HOW IT FEELS.

Waipawa Mail, Volume LIV, Issue 83, 3 April 1933, Page 1

HOW IT FEELS.

MALCOLM CAMPBELL S SPEED RECURD. “LONGEST MILE IN WORLD.” DAYTONA BEACH, Feb. 22. It is true I have broken my own record of 253.968 miles an hour made on the sands of Daytona Beach, February 24th last year, with a new mark to-day of 272.108 miles an hour. But I am not at all happy about it. Frankly, there is no reason why I should be. My ear has a potential speed of at least 300 miles an hour, but due in a sense to conditions over which I had no control, I did not even approach that mark. But we had been waiting for quite some time for the proper conditions, and I felt I should not wait longer. I don’t mean to intimate I am not happy that my car, which is new in many particulars, has vindicated the faith in her. lam proud of it, proud of her British workmanship and design, and just as proud, mind you, of the fact that I made the record on American sands and on Washington’s birthday. I have always felt that our two nations should be on the friendliest of terms in sport and in broader fields. “ALL CLEAR,” I have often been asked, am asked every year in fact, what my feelings are during record attempts. Well, first there are the interminable delays while waiting for the word to go. Of course, the delays are not interminable; they only seem so. Finally the word comes: 1 ‘ All clear 1’ ’ My good lads start the Bluebird engines by means of compressed air. I switch on the ignition and the Rolls engines roar away. We get off slowly, first in low gear, then with the engine revving about 2300 to 2800 into second, then into high. At the end of the first mile, I am

going approximately 140 miles an hour. The line of flags at my left, set 100 yards apart, begin to draw together. Now they are practically a picket fence, even closer if that be possible, for I am covering more than 375 ft. a second. The huge numbers to my left, set at each mile post, jump before my vision. I read No. 4, which means four miles to the record mile. Before my vision focuses properly on it, it is gone. No. 3 breaks the line of flags. I look at my tachometer (engine revolution counter), which is the same as my speedometer. The revs, mount, 2600, 2800, 3000, 3200. I know 1 am far above last year’s record speed. My foot is hard on the accelerator. Fsee, as a thing detached, the yellow and black rectangular marker above the start of the mile. I press my foot down harder. I wait ages it seems. I look at the rev. counter. Time does not fly; it creeps. Another age, almost. At last there -s another yellow and black marker overhead. I find myself breathing again as though I had not before. I have finished my record ran. It lias- taken me seconds, just over 12, but it seems ages actually. ALMOST OUT OF HAND. A change of tyres and back I go northward. Again the blur of flags, punctuated by the huge markers indicating- the miles. The yellow rectangle striped with black again overhead. My car takes a swerve on this return trip. It almost gets out of hand as I finish with her radiator pointing toward the sand dunes and going for ihe soft sand. But she answers the helm and I am back on a straight line again. Comes the long, long mile, undoubtedly the longest mile in the world. Finally, it passes. I ease np and coast, putting on my brakes, slowing to a crawl of 100 miles an hour. The record run is over. I’m relieved, but actually I am not too happy. I have sort of let my ear down, or conditions have. I should have set the mark at least 15 miles higher. Ah, well, I think it can be done some other time.