowned out by the crickets, cicadas, and bullfrogs. The mudflaps kept all of the dust from flying up. It was now dark. Roebling flipped on two big brass headlights. Then he began to accelerate. Bob's imagination thrilled with the speed as the scenery faded into a blur.

They zoomed down Waters Avenue and then dove down through a series of dark forests periodically bursting through onto a series of causeways running over tidal creeks and miles of marsh grass. In the distance, boathouse lights shimmered across the water, twinkling a sincere welcome.

The track was about 14 miles long. Roebling took a couple of laps just to satisfy Bob's curiosity. What an amazing journey. Into the twentieth century. The possibilities that lay before mankind. Their conversation turned to the sea.
"I'd also like to build boats." Roebling mentioned. "Big boats. Hotel boats. Have you heard of the Titanic?"

Bob shook his head.

"Oh, well. It's going to change everything. Talk about a smoooooth ride. It's still under construction. I've got some interest in it, though, and I'll be on it next year for it's inaugural transatlantic voyage."
Both men remained quiet for a couple of minutes.

Roebling spoke again.
"Yesterday, during the practice laps two of our cars got in bad accidents right at this bend. Fellow by the name of McNay, recklessly driving a Case car comes up on a horse and carriage, and causes a pileup. McNay's dead. Barney Oldfield said that McNay had it coming, that he was speed-crazy. Lord knows, I am sometimes... Fortunately, none of our boys were hurt that badly, though Joe Dawson was thrown clean out of his car."

They sped down Ferguson Avenue, passing Bethesda, the famous orphanage, and took a right onto Skidaway crossing onto the Isle of Hope. Roebling resumed with a query.
"I hear that the Joneses are hosting a big Oyster Roast at Wormsloe in honor of Henry Fournier tonight. I have a personal invitation. Would you like to go? That's where all the ladies will be. And, I hear, there will be dancing on the beach later on."

"Lead the way." Bob leaned back and looked up as Roebling turned the car down the long avenue of interlocking oaks. He thought to himself about all the different generations that must've looked up at those beautiful oak trees in wonder. He was in a perpetual state of awe. Dreamland. Savannah.

The rest of the night was as blurry as the scenery had been while Roebling accelerated the roadster. Bob ate oysters till his stomach could no longer hold them. When everyone started dancing, he decided to wander along the beach, somehow bumping into the girl in the peach blossom dress that he had encountered upon arriving in Savannah hours before. He tried to show her how to skip the empty shells across the water like he was fond of doing back home with stones, but she kept trying to hug him. At a certain point he became dizzy with love or alcohol or oysters and for the most part blacked out. The last thing he could remember was the smell of her hair as he tried to protest. He still hadn't gotten to see his friend, Hughes. Sorry, ol' buddy, he thought, as he sank into the oblivion of the Georgia Peach.

The next morning he awoke on his cot in the Desoto. Everyone else was still asleep. He looked at the big clock above the fireplace. 6:00 AM. Good timing. He stood up, stretched, looked out the window. Fox was still there, still munching on grass. He walked out and jumped on the horse bareback. Leaving the carriage behind he kicked Fox into a quick canter and headed south on Bull Street towards the main grandstand.

It was a cold morning and there was a fog settling heavy over the fields surrounding the bleachers. A few people had begun to show up already. The vendors were selling whiskey out of a bottle to help keep people warm. 50 cents a shot. Bob bought a dollar's worth just for hair of the dog's sake. He gargled it down and shook his head a little bit. His eyes shone bright. Then he took Fox for a run along the track. He passed a couple of boys on horses up in front of them. He dared them to race and they all tore off together. Bob won. Nobody had ever beaten Fox.

He reached the Mercer camp just as Hughes was rolling the car out of the makeshift garage, situated on the marsh just off of La Roche Avenue.
"Howdy, Hughes."

"Bob. Damn glad to see you. Say, you wouldn't happen to know an available mechanic, would you? It seems my boy got into a little altercation over at the Desoto last night. He still hasn't showed up."

Bob looked a little sheepish, considering his responsibility for all the fighting.
"No, Hughes. I wouldn't happen to know one at all."

"Seems like you did a mighty fine job helping me repair that car a couple years back."

Bob shook his head.

"Get over here and help me paint the number 25 on the front of the car."

Thus Cotton Bob got a first hand glimpse of the race cars in action. In those days the steering wheel was on the right side of the vehicle and the mechanic rode along in the passenger's seat on the left. He was there to change tires and to assist the driver should problems arise at any point along the track. The biggest danger, though, was in effectively applying the primitive hand brakes, which directly leveraged the tires. After about 30 miles an hour or so, it was nigh impossible to slow down abruptly.

The Savannah Challenge was a light car race. The cars were smaller then the average stock that would be competing in the Vanderbilt and Grand Prize races. Hughes was pretty confident. There were only seven entries and he seemed sure that, barring the Marmons, the others wouldn't even be able to finish.

He was right. After the first lap he was in fourth place. He struggled a bit with a fellow by the name of Disbrow, driving a Case car, who whipped him for four laps straight. But by the fifth lap he zoomed into first and at the end of that lap Disbrow broke a camshaft. Hughes never looked back. The other Mercer failed to finish. They beat the Marmons by six minutes.

Hughes mechanic had finally showed up and was angry and ashamed that he had missed the race. He was eager to fill his responsibility, however, for the upcoming Vanderbilt Cup and looked askance at Bob.
Bob was thrilled with all the attention after the race was over but he could barely hold himself together. He was still caught between two worlds. He had never gone that fast in his life, even on Fox, and it was a bit unnerving. He gladly yielded to Hughes' mechanic.

There was barely an hour before the Vanderbilt Cup was slated to begin. Hughes didn't get to enjoy his victory very long because the drivers he was competing against next were much more intense. His mechanic had already begun to paint the number 6 over the 25. Bob slipped away.

His mind was still reeling from the intensity of the experience. Man can overcome gravity, he thought to himself. It is possible to transcend both space and time. The vendor passed with the bottle of whiskey. Bob grabbed him and paid for two more. He slammed them down without a moment's hesitation.

He turned in a complete circle and marched over to the bets counter, which was a modest little table with a checkered cloth. Things were supposed to be subtle regarding this part of the race. Bob was having a hard time with that.
"I'm a layin' a hundred down on Hughie Hughes in the #6 Mercer. Man, that guy is gonna whup ass! He's a race car driver!"

The old man with a wicker hat looked at him rudely.
"Aw, nobody thanks he's gon' win. He's drivin' a six cylinder. No one's ever heard of a six cylinder win any race anywhere."

Bob reflected his thoughts for a moment, scratched his head a couple of times.
"Oh, well. Hmmm. You might be right. I never thought about it like that. Who do you recommend?" His eyes took on a crafty look.

"They say that the sure bet is Mr. Bruce-Brown. Depalma's s'posed to win. So Bruce-Brown's got the best odds compared with the rest of 'em. He's Two to one. Course he won the Grand Prize last ye..."

"Yeah, I know all 'bout him. Yale dropout. Spoiled Yankee. Silver spooned since day one. Forget it. Besides. You don't win much if you aren't willin' to take a chance...I...uh...I gotta stick with my friend, Hughie. I'm layin' it down. Hundred bucks."

"Suit yourself. 20-to-1."

"20-to-1," Bob mumbled under his breath.

He grabbed his voucher stub and rushed over to the grandstand to get a good view. The whiskey was really starting to kick in and he hadn't even stopped reeling from the previous race. He couldn't believe what had happened. He had tasted the infinite. He had transcended...He could do it again. He would do it again.

Standing up tall, he peered down to the track. They were all in their starting blocks. The red Fiats. The gray Mercedes. The yellow Mercers. The white Loziers. Lozier??? Was that an American car? At the sound of a firing gun from the famous Fred Wagner, the seventh annual Vanderbilt Cup got underway. And dreams of the silver trophy cup, a strange holy grail of sorts, danced through the minds of 100,000 wild and crazy spectators and 14 bloodthirsty hound dogs in metal chariots that exploded with the press of a pedal. They were off!

Bob followed the progress of Hughes in #6 down Waters Avenue as far as he could see. The car was kicking up dust in its wake. At a certain point the car and driver sublimated into a mirage. Cotton Bob's third eye took control and the mind's camera began constructing future potentials into feasible realities. He looked back for a moment and caught a glimpse of a tall slender man in baggy pants, plaid, and a golf cap flipping a gold pocket watch open to check the time. Roebling. As the lid's hinge sprang, the gold reflected the sunlight. A moment of blinding brilliance and then over the bridge and far far away.
Cotton fields melted into a sea of white clouds. The Spanish moss wept in the trees as they raced by. Ralph Depalma in the Gray Ghost, #10, led after the first lap. Hughes. Where was Hughes? Damn. Must be the mechanic. One. Two. Three. Four. Five cars drove by before he caught the yellow blur that was the Mercer Raceabout. Hughes' full mask was pulled down and his goggles were intent on staring, bearing down on the car in front of him. What a time it was!
Bob grabbed the vendor on the shoulder as he went by. He was an old black man with a deep bass voice, who had been yelling out the following mantra all morning long:
"Somebody up heeeee-ah, neeeeeeeds a little alky-hall! I got jest da 'tingy-dingy-doo!"

"Yessiree bobtail, I am that man! I'll take two more shots!" Cotton Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar and stuffed it into the man's apron.

He then looked South just in time to see the cars disapear into the mirage again. His raised both full shot glasses up in his right hand.
"To Space and Time," he yelled throwing the harsh whiskey back down his throat. He was erupting on the spot!.
"Get 'em, Hughie!"

A woman laughed above him. It sounded like a familiar voice. He was too ashamed to look back. Was she making fun of him? He suddenly became conscious of all the spectators around him. 100,000 people. He had never been in such a large crowd before. It was a bit disconcerting. So many conversations. So much energy. His ears amplified into the intimacy of discourse. Some gentlemen nearby were talking over the odds. Clearly, New York Yankees. Maybe stock brokers. Bob tried to listen more closely

"Well, Mulford's a damn long shot. 20-to-1."

"I haven't met anyone that laid his odds."

"But he's American. Better yet, his car's American. For honor's sake. Crap. I bet on him. I'm not ashamed to admit."

"kinda reminiscent of Wall Street. Eh? A corporation has no loyalty beyond the sure bet. Bahhhhhhhhh!"

"These Fiat Corsa S74s are just unstoppable. This is the first time they've raced."

"Wait a second. Depalma's leading in the Mercedes. They've never raced either."

"Did you guys see the Italian Camp?"

"We did. Bonabella off La Roche. They had a big Spaghetti dinner over there last night. It was a riot. Felt like Italy."

"How 'bout the German camp?"

"Out at Greenwich. Yeah. I drove out there yesterday morning. Those guys are crazy. There's a German rifle club that's been in the old Plantation House for a couple of decades. They had all the drivers shootin' at anything that moved across the marsh and river to get pumped up for the race. Whooo...Mercedes and Benz... What a combination!"

Just then, over the loudspeaker...
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the #6 Mercer has busted a water hose and has exited the race just beyond Isle of Hope."

Bob's hopes fell. He leaned back. Momentary dizzy spell. His hair was soaking wet. What? There went a hundred bucks. Down the drain of wishful thinking. He pushed his way up to the men's little conference.
"Excuse me, slick fellers from the city. Ya'll recall what the odds were on the #6 Mercer?"

"Who's the driver?" A fellow in a big black top hat looked down through his spectacles and long nose.

"Hughes. Hughie Hughes."

The stiff man squinched his face up into an arrogant little smirk.
"12-to-1."

"12-to-1." Bob ruminated. Something didn't sound right. The man at the ticket center had said...what was it? He began to shuffle through his pocket for the voucher stub.

The other men resumed their conversation.

"Well, the Loziers are the only American entries left in the race."

"Hey. If one of them comes through it will be the first American win for the Vanderbilt."

"Yeah, and it would've happened in Savannah. Sweet sunny Savannah."

"No. No. Mulford's 20-to-1. 20-to-1. Not a chance. Depalma. Mercedes. All the way!"

"Unh-unh. Bruce-Brown! Bruce-Brown! Bruce Brown!"

Bob took a step back and zoned out for what seemed like a few moments. He pictured the water running from the engine down to the ground. Hughes. It's over. No. Don't give up. He managed to arouse his attention. He imagined Hughes' mechanic trying to tape up the hose. Not today. One win is enough.

Mulford zoomed by him in the #8 Lozier passing Depalma in the Mercedes. These two duelled for the rest of the race. Near the end of the 13th lap, Mulford had achieved a three minute 47 second lead...
How many thoughts could occur to one in the space of a second. 5...10. Or was there even a limit. Information will flow. It all depended on how fast one was moving. Speed is a relative property but victory is an all-consuming absolute.

Mulford got a tire change on lap 15. When he zoomed off from the tire tent out on Whitefield, he forgot to put an extra spare on. So at the next tent over on Shipyard, he had to make another stop. An inexcusable error. Depalma was right behind him, gaining at every microsecond. No time to spare. The Green Flag. One lap to go.
In that crucial moment, Ralph Mulford became a true race car driver.

His determination to beat the Gray Ghost was palpable. People sensed his intensity. On that final lap, he turned it up and went...over the limit. Despite the brief shift in momentum with his double stop, Ralph Mulford tore across the finish line, overcoming the unbeatable odds and achieving the first American victory in the Vanderbilt Cup.
The crowd went wild! An upset. A newcomer. A cinderella. Everyone flooded off the bleachers and down to the Victory Circle. The commotion brought Cotton Bob back to his senses. He looked down at his hand holding the creased voucher marking his wager.

20-to-1. 20-to-1 it said. Wait! 20-to-1? Those were Mulford's odds. The clerk had given him the wrong ticket. He had mistaken Mulford for Mercer. Crazy old man. He thought there was something familiar about that 20-to-1. Cotton Bob had just hit the jackpot.

"Whooooooo-hooooo! He jumped up in the air, scarcely believing his good luck

He rushed down towards the white #8 Lozier. Ralph Mulford had already gotten out of the car and with a big goofy grin had accepted the glistening silver trophy. He raised it over his head and began turning in circles. World champion. Bob couldn't believe it.

Then behind him. The familiar voice. Velvet. Peach blossom dress. The laughter of the mysterious young lady he had begun to get to know so well over the past few days. He turned around just in time to see her running towards him. Her arms opened wide. He began to smile. Time shifted gear into the slow motion of romance. He rushed to meet her. As he did, he realized that her eyes were focussed a hair to his right. She didn't want him, anymore. She swerved by Cotton Bob and made straight for the goofy looking race car driver brandishing the big silver trophy high in the air. She was after that trophy.

As Bob watched her pass, he whispered just loud enough for her to hear.
"What is your name? Just tell me your name."

The lady heard him and she briefly turned a mischievous eye towards him and smiled as she rushed by.
"Savannah. My name is Savannah..."

-----

The Tallapoosa river washed man and horse down for at least two miles along the river. The warm water had been a sort of sensory deprivation chamber or an embryonic matrix in which Bob's imagination had temporarily detached itself. He began to wake up fully as he felt the rocky floor of the riverbed near the shore.

The world certainly operated on a very strange network of cause and effect. It seemed like he had been gone for years. He scratched his head and tried to piece together what had happened on the bridge.He was glad to be alive. Fox was already in the yard of his family's farm, munching on grass. He remembered hearing a crash on the bridge back a ways. He hoped that no one had gotten hurt. He stood up on the other side and walked towards the kitchen. The smell of cornbread and beef tips. Dinner time.

For some reason, he thought he might ought to quit his job at the mill and see about opening up an automobile dealership. First one in Tallassee.

He stuck his hand in his pocket. What was that big lump? He pulled out a wet wad of $100 dollar bills. He counted out twenty.



















Bibliography

1. Timothy Daiss, Rebels, Saints, and Sinners: Savannah's Rich History and Colorful Personalities
(Gretna, LA: Pelican Publishing Company, 2002).

2. Denis Jenkinson. The Racing Driver: The Theory and Practice of Fast Driving
(Cambridge, MA: Robert Bentley, 1990, copyright 1959).

3. Julian K. Quattlebaum, The Great Savannah Races (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1983
copyright 1957).

4. Frank T. Wheeler, The Savannah Races (Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing, 2004).