A half-mad experiment orchestrated by the engineer Ben Bowlby, the car had barely been tested. Bowlby's one-time boss, Chip Ganassi, who owns IndyCar, Nascar, and Grand-Am teams, summed up the project in what would become the DeltaWing mantra. "Here are the key points," he said. "Half the cost of the current car, half the weight, half the drag, half the downforce, half the fuel?same speed."
For his part, Bowlby wanted to turn heads, too. Dismayed by the lack of innovation in racing, he longed to give his three children a reason to click on the TV and wonder at the technical prowess in the sport he loved. Without question, his dream machine looked fierce. If you peeked under the carbon-fiber body, though, you couldn't help but see how delicate the DeltaWing team's hopes were. The rear axles were not much bigger around than those on a riding mower. The front suspension had been assembled using springs the size of a Red Bull can. They resembled something you'd find on a mountain bike. To get the DeltaWing down to fighting weight?under 1200 pounds with driver and fuel?the crew had to sacrifice some heft. Bowlby himself had said it would be a "mighty miracle" if the car finished the 24-hour race. His backers hoped it would run long enough to prove its point.
Now nearly 600 million people were watching worldwide to see how it did on the track.
Ben Bowlby has been designing race cars for 25 years, first for the international manufacturer Lola Cars, then as Ganassi's technical director. Like most engineers, he'd thought a lot about how to do things better. And like his motorsports peers, he always found himself stifled by racing's rule books. "I realized that I was part of a dinosaur industry," he said.
In 2008, at Ganassi's urging, the bushy-browed Brit began sketching out a revolutionary vision, a lightweight rocket powered by a modest engine. He knew that the world's automakers were pushing for efficiency. With fluctuating gas prices, rising costs, and mounting cries for environmental awareness, they were clamoring for sensible solutions. By contrast, motorsports was inching down the road toward eco-conscious racing. Bowlby dared to give it a great big shove.
To test his idea, he built a small radio-controlled model. To his delight, it worked. With backing from Ganassi, he created a full-size model in Indianapolis in 2010. The IndyCar series was planning to unveil a new chassis for the 2012 season, and the two men threw themselves headlong into the competition. Ultimately, the concept was just too radical. The racing world had not taken such a great leap forward since the late 1970s when Lotus's winged ground-effect cars stormed the Formula One circuit. IndyCar opted to stick with the Italian manufacturer Dallara Automobili. Bowlby was crushed.
His hopes for a thumbs-up had vanished?or so he thought. Three months later, he pitched the idea to the French board that oversees the 24 Hours of Le Mans. Intrigued by the notion of a fuel-efficient race car, the group offered him a berth in its newly christened Garage 56, a showcase for experimental cars. The DeltaWing would not compete, but it would get to run with the 55-car field.
Bowlby had one year to streamline the design, build the car, and test it. To succeed, he'd have to shave nearly 1000 pounds from the typical Le Mans prototype. That meant rethinking everything, from the tires to the transmission to the brake and exhaust systems.
With little prospect for a series-wide licensing deal, Ganassi was ready to move on, so Bowlby talked his way into the All American Racers shop, founded by Dan Gurney. Besides being one of America's best car builders and a legendary driver, Gurney, now 81, is regarded as a novel thinker, the first man to wear a full-faced helmet in Formula One, the guy who started the tradition of spraying champagne on the winner's podium. "I don't know when a car tickled my innards the way this one does," Gurney said. "I can't remember an innovation that has the visual impact that the DeltaWing does, and the technology makes so much sense."
The DeltaWing's first on-track test, at Buttonwillow Raceway Park, a dusty little road course in the California desert northwest of Bakersfield, was scheduled for the first week of March. The car needed an engine. Bowlby and team pitched many manufacturers; only Nissan of Europe bit. The company agreed to supply the 1.6-liter turbocharged four-cylinder engines on one condition: The DeltaWing had to prove itself on the track. A handful of reporters were present when the car took its first tentative laps, then broke down. It took a few more, then broke down again. Despite some wiring glitches and minor brake and transmission issues, the car cobbled together enough laps to demonstrate that, yes, it was fast, and, yes, even with those tiny front tires, it could handle racing turns.
Day after day, the thrash continued. The crew of about a dozen worked tirelessly in the small concrete garage. Each problem was met and resolved in a climate that resembled that of a high-tech startup or the early days of the space program?people toiling, sometimes without pay, on a project that might make history. They'd work until dark, set up lights, and work some more until 1 am, when they'd all head to the Motel 6 and sleep until dawn.
Nissan dispatched its own drivers and engineers to put the car through its paces. To protect the company's interests, they arrived in plain clothes. The DeltaWing passed the test.
On March 13, Nissan announced that it would power the car. Due to the tight deadline, however, the company contracted with a British race shop to custom-build an engine based on Nissan's design. In the end, the only genuine Nissan part included was the throttle-body assembly.
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