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On Labor Day weekend in 1953 a sports car race was held at Floyd Bennet Airfield, a US Navy installation, in Brooklyn, NY. The Commanding Officer of the field was a sports car nut, and somehow had obtained clearance to have the race there. I had returned home from Europe in May, having concluded my military service, with my spanking new MG TD which I had purchased there, and decided to enter it in the race. Things like getting a racing license were a lot more casual then, as was the racing attire. Mine consisted of the latest in helmets, a coal miner’s, a tee shirt-it was hot out-and my ex army khaki pants. Practice was held on Saturday, and the races were held on Sunday and Monday. My race preparation consisted of removing the bumpers to make the car lighter, taping up the headlights, and installing a good racing lap belt, which I bolted thru the floor of the car - the floor was plywood. Ah well, ignorance was bliss. Early in the practice session, my engine died on the main straight, and I coasted to a stop right in front of the Cunningham pits. Briggs was there with 2 C3R’s, and his drivers, Phil Walters and John Fitch. I got out of the car, opened the hood - bonnet in those days- and stood there looking at the engine, because, as now, I knew nothing about the workings. Briggs came over to me, introduced himself, and asked me what the problem was. I told him the engine had quit, and I had no clue as to why. He asked me if it would be OK if he had his mechanics take a look at it, and when I accepted with alacrity, motioned over to 2 mechanics who pushed my car to the side, then proceeded to analyze the problem - I was not getting any fuel from the tank to the engine - took off the gas lines, blew them out, reattached them, and started the engine. While they were doing this, Briggs inquired about me, about my love of my car, and then invited me to “take a couple of laps in his car with Phil.” They took off the passenger side tonneau cover, and I got in, put on the seat belt, and got the ride of my life. The main straight was the entire 5,000 foot runway, and it was entered from a fast curve. I actually saw 83 mph in my MG, probably a very optimistic speedo, and the C3R was going at least 125-150 - there was no speedo on the car - cornered in high speed 4 wheel drifts - there were no racing radials then, just “high performance bias-belted tires”, and in the esses Phil power slid thru both turns as if he was in his midget racer. Those few laps remain etched in my memory, as well as the kindness of a man who went out of his way to help a young kid drive in his first race. I started 12th and finished 10th in my class, which consisted of about 30 MG TCs and TDs. At the same race was a wealthy young guy from Kansas City, about my age, whose name was Masten Gregory. Gregory had been making a name for himself in sports car racing, and showed up with a beautiful red C type Jaguar. He was outclassed by the Cunninghams and a Ferrari America 4.1, which had the loudest exhaust noise I had ever heard. In practice, Gregory overdid it on a corner, went off the track onto the grass adjoining the track, evidently ran over something which caused the gas tank to rupture and catch fire, and in less than 5 minutes the car was reduced to embers. Gregory walked over to another competitor with a C type, spoke to him for a few minutes, shook his hand, and proceeded to drive that car. I subsequently found out that Gregory had bought the car on the spot. He finished 4th in the race, behind the 2 Cunninghams and the Ferrari. Unfortunately Gregory was killed in Europe some years later while racing. He had moved to Europe and was, at the time of his death, a top ranked F1 and sports car driver.
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