Lynne's Lens
Bill Cummings, #7
Hometown boy, Bill Cummings, who, according to NY sports writer, Bob Considine, grew up "so close to the (Indianapolis 500) oval that he was practically raised on carbon monoxide and the chuff-chuff of an exhaust pipe...."
Considine goes on to say that "like all others, he worked out his apprenticeship on the county fair tracks, with bear grease on unbanked turns, and driving a car held together by with wire and mucilage. Sometimes he went through a fence and somehow lived through the grinding, bone-breaking crash. Sometimes he won. Sometimes he ate well, but for the most part he wasn't as well off as a pretty good garage mechanic. For they get paid regularly."
"But he learned a lot. He picked up at least the scent of heavy dough, and it stirred the juices of his ambition. To make up for his bad mounts he substituted a nerveless form of daring that gained him is nickname Wild Bill. He won more and more races, lured on by the prospect of big dough, and at last he made the long jump from the dirt to the lumpy Indianapolis track that is the big league of racing. He couldn't miss now."
Cummings, whose day job included being an errand boy and running a small night club, finished 5th in his first Indy 500 race in 1930 and finally won four years later.
According to an AP story that ran after his big win, "135,000 spectators sat under a scorching sun to give thunderous salute to Wild Bill Cummings, 28-year-old Indianapolis driver, as he triumphed over Mauri Rose of Dayton, O., in a dramatic, thrilling finish with only 27 seconds separating them."
"Never worse than fourth, and coming from behind in the last 75 miles Cummings conquered Rose by about a mile.... Driving every inch of the way without relief, Cummings piloted is 4-cylinder little racer, painted a light cream color with a big yellow no. 7 on the rear and engine hood, over the perilous 500 miles in 4:46:05.21 to average 104.865 miles an hour, breaking the record of 104.162 miles an hour hung up by Louis Meyer...."
Considine's column concludes that, "he earned about $50,000 for that afternoon, and much more than that when he cashed in on his new fame. The big car companies signed him to extoll the merits of their cars. The accessory companies paid for his stamp of approval. The jerk-down tracks that once paid him off in hot dogs, now gave him good guarantees to appear."
"But with the coming of that dough he got a little soft. With money in the bank, the utter insanity of driving a car 140 miles an hour through an opening the size of a door began to occur to him. The 'hungrier,' more desperate men began to pass him, even on the turns. And the glamor (sic) peeled off him. In a little while he was broke again, and for the first time he knew doubt."
"When at last he hit bottom he started back. The 'hungry' pangs got to him again. His reflexes, dulled by success, grew razor sharp again. He fought for every inch of his races, coaxed his cars up to the winning crest of the pack, and more often than not had the thing blow up beneath him."
"The Alpha (sic) Romeo (that he was having built in Italy) was to have been his reward for that comeback. The Alpha probably was on his mind the night his prosaic passenger car slushed into a muddy road shoulder, turned over, knocked him out, and threw him face downward in a creek."
Cummings was driving on State Road 29 when his car hit a guard rail and plunged 50 feet into Lick Creek. Passersby saw the accident and pulled him out of the wreck alive, but he succumbed to his injuries two days later.
As for his career at the Indianapolis 500, he ran the race every year from 1930-1938, was in the top 10 five times and had to retire due to mechanical problems the other four times. The Alfa might have added to Cummings' good fortune, but he died in February 1939, just three months before that year's Indy race and his next big chance for victory.
Bill Cummings, #7
Hometown boy, Bill Cummings, who, according to NY sports writer, Bob Considine, grew up "so close to the (Indianapolis 500) oval that he was practically raised on carbon monoxide and the chuff-chuff of an exhaust pipe...."
Considine goes on to say that "like all others, he worked out his apprenticeship on the county fair tracks, with bear grease on unbanked turns, and driving a car held together by with wire and mucilage. Sometimes he went through a fence and somehow lived through the grinding, bone-breaking crash. Sometimes he won. Sometimes he ate well, but for the most part he wasn't as well off as a pretty good garage mechanic. For they get paid regularly."
"But he learned a lot. He picked up at least the scent of heavy dough, and it stirred the juices of his ambition. To make up for his bad mounts he substituted a nerveless form of daring that gained him is nickname Wild Bill. He won more and more races, lured on by the prospect of big dough, and at last he made the long jump from the dirt to the lumpy Indianapolis track that is the big league of racing. He couldn't miss now."
Cummings, whose day job included being an errand boy and running a small night club, finished 5th in his first Indy 500 race in 1930 and finally won four years later.
According to an AP story that ran after his big win, "135,000 spectators sat under a scorching sun to give thunderous salute to Wild Bill Cummings, 28-year-old Indianapolis driver, as he triumphed over Mauri Rose of Dayton, O., in a dramatic, thrilling finish with only 27 seconds separating them."
"Never worse than fourth, and coming from behind in the last 75 miles Cummings conquered Rose by about a mile.... Driving every inch of the way without relief, Cummings piloted is 4-cylinder little racer, painted a light cream color with a big yellow no. 7 on the rear and engine hood, over the perilous 500 miles in 4:46:05.21 to average 104.865 miles an hour, breaking the record of 104.162 miles an hour hung up by Louis Meyer...."
Considine's column concludes that, "he earned about $50,000 for that afternoon, and much more than that when he cashed in on his new fame. The big car companies signed him to extoll the merits of their cars. The accessory companies paid for his stamp of approval. The jerk-down tracks that once paid him off in hot dogs, now gave him good guarantees to appear."
"But with the coming of that dough he got a little soft. With money in the bank, the utter insanity of driving a car 140 miles an hour through an opening the size of a door began to occur to him. The 'hungrier,' more desperate men began to pass him, even on the turns. And the glamor (sic) peeled off him. In a little while he was broke again, and for the first time he knew doubt."
"When at last he hit bottom he started back. The 'hungry' pangs got to him again. His reflexes, dulled by success, grew razor sharp again. He fought for every inch of his races, coaxed his cars up to the winning crest of the pack, and more often than not had the thing blow up beneath him."
"The Alpha (sic) Romeo (that he was having built in Italy) was to have been his reward for that comeback. The Alpha probably was on his mind the night his prosaic passenger car slushed into a muddy road shoulder, turned over, knocked him out, and threw him face downward in a creek."
Cummings was driving on State Road 29 when his car hit a guard rail and plunged 50 feet into Lick Creek. Passersby saw the accident and pulled him out of the wreck alive, but he succumbed to his injuries two days later.
As for his career at the Indianapolis 500, he ran the race every year from 1930-1938, was in the top 10 five times and had to retire due to mechanical problems the other four times. The Alfa might have added to Cummings' good fortune, but he died in February 1939, just three months before that year's Indy race and his next big chance for victory.