Starter George Harais rolled the first heat to the line and administered the final rites to Casazza, Chasteen, Hubbard, Andres, Wilson and Young in the time-honored fashion, “Now come down together, men, and let’s try and get away in the first lap.” And, strangely enough, the men took his words to heart. A trailing, formation that chuckled their way down Oakland’s mammoth backstretch, a formation that jerked uneasily as though the tension was communicating itself to inanimate motors, the formation dressing to the left as it swept into the corner. The snuffling, uneasy bellow grew, became a drumming cannonading. Motors slid into tune, that booming sound as exhaust note synchronized with exhaust note until it sounded as though there were but one machine running. Suddenly came a break in the rhythmic cadence. Driving down came six bulleting figures, diving off the top of the turn, helmeted heads drop on tanks and a white flag whips downward. Chasteen, white helmeted, brown jacketed, a crouching figure jumped the pack and streaked into the first turn. He blasted his way into the lower turn, and made a fast drive up the straightaway, some two hundred yards in the lead.