AIR HEADS Part Four

 

I believe it was with apprehension that Cal Rogers set his “Vin Fiz Flyer" down on the Cicero airfield (above)  on Sunday afternoon of 8 October, 1911. Cal was now 21 days out of New York City. He had flown just 1/3 of the distance to California. He had crashed six times, or about once every 166 miles. At this rate he had to assume he would crash another six times before he reached the foot of the Rockies, parallel with Denver, Colorado. And he would either be spending Christmas somewhere in Utah, or dead. The Pony Express was proving far faster than the" Vin Fiz Flyer". 

Upon landing in Chicago, Cal immediately telegraphed William Randolph Hearst to request an extension of the time limit for the $50,000 prize offered by the mogul's newspapers. Had Cal known "W.R"., as Mr. Hearst liked to be called, the flyer would have realized the mogul had no intention of ever letting anybody get their hands on that prize money.

Like most self described “self made” millionaires (such as Donald Trump), William Randolph Hearst was the son of a millionaire. When W.R. was kicked out of Harvard, where the boy had struggled to survive on a $500 a month allowance (the equivalent of $11,000 a month, today), it seemed he was destined for failure – well, as much as the  pampered only son of a millionaire could fail - because the only thing bigger than the fortune which W.R. would eventually gain control of,  was his ego.

In 1887 W.R. took over the “San Francisco Examiner”,   which his father George Hearst  had won in a gambling debt.  W.R. then sank part of daddies’ fortune into making it the “Monarch of the Dailies”. He hired the best writers and editors that daddies’ money could buy, (such as Mark Twain and later Harriet Quimby) and built a publishing edifice based on the formula of sex plus comic strips equals sales. The first of the Sunday comics printed in color was Hearst's “The Yellow Kid” (above). Thus the origin of the description of W.R.'s style of newspaper as “yellow journalism”. And what was yellow journalism? A. J. Pegler, a Hearst writer, described it this way:  “A Hearst newspaper is like a screaming woman running down the street with her throat cut.” Think, Fox News with ink.

When daddy George Hearst, died in 1891, W.R. convinced his mother to sell off the mining properties on which the family fortune had been built. He used the cash influx to finance his acquisition of the “New York Morning Journal”, where W.R. repeated his "Examiner's" recipe for success - which he had learned, by the way, during a summer internship under Joseph Pulitzer. It makes journalism's "Pulitzer Prize" seem like a mea culpa, doesn't it?

And then W.R. began to buy newspapers, eventually 42 of them, with 30 million plus readers. Now he could syndicate his well paid writers and increase his advertising revenues, which he used to promote and publicize his runs for congress, and as governor of New York and mayor of N.Y.C.  He failed to win any of those elections. But everything W.R. did (like Donald Trump) was ultimately to promote and publicize himself, including the Hearst Prize for the coast to coast air race.

W.R.’s interest in flying was typically mercenary. When his editors had approached him with the idea of offering a $50,000 prize for the first transcontinental flight, experts like Glenn Curtiss and Wilbur Wright, warned him that aviation was too young to achieve such a lofty goal. 

In 1910 no plane could stay aloft longer than two hours at a time, and none could travel faster than about fifty miles an hour. Airplanes were still made out of wood and wire, for crying out loud. But, on the plus side, offering the prize would fill W.R.'s newspapers day after day, with articles about how it could it be done, who could do it, who didn’t think it could be done, and how many would die trying to do it.

W.R. was awarded a medal from the Aeronautical Society of America for just offering the prize. And W.R. loved to get medals. But paying out the prize money would sell W.R.'s newspapers for one day only.   And that was why the Hearst Prize had contained a time limit. It was set to expire on 17 October, 1911, a date well before, Hearst figured,  anybody could possibly  make it across the country.   So, when Cal Rogers’ telegram arrived, begging for an extension, W.R. was in no rush to even respond. Cal waited in Chicago for two days for the telegram from Hearst, and he began to suspect he had been had.  So with just a week left before the deadline, he decided to force W.R's hand.

On Tuesday, 10 October, Cal flew across the flat lands to Springfield, Illinois, then on to Marshall, Missouri. As he arrived in Marshall,  far away from any cities fed by Hearst newspapers, Cal found a the telegram from Hearst waiting for him. There would be no extension in the time limit.  Cal had now flown 1,398 miles since leaving New York, which gave him the record for the longest flight. But there would be no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, just a bottle of Vin Fiz.  Yuck.

A more mercenary element now drove Cal’s romantic quest. When the city of St. Louis and its popular Hearst newspaper, withdrew its offer of a thousand dollars for landing there, Cal simply bypassed the town. Instead he flew on to Kansas City, landing in Swope Park.  They, at least, offered a few dollars landing award.

Experience was forcing his wife Mable to learn how to handle the money side of the race, as Cal was learning how to handle his plane.  They decided to turn south, to avoid taking the Rocky Mountains head on,  and to also avoid Denver and its Hearst newspaper.  There were far fewer trees to run into on the Great Plains, which reduced certain dramatic elements in Cal’s landings and take offs. Fewer crashes meant fewer late night repairs.  Everybody was getting more sleep. And at about 9 a.m., on Thursday 19 October, 1911 the “Vin Fiz Flyer” crossed the Red River into Texas.

And on that same day the race that was no longer a race, became a race again, with the return of Bob Fowler.

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AIR HEADS Part Three

 

I figure that Cal Rogers (above)  was feeling pretty confident on the morning of Saturday, 23 September, 1911.  He had just received word that one of his competitors, Jimmy Ward,  had dropped out of the “Hearst Coast-to-Coast Race” after crashing (yet again!) 5 miles outside of Addison, New York.  Cal already knew his other competitor,  Bob Fowler, had failed in his third attempt to get over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, finally cracking up near the summit  at Donner Pass, and reducing his Cole Flyer to kindling and canvas. 

That left just himself, Cal Rogers, the six foot four inch deaf adventurer from Pittsburgh in the running for the $50,000.00 first place prize.

Of course, Cal still had to get to California within the time limit.  He was barely a tenth of the way across the continent now, and he had already crashed three times. This should not have been surprising since he had been a pilot for all of four months. He had less than 60 hours of flying experience. He knew little to nothing about navigation by air, and there was no one to teach him. In short, Cal was at the very edge of human experience in flight, both physically and mechanically. 



The Wright engine (above) on his “Vin Fiz Flyer" had no throttle. The 4 cylinder engine was either on or off, at full power or at zero. The pilot had only one way to alter his speed, other than turning the engine on and off, and that was to “advance the spark”,  meaning to alter the instant in the compression cycle when the spark plug fired. In a modern internal combustion engine of the 1920's this would be controlled mechanically. 

But in the Wright engine of 1911 it was done by physically unscrewing one or two of the spark plugs a fraction of turn into or out of the cylinder by head. The engines' designer and builder, Charlie Taylor,  had taken a leave of absence from the Wright workshop in Ohio to accompany the "Vin Fiz Flyer" across the country.  And with all the other pressing work on Charley's calendar,  this was the best and simplest method Charlie had come wit so far, for fine tuning the airplane's speed. 

It took three days to repair the Vin Fiz after the crash at Middletown, New York on 17 September. So Cal did not return to the race until Thursday, 21 September, 1911.  His first leg that day was to be a hop to Hancock, New York (above), 40 miles east of Binghamton.  But half way there Cal noticed his radiator had sprung a leak. He kept an eye on the precious water dripping out of his engine and then, just as he was over the town - POP! -  a spark plug flew out of engine.  Unscrewing the spark plug to adjust the speed evidently also allowed the plug to vibrating itself right out of the engine.

In an instant, the 4 cylinder Wright engine lost 25% of its power, and the plane had precious little to spare. Cal suddenly found himself plummeting for the ground. He managed to steer for an open field,  pulling the "Vin Fiz's" nose up at the last second to make a cash landing. But it was still a crash. Again, there was nothing to do but wait for the his service train, the "Vin Fiz Special".

The next two weeks would prove to be difficult, as California receded farther and farther away in distance and in time. While making a normal landing at Binghamton, New York,  Cal would later say, “…There was a snap of breaking timber and my right skid had gone". 

The broken skid was easily replaced (above) over night, from the supplies carried on board the rolling repair shop.... 

...in the Vin Fiz Special's hanger car. Directly behind was the Pullman car, carrying Cal’s wife Mable Mae, and his mother Maude (nee Rodgers) Sweitzer. 

Maude Sweitzer (above) was there to support her son, but her presence strengthened the divorce suite recently filed by her second husband, Henrey Sweitzer.  In July Henrey had charged Maude with "cruel and barbarous treatment and indignities...and desertion without cause".  Henrey might have named Cal at the co-respondent in the divorce, since it seemed Maude had abandoned her wealthy second husband for her son....her married son, whose wife was sharing the Pullman car with her mother-in-law. 

Also sleeping onboard the Pullman was chief mechanic Charley Tailor (above). and a rotating collection of Hearst reporters and photographers. The second mechanic, Charles (Wiggie) Wiggen, and three assistant mechanics all slept in the baggage/repair car. 

With such generous support, Cal was airborne again on Friday morning 22 September, 1911. But that afternoon, as Cal attempted a landing at Elmira, New York,  he snagged some telegraph wires. More repairs were required. 

As Cal traversed the border lands between Pennsylvania and western New York State, he hit a patch of good weather and made up some time, at least until late on Sunday afternoon of 24 September. Just after Cal had taken off from Salamanca,  high up on the Allegheny River, another spark plug vibrated its way out of the Wright engine. 

This time Cal coolly reached behind his back, grabbed the hot plug in his glove just before it popped completely out. He twisted it back into the cylinder and held it in place as he made a perfect landing (with one hand) on the Seneca Indian reservation near where the Red House River joined the Allegheny. 

Cal now screwed the spark plug firmly back in and, with help of a couple of Senaca Indians turned the plane around for take off.  But he couldn’t work up enough speed and had to abort. He tried again, but the second attempt also failed to get airborne.  Each time the two helpful locals had tried to warn Cal that he was aiming at a barbed wire fence. But either because he didn’t understand what they were saying (he was deaf,) or because he was in such a rush, Cal ignored their warnings.

The third time proved to be the charm. Cal taxied directly into the barbed wire fence, ripping the fabric covering the right wing to shreds, and wrapping the prickly barbed wire around the frame. It would take two days to free the “Vin Fiz Flyer” and allow her to soar yet again.

Cal was back in the air on Wednesday, 27 September , and had safe landings all that day and the next. But on Friday, 29 September he was grounded by bad weather. Still, Saturday, 30 September saw him break out of the Alleghenies and enter the rolling farm lands of the old Middle West. The "Vin Fiz" covered an impressive 200 miles on 30 September, but that was still 50 miles short of the distance he had intended to average. 

He would have gone further but a clogged fuel line forced him down late in the day near Akron, Ohio. Cal spent that night fending off curious cows who seemed determined to crush his fragile airplane under their big fat hooves. Or maybe they were just looking to catch a flight to some place more respectful of vegetarians.

On Sunday, the first day of October, 1911,  Cal stopped at first Mansfield and then Marion, Ohio, before being forced down by another clogged fuel line at Rivare, Indiana, just over the state line. Under threatening skies Cal cleared the fuel line and took off again, only to fly directly into a thunderstorm -  the first pilot to ever do so. As lightning snapped around his plane, Cal was the first pilot to experience downdrafts and wind shear, and as quickly as he could, Cal landed the "Vin Fiz" again, in the tiny Hoosier town of Geneva.  As soon as the weather cleared he flew on to Huntington, Indiana, where he was met by an enthusiastic crowd.

The next morning, Monday, 2 October, the winds were still gusting and again Cal had a hard time working up speed on his 35 horsepower Wright engine. Just as he felt his skids leave the ground he realized he was heading for a crowd of people.

Cal yanked the stick to the left, passed under telegraph wires, and then bounced his left wing off the ground.  Cal was thrown out of his seat and scrapped his forehead. The left wing of the “Vin Fizz” was crumpled and folded up. 

But the “lucky” bottle of soda (above) dangling from the strut was unbroken, yet again. Or so said the Vin Fiz publicity agents.  It would take two days to repair the “Vin Fiz”, essentially its third complete rebuild since starting the race.

On Wednesday 4 October Cal flew to Hammond, Indiana, where he landed just before 6 P.M., on a plowed field on the Jarnecke Farm. He slept that night in the comfort of the Majestic Hotel. But high cross winds kept him grounded for another two days.

Finally, in desperation, on Saturday, 7 October, 1911, Cal loaded the “Vin Fiz” aboard his train and moved it just across the border to the village of Lansing, Illinois, where he found a fallow field with a wind break. This allowed him to safely take off again. As his journey westward by rail had not moved him closer to Chicago, technically, he had not advanced his position in the race.  Or so said the Fin Fiz spin doctors.

Cal Rogers finally reached the new air field in Cicero, Illinois (above), on the west side of Chicago, on the Sunday afternoon of 8 October. By the rules, Cal now had less than two weeks to fly the remaining 3,000 miles across the Mississippi, the Kansas and Nebraska flat lands, the Rocky Mountains, the Great American desert and then the Sierra Nevada mountains. Cal Rogers was the only man still in the race, but he was running out of time.

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AIR HEADS Part Two

 

 I believe Bob Fowler (above, center) was confident on Saturday, 23 September, 1911,  when the repairs to his "Cole Flyer" were finally completed, and he finally took off from Colfax, California - altitude  3,306 feet - in the Sierra foothills.  He certainly looks confident in this photo. 

His confidence was, however, seriously misplaced.  When the bundled up Fowler reached six thousand feet up the Sierra Nevada mountains, he  hit headwinds that his 40 horsepower Cole motor just could not overcome. He was forced to return to Colfax.

That same Saturday - 23 September - back east, the little jockey Jimmy Ward was following the “iron compass”, as pilots referred to following railroad lines.  In this case he was tracking the Erie Railroad westward out of Middletown, N.Y.   Jimmy landed safely at Callicoon, New York (above) and refueled, at 10:05 a.m., as planned.  He refueled again at Susquehanna, Pennsylvania, and took off again at 2:15 P.M.

Two hours later, after avoiding crowds waiting for him at other landing fields, the shy Jimmy touched down on a farm outside of Owego, N.Y.  Here the jockey hitched a ride into town, where he ate a quick dinner with Maude while a local mechanic refueled his plane.

He wanted to make it to Corning, New.York. before dark, so he hurried his take off.   But as the jockey lifted into the air his engine coughed, his wheels snagged a fence and he was yanked to an abrupt halt.  His lower left wing was bent, his wheels destroyed.  Jimmy Ward (above) was unhurt, physically, but it would take almost two days before a crew on loan from Curtis Aircraft could repair the damage.

 Back out in California, bright and early on Sunday, 24 September, Bob Fowler tried again to get over the Sierra Nevada mountains. This time he got as high as as Emigrant Gap, just below the Donner Pass, at 7,500 feet above sea level.  But headwinds again forced him to again retreat to Colfax.

On the Monday, 25 September,  Bob reached 8,000 feet before running into headwinds again.  This time Bob decided to land at Emigrant Gap,  to get a head start start the next day.  But flying in the thin air at high altitude was a skill not yet mastered by anyone,  including Bob,  and while turning around his wings lost lift and he plowed into the trees.  They had to send out a search party to locate him, and when they did he had two broken wings and and two broken propellers - I mean  his "Cole Flyer" did.   Bob himself was somehow largely uninjured. But for the time being his continental flight was… waiting for repairs, again.

Back in Owego, New York, the repaired Jimmy Ward’s Curitss airplane managed to limp into Corning and then on to the village of Addison, N.Y. (above) late on Monday,  25 September, 1911.  Jimmy was now 300 miles and 10 long days out of New York City.  But at this rate it could take him the better part of a year to reach California. 

 Anxious to make up for lost time, at 7:18 A.M. on Tuesday, 26 September, James took off from Addison.  And about five miles west of town he crashed again. He had to walk almost the whole way back to Addison, just to tell people he had crashed. This was getting really hard.

Back at the hotel, waiting for her husband,  Jimmy‘s wife, Maude Mae, overheard some gamblers taking five-to-one odds that her husband would be dead before he reached Buffalo, New York.  Now, Maude May knew that Jimmy was not actually planning on heading to Buffalo, but she also knew that town was still 60 miles further to the west. And at the rate Jimmy's flight was progressing, he could have been beaten by a Conestoga wagon, 

In fact, the way Maude Mae figured things, at the rate Jimmy was crashing, the gamblers were being a bit optimistic at about her husband's lifespan.  So Maude Mae decided to be practical - leave it to a wife to destroy a daredevil sporting event with practical thinking.  Maude Mae spoke to the shaken Jimmy that night. And after his long walk and his two crashes over the previous four days, Jimmy was inclined to listen.

Jimmy's manager announced his decision to the press the next morning, Wednesday, 27 September. He was dropping out of the race. Later, Jimmy Ward would explain his decision in less than pragmatic terms. “It was a plain case of a jinx”, he said.  And then he went on to prognosticate. “Rodgers is a mighty fine fellow, " said Jimmy, "and I wish him all kinds of luck, but...To win that $50,000 he's got to complete his journey by October 10th.  He can't do it."  

Given his skill at fortune telling,  I am surprised that Jimmy Ward (above) had no inkling that just seven months later Maude Mae would have him arrested in Chattanooga and charged with bigamy. She had discovered that Jimmy was never legally divorced from his first wife.  Poor Maude Mae.  Poor, Jimmy Ward. And without him, the race went on. 

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