For the most part, our temporary venues were located in or near resorts, and sports car racing then was as much a social event as a competition. Today, some of us remember the parties more than the races. Bongo bashes were the cat’s meow. The officials and course workers were all volunteers and the events were social for them also.
The safety rules were rather casual then. My helmet was a surplus WWII aviator’s with the earphones removed and my uniform was Levi’s and a T-shirt. Roll bars weren’t required until 1958 and few of us fitted them before we had to. I thought a harness was something for horses—even my seat belt was war surplus. Racing was much more dangerous than it is now, but I don’t remember being very concerned, nor do I recall much discussion of the topic. After all, we were young and bullet proof!
It was like a fraternity, or maybe akin to a military unit that saw combat. Owning a sports car then put us in an exclusive society. Those of us who raced were at the top of the heap. When we passed each other on the highway, we would wave. Many of us are still friends 50 years later, and we still get together every now and then.