My ride back to the motel in Fernley is a grizzled, hippie drag racing writer. It is an 80 mile drive back to the motel. We talk about the magnitude of the spectacle we have witnessed. We are both taken aback by the sheer audacity of Breedlove sheepishly stealing Noble’s thunder. After all the misfires: the Speedvision deal, the hipster crew chief, the fodded engine, the rig getting stuck in the mud… I remember that I have a cassette of the Breedlove crash, and I put it in the car’s tape player.

BREEDLOVE: (loud, over laughter) I gritted my teeth and that pole just sheared off like nothing. You know, “DOUMM” and no pole! (breathes in) UUNNHH… I looked up and I thought, “Oh Boy! Another chance!”

VOICES: (giddy laughter)

BREEDLOVE: I looked up…

VOICES: (giddy laughter)

BREEDLOVE: … I hit the water and the water started slowing me down and I seen [sic] this big old bank coming up and I thought, “OHHH NAWWWW.” (laughs)

VOICES: (giddy laughter)

BREEDLOVE: I hit the bank and it just went right over the top there. I was flying through there about thirty feet in the air and I thought, “NOW I’M GOING TO DROWN!”

VOICES: (uproarious laughter)

“After the way he screwed up his chances of being the first guy to go supersonic, drowning would have been a better fate,” the grizzled, hippie drag racing writer says.



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