Sport: Who Won?

A few sentimental (and thrifty) competitors actually drove their cars to the race. But the quaint tradition that a sports car is a practical vehicle, designed for everyday use, seemed as antiquated as the Stanley Steamer or the solid-rubber tire. Well-heeled pros who turned up for the Florida International Twelve-Hour Grand Prix of Endurance last week brought their cars by rail or trailer, by plane or ship—any way but under their own power. The 5.2-mile course on Sebring's abandoned airfield was enough to tear the guts out of the finest engine. Mechanics needed every available minute to get an entry in shape. Minutes lost in the pits might well decide the winner.

No Cure. Ripping down the brief straightaways at full throttle, shifting down and braking for the turns, shifting up to speed again, spinning and sliding through S-curve and hairpin, drivers lost no time making work for their mechs. And even the best of them ran into the kind of trouble no grease monkey can cure. Sweeping into a wide, unbanked turn, Texan Bob Said squinted over the hood of his three-liter Ferrari and saw danger. In the middle of the track, a tiny Renault had cartwheeled onto its back. Said drifted wide to miss it. Suddenly, he was bearing down on a stretcher where Renault Driver Jean Rédelé, badly shaken, was waiting to be carried off. Said drifted wider and a parked Cadillac ambulance loomed in front of him. He swung his wheels hard over, skidded out of control and smashed into the ambulance. Unhurt, Said walked away. His Ferrari was finished.

Before five hours had passed, PanAmerican Winner Umberto Maglioli and his bloodred, three-liter Ferrari were on the sidelines with a ruined clutch. Another Ferrari, its gas tank leaking, caught fire. Playboy Porfirio Rubirosa slipped off the track in his two-liter Ferrari, clipped a spectator's car, and promptly substituted caution for professional skill. On the way to the pits for repairs, he was rammed from behind and knocked out of the race.

In the pits a well-drilled squad of mechanics worked steadily to keep Millionaire Sportsman Briggs Cunningham's front-running D-Jaguar ahead of the field. Scores of dockers spelled each other in the lavish Cunningham trailer as they tried to keep track of the competition, to warn Drivers Mike Hawthorne and Phil Walters when the pack was closing in.

No Brakes. Dark fell, and the race roared on. With two hours to go, overanxious pitmen poured too much oil into Associated Press the Jag. Its plugs fouled, it fumed and sputtered while Phil Hill's white Ferrari nibbled at the lead. Carefully coached by Oldtimer René Dreyfus (TIME, March 14), the Arnolt-Bristol team nursed their little (1,971 cc.) roadsters along, willing to settle for high honors in their own class. Manhattan Clothes Designer John Weitz, one of the few who had driven his car all the way from New York to Sebring, was pushing the Bristols hard with his chunky. 1,991-cc. Morgan. But by now, everyone was flirting with disaster.