The first lap start was good and out into the lead hammered Mr. X. Behind him came the emotionless Ray Eddy. Eddy dropped into pace as though it were merely a club run. No racing fervor visible here, merely a stolid, orange helmeted figure who clung with no effort to the tail of the flying J.A.P. The methodical Eddy tried his laboratory test on the backstretch in the fifth mile. Up moved the orange helmet, even with the J.A.P., hung there a moment and then slid back into pace. Ince promptly boosted the pace another half second to the mile. Eddy felt the increase and methodically tried his hand again in the tenth. Once again even with the J.A.P. and once again Ince accepted the challenge and up went the pace another half second to the mile.
The thirteenth came and with it the laboratory testing Eddy. Eddy cranked on in the backstretch, out into the clear and then from nowhere came a howling J.A.P. Ince let it go and it went. Fast, smooth, the motor running with beautiful precision. A high fast turn, the lead, a white flag and then all out for the final lap to the checker. Ince took the flag some twenty yards in front of the methodical San Franciscan and earned the plaudits. Sam Arena and Don Rodman accounted for the next two places. A sour motor had laid the mighty Lisman by the wayside earlier in the fracas.
The consolation event was due. Speed had taken the toll however and it left but three machines eligible for it. A plethora of broken rods, departed pistons, etc., had left much iron in the pits that would not see another racing flag until some other day had dawned. The consolation went to Meeks Hubbard with Louie Marzotto nibbling off the second spot.
We in the grandstand cocked eyes at the false sun. It moved down behind the stand and the casting shadow brought the chill of the Arctic with it. But there was bustle in the pits; frantic last minute adjustments; men running hither and yon. carrying cans, filling tanks and doing all of those things which it seems that motorcycle pitmen have always to do at the last minute.
Gradually the line-up assumed form on the starting line. It was a colorful sight; the clean machines, glistening in the remainder of the sunlight, the helmeted and begoggled riders adjusting gloves, fussing with this, and adjusting that. The air of tension communicated itself to the stands. The first line chalked off Chasteen , Young, Gatto. Rodman, Lauer, Eddy. The rear line held Casazza, Andres, Kretz, Jamison, Ince and Arena.
Suddenly the formation broke. Motors were pushed off. The main event was under way. Scorers settled down in their positions. A last minute check was made on the telephone. Twelve racing men swung slowly up the backstretch. It was a hodge podge of motorcycles. Then the formation etched itself into two straight lines, that move in unison down the backstretch, chuckle slowly into the upper corner with no break in the smooth formation. The irregular bellowing changed, grew in volume, became high pitched and down comes the pack. Screaming, unleashed motors took the flag and the 30-mile was on. It is here that ennui disappeared from the stands. Gone was the thought of that false sunlight. Left only was one of the grandest racing events that we have ever witnessed in some fifteen years of professional watching.