On the Road At Long Beach

Streaking along the ocean shore at 190 m.p.h., the Ferrari is a red blur against the blue, a waft of 500-h.p. combustion that arrives on the ebb of a parabolic whine. Screeching through a U-turn, the car speeds toward Ocean Boulevard. Seconds ahead of a pack that includes the cars of Mario Andretti and Austria's Niki Lauda, the Ferrari roars down the main thoroughfare past three porno theaters, two derelict hotels and assorted pawnshops. It will be a long afternoon for 36-year-old Swiss Racer Clay Regazzoni. Another hairpin right will bring him back to the sea, and the hulking stern of the Queen Mary and a dozen festively camouflaged oil derricks.

Averaging 85.5 m.p.h. over the 162-mile marathon, Regazzoni won last week's West Coast Grand Prix. But the 72,000 spectators who paid from $12 for a bleacher seat to $1,000 for a hotel balcony view enjoyed more than just a road race. The two-hour Grand Prix was the climax of a three-day combustible fiesta, and TIME Correspondent David DeVoss was among the participants. Explained former Maserati Racer Carroll Shelby as he blissfully sniffed a passing cloud of hydrocarbon: "This is a spectacle."

Glace Blondes. The Grand Prix circuit is the class act in racing. Unlike stock-car drivers, Grand Prix racers are rich sybarites who zip through the industrialized world in futuristic "Formula I" nodules of fiber glass. Theirs is a life of death and daring where excess baggage means two cars and a couple of glace blondes. "This is the only gentlemen's sport left," observed a Caracas businessman. "Polo and tennis are such a bore."

Recognizing the glamour of Grand Prix and hoping it would somehow rub off on Long Beach, city fathers and race promoters three years ago began organizing a Monaco-style race through the city streets. There were a few problems, of course. Long Beach harbors seldom entice millionaires' yachts, and the local royalty consists entirely of wax dummies aboard the Queen Mary museum. But Grand Prix supporters predicted that the challenging 2.02-mile circuit designed by former Grand Prix Winner Dan Gurney and a $265,000 prize purse would offset the deficiencies.

With a quarter of its 365,000 residents over age 60, Long Beach has searched unsuccessfully for a winning image. Instead of being called a "petro capital," it became a "sinking city" when massive oil drilling in the 1950s caused some minor subsidence. For a brief time it attracted the Miss Universe contest, and in 1967 it bought the Queen Mary, which proved disappointing as a tourist hotel.

This year, with a $1.5 million race budget on the line, Long Beach left nothing to chance. Each Grand Prix event was programmed to the minute by officials who met at 7 a.m. to synchronize watches. The whole city seemed to be mobilized, with businessmen working as ushers, and models hawking "Do It in the Streets" halter tops. "We're trying to keep people constantly entertained," said Director of Pageantry John Queen Jr., as four skydivers trailing pink smoke and Bicentennial flags plummeted seaward.

Long Beach's efforts paid off with packed restaurants and hotels. Even the 56 rooms without portholes in the Queen Mary were full. The Grand Prix may help make Long Beach something more than a civic blob somewhere south of Los Angeles. Says Robert Lichtenhan, director of the city's Convention Bureau, in a burst of boosterism: "We can feel the pulse of this thing building in terms of more conventions and tourism." With contracts already signed for an additional nine years of Grand Prix racing, Long Beach residents may even grow to love smog.

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