Jim Tice leaned back in the big leather chair and savored a pull on a
long, green cigar. "It's an excellent deal," he said. Behind him, through a
large picture window, could be seen some of the 15,000 or so people who were
watching James Warren beat Don Garlits to win the seventh PDA Championships.
Tice was paying little attention to it. He was holding forth in a wood paneled
office in Orange County International Raceway's glass and steel tower, greeting
various minions anxious to ingratiate themselves to the new boss of the most
impressive full-time drag strip in the country.
Ever since it opened in 1967, OCIR had been a pride and joy of the
National Hot Rod Association, a "flagship track" as one knowing observer put
it. But now Jim Tice was midly gloating about his "deal," a pact that gives
his AHRA control of the strip for five years at a cost of around $140,000 a
year.
At first glance, Tice's coup looks like a deft thrust to the jugular
of drag racing's dominant organization, the NHRA -- and in a way it is. But
that aspect is only of surface importance. The significance of the changes at
OCIR lies in the fact that they occurred in the first place, that the people
who originally built and ran the track wanted out. The reasons for their withdrawl
may give us some insight as to what drag racing will be facing in future years.
Nearly 10 years ago two young men, Bill White and Larry Vaughan, were
itching to plunge into business. Both had grown up on the Irvine Ranch, an
80,000-acre mini-state on the Pacific Ocean between Los Angeles and San Diego,
smack in the middle of one of the fastest growing areas in the United States.
A place with some history, it had been staked out a hundred years ago
by James Irvine, who came to California looking for gold and didn't find it.
Ironically, the land he settled when his search failed was worth more to his
descendants than all the gold that the sourdoughs of his time pulled from the
ground. This modern bonanza was being mined by the Irvine Company, following
a 50-year plan that will eventually see 500,000 people living on the multi-billion-dollar
spread. White and Vaughan wanted part of this action. They wanted to build something
that all of these people, and others in Southern California, would spend money
on. And they were tied to the Irvine Ranch by more than simple business acumen.
White was a member of the Irvine family, and Vaughan's father was foreman of
the ranch.
"We really wanted to build a boat marina," Vaughan recalls, "but a study
showed us that entertainment was the coming thing." Within that broad area
automobile racing was growing phenomenally, particularly drag racing. But they
knew nothing of the sport, so went to Bernie Partridge, NHRA's California Division
director, to find out. He told them a minimum track could be built for as little
as $80,000.
Their idea was looking better all the time. They took out a 55-year lease
on a perfect parcel of land from the Irvine Company. It lay 40 miles from downtown
Los Angeles and was within spitting distance of a freeway. Now to lay some
asphalt and build a few stands. The partners, who by this time included future
manager Mike Jones, wanted something that would be as attractive to the paying
customer as the other entertainment palaces in the area, places like Disneyland
and Angel Stadium. But for $80,000? No way. Try one million dollars. That's
right; by the time the architects and contractors got through, the original
estimate wouldn't even pay for the toilets. The fledgling racing moguls gulped,
took over much of the work themselves, and eventually built the kind of place
they wanted for around $700,000.
From the minute OCIR opened its gates in 1967 the doom prophets began
their chant. They looked at the tower, a four-story truncated octagon with
paneled offices and carpeted rooms; they looked at the permanent stands, the
tiled heads, the stainless steel concessions, the paved pits, the scrubbed
and uniformed staff, and they said, "Ain't no way this place will ever pay for
itself." But it did, at least well enough to stay open.
It took a while for Jones to settle on a formula that would prove successful,
and for the past couple of years it appeared that the track had cured its growing
pains. Even the skeptics began to doubt themselves.
For one thing, OCIR's major competition, Lions Drag Strip, had been
turned into a pile of rubble by the Los Angeles Harbor Commission; and the
only other track in the L.A. basin, Irwindale, was suffering through changes
of management. OCIR had become, in less than six years, the dominant drag racing
facility in Southern California.
Unfortunately, it had also become almost untenable in terms of turning
a profit for its owners. Expenditure, you see, was rising to meet income. Property
taxes went from $7000 to $68,000 a year. Purses were up, and advertising costs
multiplied. Local ordinance required the track to put in a new water line, at
a cost of $175,000. The track's officers and a large staff were consuming a
big hunk of cash in salaries. And then, of course, there was inflation. All
of this added up to take the gloss off the enthusiasm that first plunged the
young men of OCIR into drag racing. What was to be done?
Diversify -- that was it. During the past year speedway and motocross
tracks were built to lure the bike crowd. Larry Vaughan opened a school to
teach cops to drive and was getting contracts from law enforcement agencies
all over California. Plans were drawn up to develop some of the track's excess
property for industrial use. Things were looking up.
But the Irvine Company was less than enthusiastic about one of its tenants
dabbling in competing land schemes, and there was disagreement among OCIR's
own board of directors -- nine people by now -- about how to handle the track's
future. Maybe the boat marina would have been the thing to do in the first place.
But it was too late now, and ultimately a decision was made to sell the whole
works back to the Irvine Company. And this was done.
But now it gets a little complicated. Vaughan wanted to stay on. His
driving school, he felt, had great potential. The Irvine Company, although it
had scheduled the land for development sometime in the future, had an existing
facility on its hands and wanted to keep it operating. So Vaughan leased the
property right back for a shorter term. Then he sublet the motorcycle tracks
and went looking for someone to take over the drag racing operation.
"This was not due to the fact drag racing isn't looking good," Vaughan
explained. "It is." But he wanted to devote all his time to the school. So
he offered the strip on a five-year lease. And, even though it had been NHRA
sanctioned from the beginning, he was not particular about who got it. "I was
looking for a group that I felt would stay behind the five-year lease and continue
to operate the track for that length of time." It came down to two organizations.
The one that didn't get it was headed by Steve Evans, who had recently
taken over the moribund Irwindale track, and to all appearances, was making
it pay. He, in turn, was backed by Bill Doner -- a colorful operator of three
tracks in the Northwest -- and NHRA, which was at least giving its moral support
since it sanctions the Evans/Doner tracks. But they wanted more than Vaughan
was willing to give. As Evans sees it, there was "no potential for any form
of revenue other than drag racing." In other words, they wanted the bike tracks
and more freedom to use the plant any way they saw fit.
Tice, on the other hand, jumped at the chance and signed the contracts
while his competition was holding out for better terms. Why was he so anxious
when the others weren't? Tice is, as he is fond of saying, a businessman first,
and he thought he could make money. He also wanted the prestige of having this
track in his grip. So much so that he departed from what he says is his normal
procedure. "We usually either go on a long-term lease or buy the property when
we take over a track." But in this instance he was willing to go in for the
short haul.
Nevertheless, most of the people involved in the transactions feel that
Tice made a shrewd move. Mike Jones, who has left the sport, said, "I think
he got a helluva deal. If he can continue to do what we were doing, he should
make it." If for no other reason than that of having fewer expenses since the
Irvine corporation absorbed some of the costs that plagued the original management.
Then too, knowing the way Tice's manager -- veteran C.J. Hart -- runs
tracks, the costs and overhead should be kept low. The new bosses will probably
not change things too much (although Tice says they will have a "colossal" race
in the spring) and will doubtlessly make a few bucks.
But they, and everyone else concerned, know that Orange County International
Raceway is dead. The sentence has been pronounced; only the date needs to be
set. The judge, jury, prosecutor and executioner are one: economics. The minute
the Irvine Company thinks it can make more money from the land by building on
it, the track is finished. It will be five years anyway, maybe more, but it's
not the kind of situation that encourages further risk or expansion.
The sad thing about this is that other well-heeled entrepreneurs, looking
at the experience of OCIR, would no doubt be discouraged from attempting similar
ventures in other places. Even Vaughan, who is by no means turned off to racing,
says, "I wouldn't build the track you see here again. If I built another one,
it wouldn't be a Cadillac but a Chevrolet."
When OCIR opened it looked like drag racing had finally reached "The
Big Time." At last, here was the kind of place a jaded sports writer could
come to without feeling he was slumming. There were no dark stands to put the
fear into a guy bringing his family for an outing. Racers wouldn't have to pit
in a dust bin. Wow . . . it sure was great. It would only be a matter of time
before other palces like this would spring up all over the country, and then
. . .
Perhaps we were all too optimistic. Everybody was calling it "the sport
of the Seventies" back there in the Sixties. There would be television, supertracks,
big money. So what happened?
These days, to build another OCIR would probably take several million
dollars. To make that kind of investment attractive, a track would have to be
close enough to a large population center to draw the kind of crowds that would
guarantee a profit. But with land values being what they are, this is virtually
impossible.
Ironically, the popularity of drag racing has little to do with this
situation. People never did stop coming to OCIR; in fact it was NHRA's largest-drawing
track for the past five years. But it became necessary to charge more and more
money to pay for the ever-increasing costs associated with the land. And if
you start charging too much, they stop coming. It's a vicious circle.
At least in this case there's been a short reprieve, but it doesn't
change the overall situation. It's doubtful any more OCIR's will be built. Oh,
there will be new tracks. But they'll be thrown together on the cheap, run close
to the bone, and they'll be successful. But they won't have the "thing" that
Orange County International Raceway gave the sport -- Class, with a capital C.
