Nightmare of Fiery Death in Del Mar Grand Prix Haunts Race Fan

Minutes seemed like hours. Crew members and spectators appeared frozen in the wet drizzle as Alan Lloyd, 48, and his 1965 Shelby Cobra hit the concrete partition head on. The sound was undeniably serious. Everything stood still--everything except the 427 Cobra, which was spinning like a smoking firecracker ready to fizzle or flame.

Alan Lloyd didn’t live to see and feel the naked sound of death happening before 4,000 fellow car fans at 12:18 p.m. on Oct. 19. He didn’t feel the shivers of emotion, the sadness of life passing, the reality of taking life and death into one’s own hand.

Forty-eight hours after the accident I am still unable to shake the sense of wanting to do something to start the race over, to stop the race, or to tell Alan to “Be careful . . . don’t die. There are so many people who love you.”

But I can’t do any of those things. I can say that I still love cars. First, I truly appreciate the technology and convenience the automobile has brought to the 20th Century. Second, I love the sound, the feel, the smell, the beauty, and the energy I have felt around automobiles since spending many hours with my father in his “hobby shop” in Nebraska, “souping up,” repairing and adjusting cars of the ‘50s. It takes a lot to change feelings learned in childhood. Especially pleasant ones. Sunday, Oct. 19, at the Del Mar grand prix was not pleasant.

I had just poured a soft drink for one of the guests at the Ferrari hospitality tent, overlooking the pit area, when the Cobra crashed as it attempted to enter the pits. The sound announced death’s nearness. Skeets Dunn, a noted San Diego Ferrari collector, broke the roaring silence screaming, “Get a fire extinguisher! . . . HURRY! . . . Get some help over here!” Situated 20 feet above the burning car, barricaded with fences and concrete barriers, there was nothing we could do but scream. The silence came back. Everyone froze again. It appeared that no one was helping . . . no one was moving, as the smoke turned into leaping flames.

“Get some more help! Get some fire extinguishers down here! HURRY!” But everyone and everything else appeared to be in slow motion. Except for the fire--spreading from the gas tank to the cockpit.

“Get him out of there!”

“Get some more help!”

“Stop this”!

Time was still moving too slowly.

Motion was nauseating.

Death and tragedy were inevitable.

I couldn’t stand there any longer. I had to do something. I ran down the stairs to the other side of the world. The grass was green, caterers were busy preparing for more guests, people walked through the exposition. They didn’t know tragedy was only a few yards away.

In the privacy and peacefulness of the ladies’ restroom, I screamed again for the vintage races. And last, I screamed for Chris Pook, the founder of the Del Mar grand prix. Still, the feeling to stop this from happening would not leave my body. I ran back outside . . . the world was still there, but the word was spreading, along with it the stench of death.

A girl in her late teens ran up to me, unable to speak. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“That’s my father out there . . . . Help me get to him!” she pleaded. Within minutes, Linda Kimpel, a volunteer hospitality agent retrieved a security man to radio for a vehicle to take this girl to a place where her father would never be. What could I say to Kimberly Ann, 18 years old?

Climbing back up to the Ferrari hospitality suite was harder than I remembered. The car was flaming, the cockpit was on fire, a firefighter with a hose was trying to save a man who was still strapped inside. They say he died before the fire reached him.

For two hours, racing was suspended while cleanup crews and firefighters scraped the remains of Alan Lloyd’s 427 Shelby Cobra off the track. Tires were strapped onto the concrete divider. The track was sanded down. The drizzle and ominous feeling continued.

I still had to do something to stop all of this . . . make it go away. I went to the office hoping to have an official tell me I was just dreaming. The nightmare continued. As I walked through the pits, my body shivered. The drivers were gathered in small groups around their race cars with family and friends, their heads hanging low.

A meeting was called to inform the drivers of what they already knew. The choice to continue racing was up to them individually. Some drivers felt a responsibility to continue; others felt a responsibility to withdraw. Complaints of a buckling track, slick road conditions and improper safety precautions were expressed by some.

Automobile racing is the No. 1 spectator sport in the country. It is watched by more people than football, baseball or tennis. Automobile racing is exciting. It is fun. It is big business. Professional procedures and courses should be mandatory when building a temporary race track. Drivers should be qualified and every precaution should be made to ensure safe conditions.

Sitting on the beach two days after the tragedy, I still want to do something. The memories of that day will never go away. But, I sincerely hope that race promoters will handle future races more professionally. Let’s keep automobile racing, and the drivers, alive.