Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (33 page)

The Porsche Spyder serial number 550-0055 was one of a limited
run of sports racing cars that had been introduced by the
Zuffenhausen, Germany-based company at the Paris Automobile
Show in 1953. Now 550s dominated small-displacement class competition at the international level, and had gained mystique among sports
car lovers after Max Hoffman, the American distributor for Porsche
cars, dubbed the little machines "Spyders." Weighing only 1,500
pounds thanks to their feathery aluminum bodywork and carrying a
highly sophisticated rear-mounted, double-overhead-camshaft, aircooled, 1.5-liter four-cylinder engine, the Spyders were reliable as
anvils in long-distance endurance races and capable of dazzling top
speeds over 140 mph.

Jimmy was already there when we arrived, wearing his hornrimmed glasses and puffing on an unfiltered cigarette. The wellknown Los Angeles custom-car builder and painter George Barris
had already painted large "130s" on both doors and inscribed "Little
Bastard" on its stubby tail-a trenchant reference to Dean's own selfimage as a scrawny outsider.

Wutherich had pounded out a small dent in the right front fender,
the result of a minor collision with a woman driver on nearby Sunset Boulevard during an initial test drive. While theoretically a pure racing car, the Spyder carried California license plate 2Z77767, which,
coupled with its rudimentary driving lights, permitted it to be driven
on the public highways long before rigid safety and emissions laws
limited such use.

The car was ready for its first outing at Salinas, although Dean had
not formally entered the race and some doubted that he would be
allowed to compete, based on his limited experience. Cal Club rules
stated that three novice races had to be completed before a driver was
allowed to race a car as potent as the 550 Spyder. Because Dean had
failed to finish his third race at Santa Barbara, some among his retinue warned him that the trip to Salinas might be futile. Others,
including Von Neumann, felt otherwise, considering Dean's excellent
performances and his obvious skill behind the wheel. That, coupled
with his newfound celebrity, would surely allow him entry into the
starting field.

Diana was awestruck at the sight of the Spyder. Its shiny, unpainted
body was accented only by a pair of red stripes running across the
rear fenders. Wutherich started the engine, which awoke with a guttural rumble. He watched the oil pressure gauge as he blipped the
throttle, the powerful little engine responding with ominous growls.
Satisfied that the power plant was perfectly tuned, he switched it off
as a small cheer arose from the crowd at the curb. To them, the
thumping exhaust note, coupled with the screech and whine of gears,
pistons, valve springs and bearings, all singing a chorus of mad
cacophony, was a mechanical symphony.

On September 17, James Dean had recorded a television commercial for the National Safety Council with fellow actor Gig Young. It
was aimed at young drivers, imploring them to drive sensibly. Dean
concluded the spot by advising, "And remember, drive safely because
the life you save may be ... mine." A day later, he, Elizabeth Taylor,
and Rock Hudson finished the famous "Last Supper" scene for Giant at the studio, thereby releasing him from his non-racing contract.
Firm plans were then made to make the Salinas race on the last weekend of September. Dean and Wutherich would drive the Porsche to
the race, thereby breaking in the fresh engine on the way. Studio photographer Sanford Roth and Dean's friend, stuntman Bill Hickman,
would follow with a white 1953 Ford station wagon and a car trailer
to be used to haul the Spyder back to Los Angeles following the race.

Roth had met Dean on the Giant set in Texas and was assigned by
Collier's magazine to record the young star's weekend of racing with
his new Porsche.

I accepted Diana's offer to drive with her to Salinas, figuring that a
story on Dean's debut in his new Porsche might be saleable. Based on
his performances in his first three races, it was possible he might
become a major star in the sport even before the year was out. There
being little doubt about his passion for fast driving and his latent talent, his future as both a race driver and a superstar on the silver
screen seemed assured.

James Dean's last day began early. At eight o'clock on the morning
of Friday, September 30, 1955, he was with Wutherich at
Competition Motors, having driven over the mountain from his
newly rented home at 14611 Sutton Drive in Sherman Oaks. He had
been up late the night before attending a private party in Malibu, but,
being young and fit, appeared ready for the 325-mile run north to
Salinas. Before picking up the Porsche, he had stopped at the
Competition Motors race shop on Ventura Boulevard, where future
world champion Phil Hill was working on a Ferrari Monza he was
planning to run at Salinas. Hill later recalled the brief meeting. "It was
the only time I ever talked with him other than a few grunts at the
racetrack. Generally he'd show up with a great retinue of hangers-on,
and I had no interest in that sort of thing. I needed to be a great racing driver and that was my sole preoccupation. I'd seen dozens of
these so-called godlike creatures from Hollywood, and I'd been inclined to treat him as sort of a mutation. But on that day we talked
about racing without all the usual distractions."

After meeting Wutherich later that morning, Dean had lunch at
the Farmer's Market with his father, Winton, and his uncle, Charlie
Nolan Dean. He talked about the day before, when he had visited his
friend Jeanette Mills and presented her with his Siamese cat, Marcus,
which had been given to him on the set of Giant by co-star Elizabeth
Taylor. Following this leisurely interlude with his father and uncle, he
returned to Competition Motors, where he met Roth, Hickman, and
Wutherich. After Roth shot a photo of Dean and Wutherich in the
Porsche raising their joined arms in a victory salute, the little group
headed north, planning a late-day arrival before practice for the races
began the following morning.

Diana picked me up in the Ferrari Mexico early that same afternoon, hoping to miss the rush hour traffic heading out of the valley.
We ran north on Sepulveda Boulevard, following the route taken earlier by Dean. Route 99 took us over the Tejon Pass and the notorious
Grapevine into the broad San Joaquin Valley. From there it was west
on Route 166, a two-lane toward Taft and Maricopa, then north on
Highway 33 to Blackwell's Corners and a stop for a tank of Richfield
high-test and a Coke.

We got there an hour after Dean and his retinue had left. An
excited kid with a scruffy crew cut told us that Dean and two guys in
a Ford wagon had met up with Lance Reventlow and fledgling movie
director and racer Bruce Kessler. He reported that Dean had laughed
about a speeding ticket he had received on the Grapevine from
California Highway patrolman 0. T. Hunter, who had written him up
for doing 65 mph in a 55 mph zone. Hunter also wrote up Hickman,
who was driving the Ford wagon. Hunter registered curiosity about
the tiny Porsche, but gave no indication he recognized its driver.

After polishing off a Coke and an apple at Blackwell's Corners,
Dean put on the red windbreaker he had worn in Rebel Without a Cause. It was donned simply as protection against the late-afternoon
chill, but would later be ascribed to his belief that the garment
brought him good luck-yet more of the lore and legend attributed
to every aspect of his short, tragic life. With a quick wave to
Reventlow and Kessler and a promise to meet them for dinner in
Salinas, Dean skittered out of the sun-baked parking lot and accelerated onto Route 466 toward Cholame and the fateful intersection
with Route 41.

Somewhere up ahead, a twenty-three year-old student at
California Polytehnic had left the San Luis Obispo campus and
pointed his two-tone black-and-white 1950 Ford Tudor coupe
toward home and his pregnant wife at 1001 Academy Street in Tulare,
south of Fresno. Little did young army veteran Donald Turnipseed
imagine that he was headed for involvement in perhaps the most
famous car crash in history.

Dean drove the Porsche over the barren Diablo Range, where the
San Andreas Fault rises out of the earth like half-buried dragon jaws,
with his customary verve. He was not running flat-out, following the
orders of Wutherich to break in the fresh engine at sensible speeds.

As Dean rolled off the twisty section called Polonio Pass, Highway
466 yawned wide toward the Highway 41 intersection. On a crested hill
to the west lay the tiny hamlet of Cholame, little more than a greasy
lunch counter next to a hulking wooden automobile-repair garage.
Dean overtook a slow-running Pontiac sedan being driven by Los
Angeles CPA John Robert White. In a daring move, Dean made the
pass, barely avoiding an oncoming Packard driven by Clifford Hord.
White and his wife grumbled about the audacity of the red-jacketed
driver behind the wheel of the strange, bullet-shaped roadster.

Turnipseed, who never spoke publicly about the accident before
his death in 1995, later confided to Monty Roberts that he had spotted the Porsche approaching on his right, but had failed to judge its
speed. At first he attempted to scoot across the intersection, then slammed on the Ford's brakes. Reassessing the situation, he floored
the throttle and tried to make another crossing, but panicked as the
Porsche bore down on him.

Dean, driving hard, spotted the Ford jiggering at the intersection
and said his last words to Wutherich. "That guy up there has gotta see
us. He's gotta stop."

Turnipseed was stopping, his brakes locked in a skid that later
measured twenty-two feet. The Ford veered right, but was still in
Dean's path. Understanding that a brake lockup would spin the
Porsche out of control, Dean tried to veer right around the yawing
Ford, but at the last second rammed its left front fender almost
broadslide. The impact sent the Porsche spiraling into the air, spilling
Wutherich onto the pavement while Dean's crushed body remained
on board. The rumpled machine slammed to earth near a lone telephone pole while the Ford, its left front fender shattered, pinwheeled
to a stop in the middle of the intersection.

The Whites had watched in horror as the accident unfolded. They
stopped to find Turnipseed wandering aimlessly, his nose bloodied,
but otherwise unhurt. Wutherich dazedly lay on his belly like a
beached whale, his left leg crushed and his jaw broken. Only the
shredded red jacket of James Dean was visible inside the mangled
cockpit of the Porsche.

The world's most famous car crash had occurred at 5:59 P.M. at
the deserted intersection of two anonymous highways in the middle
of the California high desert. Only four eyewitnesses were present-
Turnipseed, Wutherich, and the Whites. They would produce contradicting stories that would help generate endless bizarre rumors about
the incident.

Our first clue came when Diana sighted the flashing lights of
police cruisers and smoking red flares as she descended Polonia Pass.
"There's been an accident," she said, without emotion. As she braked
the Ferrari to a stop in a line of four other vehicles, including the Whites' vermilion Pontiac, the only visible indication of the crash was
Turnipseed's wounded black-and-white Ford. Beyond it was parked a
Cadillac ambulance, its rear door yawning open to accept a patient.

Three men in white jackets were wheeling a gurney toward the
Cadillac. A young man in a black shirt I later learned to be
Turnipseed stood by, holding his nose. The form on the gurney was
covered with a blanket. Then Diana spotted the wreckage of the
Porsche.

"Oh my god," she screamed. "It's Jimmy!"

Before I could stop her, she leapt out of the Ferrari and rushed
toward the ambulance. A California Highway Patrol Officer intercepted her, grabbing her arms and holding her away from the scene.
He did not release her until the ambulance departed, its siren wailing
as it ascended the hill toward Cholame and the thirty-three miles to
the War Memorial Hospital at Paso Robles.

Diana rushed back to the car and climbed in, her face dripping
with tears. Jamming the Ferrari into gear and tearing past the barriers, she blubbered, "Jimmy's hurt. They're taking him to Paso Robles
Hospital. I've got to be there!"

We caught up to the ambulance before it reached the city limits
and followed it into the hospital parking lot. Still sobbing, Diana left
the Ferrari and sprinted into the emergency room waiting area. By
then others had gathered, proving yet again that bad news travels fast.
A small man from the local paper with an ill-fitting sport coat and a
Speed Graphic camera had already appeared.

Diana became reclusive, sitting alone in a corner. I waited outside
in the gathering darkness, smoking. An hour passed before there was
a flurry of movement inside. A doctor appeared, looking frazzled. He
introduced himself as Dr. Bossert, the physician on duty, and said,
without apparent emotion, "We admitted a patient, Mr. James Dean
of Sherman Oaks, California, following an automobile accident near
Cholame. I regret to inform you that Mr. Dean was dead on arrival."

A gasp arose from the tiny crowd. Diana screamed and rushed
outside. I attempted to follow but was blocked by the mad cluster of
bodies rushing toward the lone coin-operated telephone booth outside the emergency room. The first call was made by a reporter for
KPRL, the local radio station, who alerted the world to the tragedy.
By the time I made it into the parking lot, the Ferrari, and Diana
Logan, had fled into the night.