Arizona Legends and Lore

It was during the years from 1908 to 1914 that Phoenix joined with Los Angeles to sponsor a series of Great Desert Races. These automobile races were the brainchild of two men, John Purdy Bullard, the attorney general of the Territory of Arizona, and John W. Mitchell, general manager of a well-known Los Angeles hotel, the Hollenbeck. The purpose of these races was not only to bring attention to the two cities, but to graphically illustrate the need to fund the building of a road between them.

Bullard and Mitchell, recognizing the need to generate publicity for a contest using such a comparatively new invention as the automobile, persuaded Dr. George Vickers, owner of the A rizona Republican newspaper, to co-sponsor the race. The course was to be approximately 500 miles long over some of the roughest desert and mountain terrain to be found anywhere. In places, the road was no more than a wagon track. Few accouterments of civilization were to be found anywhere along the route. There would be no back-up teams to supply every automotive need. There would be few places for spectators to watch. The only prizes would be two silver cups.

During this time, a young man named Ralph Hamlin was trying to earn a living selling automobiles in Los Angeles. He had recently been able to persuade the manufacturers of the Franklin air-cooled car to give him the distributorship for Southern California. Hamlin hoped to sell many cars by convincing his customers about the advantages of an air-cooled car in the Southwest’s climate. All of his competitors were selling water-cooled cars. Despite its promise, the Franklin was a new, untested car and often his competitors would win a sale away from Hamlin by asking the prospective customer, “If air-cooled automobiles are so great, why is everyone else selling only water-cooled cars?”

Hamlin had to come up with a strategy to overcome this selling liability. His plan was to enter every car race he could find and pit the Franklin against the pack to win. During a regular meeting of car distributors in California, Hamlin first heard of the impending Los Angeles-Phoenix Desert Race. Immediately interested in getting in on the action, Hamlin inquired how he could participate. His query brought hoots of derision from several men who had been discussing the contest. Then Captain Ryus, a White Steamer distributor, speaking to the assembled group with a contemptuous tone, stated that an air-cooled Franklin could not possibly get across a desert.

Ryus’s challenging words only hardened Hamlin’s determination. When Hamlin attempted to sell the Franklin, constant badgering by the other distributors only fueled his resolve. There were already three cars entered in the race: a White Steamer, a Kissel Kar and an Elmore. Each automobile was to be driven by one of the finest sportsmen of the time.

An underdog, Hamlin became the fourth contestant. In comparison to such driving greats of the day as Colonel Fenner and Bert Latham, Hamlin was totally unknown and rarely mentioned in the pre-racing publicity. With only determination and faith in his machine, Hamlin prepared for the big day.

The race began at midnight. A big crowd cheered as each contestant left the front of the Hollenbeck Hotel a scheduled five minutes apart. Large crowds had gathered to line the roads through town. The excitement among the spectators seemed more than usual for racing enthusiasts. Perhaps people sensed that history was being made. This race would echo into the future as the harbinger of a new form of competition.

For Hamlin, the race would provide him with a chance to prove the Franklin’s worth and to gain the respect of the other auto dealers. The trail, though well-defined, was rough and sandy, but he managed to make good time through Palm Springs and Indio. It was almost daylight when Hamlin and his mechanic, Guy Erwin, passed the northern edge of the Salton Sea to reach Banning. Having been the last to leave the starting line, Hamlin had not yet encountered any of the other cars.

The route grew rough as they entered a steep canyon. It was then that Hamlin spotted his first competitor, the Kissel Kar, hopelessly stuck in the sand. He wondered if he should just pass on, but decided to stop his automobile. It took the power of both cars and the concerted effort of both crews to get the Kissel Kar out. “Hey, Ralph,” said Harris Hanshue, the mechanic of the Kissel Kar, “don’t you know that there’s a race going on?” Hamlin answered, “I may be in the same fix sometime, Harry; it’s not so good to be stuck 200 miles from nowhere.” In those few moments Hamlin made a lifetime friend and supporter.

The course was filled with mishaps as the racers dodged ruts, rocks, sand and washes. By this time, Hamlin was puzzled as to where the other drivers were getting their water to keep their engines cooled. Then he noticed a large rag tied to a bush. Hidden under the bush was a five-gallon can of water. Smaller rags warned of bad bumps or obstructions in the road.

At Blythe, Hamlin had only a short run to the river and the overnight control point where he would receive his final timed speed for the day. Here they would stay for the night and in the morning be ferried across the Colorado River. But darkness comes swiftly to the desert, and before they realized what was happening, they were hopelessly lost in the blackness of a desert night. Low on gas, they were forced to quit short of reaching the control point. They had to wait until morning to find the road to the Colorado. This meant that they had no chance of winning.

But Hamlin felt that he could not allow the Franklin’s automotive ability to continue being challenged. A question still needed to be answered. Could an air-cooled car make it across the desert? Even though Hamlin knew they weren’t going to be able to win, he decided to go on to Phoenix to prove that the air-cooled Franklin automobile could indeed cross the Southwestern desert.

On Monday, November 9, 1908, at 6:00 p.m., the whistle on top of the Phoenix Electric Light and Power Company building sounded a series of blasts. That was the signal to clear the traffic off Adams Street from the state capitol to the downtown area. All horse-drawn vehicles, bicycles and pedestrians were shunted to side streets. One of the racers had been sighted entering Phoenix. A crowd formed along Adams. Little boys climbed into trees for a better view. At 6:30 p.m. a voice shouted, “Here he comes!”

Colonel Fenner’s White Steamer, barely discernible in a thick cloud of dust, drove into view, stopping in front of the offices of the Arizona Republican newspaper. The race was over. It had taken 30 hours and 20 minutes of actual running time. Approximately an hour later, the Kissel Kar came in to win second place in the race.

All four automobiles made it through the race. Hamlin’s Franklin arrived last, coming in at 9:50 p.m. just about three hours after the winner. Hamlin had proved that an air-cooled car could go the distance.

A finish was formally recreated on Thursday afternoon at the territorial fairgrounds. A packed crowd in the grandstands gave the racers a rousing ovation. The governor of the territory congratulated the contestants. That evening a banquet was held at the Adams Hotel to honor the teams. Afterwards, the racers retired to the Louvre Bar next door where they began a tradition that was to be continued after all future races. The prized silver trophy was filled and refilled with champagne until everyone had drunk their fill.

Later, the automobiles were shipped back to Los Angeles and the teams returned by train. On the train back to Los Angeles, Ralph Hamlin, encouraged rather than disheartened, was already planning his strategy for the 1909 race.

The same contestants entered the 1909 race. But now the line-up included ten cars with such names as Studebaker, Ford and Buick. Again the start-up was in front of the Hollenbeck Hotel, this time at 10:00 p.m. on November 6. Ralph Hamlin chose to drive a newer version of the Franklin, the H Model. He chose as his mechanic, Clayton Carris, a man experienced in desert travel. This time the route went south of the Salton Sea toward Yuma. Hamlin felt that he had a good start. Things were looking favorable for a competitive race and his spirits were high.

At Brawley, in the excitement of making unexpectedly good speed, Hamlin drove too fast over a railroad crossing and smashed the Franklin’s differential housing. There was no hope of repair. Hamlin was out of the race. Of the ten cars that started, only four finished the 400-mile course. The winning car was a Buick, driving the distance in just over 19 hours and averaging speeds of up to 25 miles per hour.

By now the Los Angeles-Phoenix Desert Races were becoming famous throughout the country and Hamlin could not walk away from the challenge. He was determined not to give up. When the 1910 race was scheduled, he was among the 14 entries. Not only did many of the prior contestants sign up, but because the race was generating so much interest, several manufacturers entered their cars for the first time. Among the starters were a Velie, a Rambler, an Ohio, a Maxwell and a Mercer. A train nicknamed the “Howdy Special” had even been chartered to allow spectators to follow the race, rendezvousing with the racers at the night control point and meeting them at the finish.

This time Hamlin was a mere 32 minutes behind the winning Kissel Kar driven by Harvey Herrick. Progressing from finishing last in one race, to a wipe-out in another, and now coming in second, Hamlin recognized that he was beginning to be considered a serious racing contender and his Franklin an automobile to be reckoned with.

By the 1911 race, betting on the automobiles by the racers and the spectators reached an all-time high. Ralph decided to bet on himself and the Franklin in order to try to cover the considerable expenses involved in participating. Once again, victory eluded him and he came in second behind Harvey Herrick driving a National.

In 1912, Ralph Hamlin decided to take stock of the situation. He had come in second place twice. He had proven that an air-cooled car would survive the worst that a southwestern desert could offer. What were his options? He could give up competing, saying that he had proven enough about the Franklin. He was after all a salesman and technically he had shown that the Franklin was a good car. Or, he could quit fooling around and win the damn race!

Hamlin began to make his plans carefully. As part of his strategy, he would really do his homework. This time he was determined that nothing would keep him from winning. Before the race, he drove the entire course, trying out several speeds at different places, estimating carefully just how fast he could go and just how much he could get away with. After this test run, he calculated the distance and the times he felt he could do on each segment of the course. He reckoned that he could win the race in a time of 18 hours and 10 minutes, barring an accident. Now all he had to do was do it.

On Saturday, October 26, an hour before midnight, the race began. Twelve drivers were ready; twelve restless mechanics nervously inspected pressure pumps and controls. Before the men were 511 miles of desert, sand, shrubs, cactus, mountains and streams of water.

But for the moment, there was excitement. People crowded around the cars asking questions, officials pompously conversed in whispers about the seemingly weighty matters of the racing game. Twenty-four beams of light pierced the night sky diminishing the sparkle of the stars above Los Angeles. At the same time 20 cars were being readied to leave San Diego to compete as well. This race was to be a double-header.

At 11:05 p.m., the first driver was given a sharp slap on his back, the signal to start. Hamlin was ninth to leave the starting line. All his energy, all his concentration, was bent on catching up with the eight skilled, experienced drivers in front of him. As he drove through Los Angeles, he reviewed his plan. The bigger, higher-powered cars would speed up over the relatively decent roads outside of Los Angeles; it was when they hit the desert trails, that Hamlin figured that his lighter Franklin would be able to outmaneuver and pass them. Hamlin’s mechanic, Andrew Smith, hand-focused a huge searchlight, constantly maneuvering it to illuminate at least 200 yards in front of them.

At about 53 miles into the course, they came across the first accident. A Buick lay in the center of the road, a twisted mass of broken steel. Quick reflexes enabled Hamlin to barely avoid colliding with the overturned car. A Mercedes that had been following Hamlin was not so lucky and two cars were finished with the race.

Outside of Banning, Hamlin’s mechanic shouted to him, “There are only four ahead of us now, only four.” They soon passed two Cadillacs. Now only a Simplex and another Cadillac were ahead of them.

Then a sandstorm came out of nowhere, the sand slashing at their faces. The wind and cold left them exhausted as grueling mile after grueling mile flashed by. Then they heard the bad news: storms had swollen rivers and streams to raging, impassable barriers. Was his chance at victory to be snatched away once more? No ferry was available, no bridge existed.