Wild Ride

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 When death finally got around to claiming “Wild Bob” Burman, it was a shock to the public, but not entirely unexpected by those who knew him best. The young man from rural Lapeer County had been pushing the envelope for years as a “crazed speed imp” who would wipe the grime and oil off his face with an economical grin at the end of yet another record run. Ever since man first learned the joys of mechanical locomotion, there has been a primordial urge to go faster than the other guy — and Burman never liked being the other guy.

Although he is all but forgotten today, a century ago, “Wild Bob” was racing royalty, with tire magnate Harvey Firestone fitting him with a jewel-encrusted crown before the inaugural running of the Indianapolis 500 in 1911. “As a driver he was a genius in point of skill and fearlessness,” one Buick official said of Burman. “Whether he was in the lead or back in the ruck of the ‘also-rans,’ he never faltered, but drove his race always to the very best of his ability and with an unwavering spirit of pluck.” Burman’s go-for-broke style burned out a lot of cars, but never himself. “Hard luck and his grinding tactics eliminated him from many long races,” one Detroit reporter observed, “but his driving skill and daring made him a big favorite.”

Despite the spectacular implications of his nickname and the freewheeling nature of his exploits, away from the adoring crowds the popular racer was more mild than wild, says Dick Burman, a West Bloomfield Township man whose great-grandfather was the racer’s brother. “The name’s a bit misleading. He was quite dapper. He never swore. He never drank. He just loved racing.”

Robert Burman was born April 23, 1884, on a small farm near Imlay City. He hated the tedium of farm life and left when he was 17. Growing industrial centers like Detroit (45 miles to the south) and Flint (35 miles to the west) were magnets for mechanically inclined young men like Burman, who didn’t mind getting grease under their nails and bugs in their teeth.

Burman started off painting, then testing, engines at the small Buick plant, which was then in Jackson. He moved to the Jackson Automobile Co. as its chief road tester. One day in 1906, he talked his employer into letting him enter a widely publicized 50-mile race at the Grosse Pointe racetrack. Among the familiar names on hand were Henry Ford and racer Barney Oldfield, who had helped make each other famous with a monstrous speed wagon known as the “999.” The unheralded newcomer in a stock Jackson beat them all. “Burman took awful chances on the turns,” Oldfield said. “But he won the contest and beat Ford and me.” Burman followed up that victory with another, this time winning a grueling 24-hour race in St. Louis. It was during this period that the young racer acquired the sobriquet “Wild Bob.”

Paying attention was William C. “Billy” Durant, who had purchased the small, failing Buick company, and was in the process of merging it with other car manufacturers to form General Motors. Durant extended an offer “too lucrative to turn down,” recalled Burman, to join the racing team he was putting together at Buick.

For automakers, the philosophy of “win on Sunday, sell on Monday” was particularly important in the early days of the industry. Victories and headlines were essential in helping consumers and investors sort out a field crowded with hundreds of brands. Racing could also be seen as a form of public service. According to longtime track official Fred Wagner, author of the classic memoir The Saga of the Roaring Road, few people realize that “practically every improvement that has come to the modern motor car first made its appearance on the racing course. Without exception, everything the race has found advantageous has been adopted and everything found worthless has been discarded.”

Shortly after signing Burman, Durant took him for a tour of the new Buick factory in Flint. “Bob,” he said, “now that you have a good racing team, you drive your Buick car as hard and fast as you can. I don’t care if you win races or not. When some part breaks, or wears out, you bring it to the factory immediately, and we’ll build it better. And when better automobiles are built, Buick will build them.” Henry Ewald, co-founder of the Campbell-Ewald advertising agency, later turned Durant’s words to Burman into one of the industry’s most memorable and effective slogans.

The Buick squad remains the greatest factory team ever assembled. In addition to Burman, the heart of the roster included the storied Chevrolet brothers, Louis and Arthur, and Lewis Strang, a handsome, strapping Georgian who was destined to die a couple of months after winning the pole position in the first Indianapolis 500. Between 1908 and 1911, the team won more than 90 percent of the events in which they competed, everything from hill climbs and reliability runs to endurance races. Grabbing his share of racing cups and bowls was Burman, whom Durant described as “happiest when the hazard was the greatest.”

Burman never referred to himself as a race driver, but as a “test driver.” Because of frequent breakdowns, racecars during this era included a ride-along mechanic called a “mechanician.” While drivers often let the mechanic handle most of the diagnosing and repairs, Burman enjoyed this integral part of racing as much as he did the actual driving. In 1910, he had a hand in designing the famous Buick “Bug,” a 2,600-pound racing machine with a 622-cubic-inch engine. Only two were ever built, one for Burman and the other for Louis Chevrolet. Burman used his “Space-Eater” to gobble up several short-distance sprint records.

Unlike many drivers of his era, Burman was not given to “dissipation,” the popular term for drinking and carousing. A quiet, intense, and confident man, he made sure he stayed in top physical condition to handle the rigors of his profession. His 160 pounds were spread firmly over a 5-foot-11 frame. He had tremendous strength in his arms and shoulders, built up over years of handling an oversize steering wheel and keeping a 1-ton machine under control for hours on end. His vices, if they could be called that, were a love of oysters and fine clothes. For years, he raced in a suit and tie, a cloth cap jammed backward on his head, until his manager convinced him that business attire was not necessary to win a race or the public. After that, “dressing down” on race day still meant wearing a silk shirt, a bow tie, and dark trousers under his coveralls. A diamond stickpin served as his ever-present good-luck charm.

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