Abandoned & Erased: The California circuit that hosted Formula 1 once

Close your eyes. Imagine the scent of hot oil and sun-baked sagebrush. Feel the vibration thrumming through the bleachers as engines scream down a straightaway, kicking up dust devils that dance across the arid landscape. This wasn’t Monaco, Monza, or Silverstone. This was Riverside International Raceway, carved into the rugged hills of Moreno Valley, California – a track that pulsed with raw American racing spirit and, for one fleeting moment in 1960, dared to dream of becoming a cornerstone of the glamorous, globe-trotting world of Formula One.

The Beast of the West:
Born in 1957, Riverside wasn’t built for the faint of heart. It was a demanding, beautiful monster. Drivers spoke of it with a mix of reverence and dread. Its 3.275 miles unfurled like a coiled snake: long, lung-emptying straights where speeds soared, abruptly punctuated by viciously tight, technical corners like the infamous Turn 9 (“The Esses”) and the carousel-like Turn 6. One lapse in concentration, one misjudged braking point on its challenging, undulating asphalt, and the unforgiving desert landscape waited to punish you. It quickly became a proving ground, a place where legends like Dan Gurney, AJ Foyt, and Phil Hill honed their skills. While it would later become synonymous with the thunderous roar of NASCAR and the sleek battles of Can-Am and Trans-Am sports cars, its destiny briefly, tantalizingly, intersected with the pinnacle of open-wheel racing.

HOW IT LOOKS TODAY…

Alec Ulmann’s Grand Ambition:
Enter Alec Ulmann, a man with a vision burning as bright as the California sun. He wasn’t just a promoter; he was an evangelist for international motorsport in America. Fresh off organizing the very first United States Grand Prix for Formula One at Florida’s bumpy Sebring airfield circuit in 1959 (a race won by Bruce McLaren), Ulmann looked west. He saw in Riverside not just a track, but a stage. Sebring was functional, historic, but undeniably rough around the edges. Riverside, bathed in Hollywood’s glow and boasting a modern, challenging layout, felt like the future. Ulmann dreamed of transplanting European F1 glamour onto this sun-drenched canvas, believing it could capture the imagination of a vast, affluent West Coast audience and cement America’s place on the F1 calendar.

Here around 80s…

The Stage is Set (But the Audience Stays Home):
December 4th, 1960. The Formula One circus arrived in the Californian desert for the season finale. The cars – the shark-nosed Ferraris of Phil Hill and Richie Ginther, Stirling Moss’s nimble Lotus, Jack Brabham’s Cooper-Climax – looked like alien spacecraft compared to the familiar stock cars and production-based sports machines American fans adored. The weather was perfect. The track was ready. The drivers were the best in the world. But as race day dawned, an unsettling quiet descended. Where were the crowds?

NOW…

Instead of the packed grandstands Ulmann envisioned, a mere 25,000 spectators trickled through the gates. The emptiness was palpable, a stark, embarrassing contrast to the 70,000 passionate fans who had flooded the very same venue just months earlier for the Los Angeles Times Grand Prix sports car race. The dream was deflating before the engines even fired.

Why the Grand Prix Grand Flop? Unpacking the Perfect Storm:

BESIDE THE TRACK…

1. The Poison Pen: Feuding with the LA Times: This wasn’t just bad luck; it was a targeted blackout. Ulmann was locked in a bitter, personal feud with the most powerful sports media entity in Southern California: the Los Angeles Times. Angered by Ulmann’s perceived encroachment on their turf or perhaps past slights, the paper wielded its influence like a club. They offered virtually zero pre-race promotion or coverage. Imagine trying to sell tickets for the biggest international sporting event most locals had never even heard of. No previews, no driver profiles, no race-day guides. The silence from the Times wasn’t just neglect; it was sabotage, crippling local awareness and enthusiasm before the race even began.
2. Strangers in a Strange Land: The F1 Knowledge Gap: To the average American racing fan in 1960, Formula One might as well have been racing on the moon. NASCAR was king, rooted in relatable production cars and door-to-door action on ovals. Sports car racing featured machines that, while exotic, bore some resemblance to things you might see on the road. F1? These were lightweight, open-wheeled, high-revving missiles from Europe, driven by drivers with unfamiliar names (despite stars like Moss and Hill). The technology seemed bizarre, the racing format less intuitive. There was simply no established fanbase or cultural connection. F1 felt like an imported curiosity, not a must-see event.
3. No Stakes, Just Ceremony: The final nail in the coffin was competitive anti-climax. The brilliant Australian, Jack Brabham, driving for Cooper, had already mathematically clinched his second consecutive World Drivers’ Championship before the Riverside race. The pressure valve was released. While the drivers still raced hard (victory was always the goal), the overarching drama of a championship battle – the thing that fuels so much F1 excitement – was absent. For many potential spectators, it transformed the US Grand Prix from a pivotal showdown into a mere exhibition run, diminishing the perceived value of attending.

The Race Itself: A Whisper in the Desert:
Amidst the disappointing turnout, the race unfolded. Stirling Moss, ever the maestro, put his Rob Walker Lotus on pole, thrilling the sparse crowd with his audacious skill. But the race belonged to Brabham’s teammate, the young New Zealander Bruce McLaren. In a poetic twist, McLaren won the race, becoming the youngest Grand Prix winner at the time (a record he held for decades). He crossed the line under the vast California sky, victorious… but largely unheralded by the empty stands. Brabham finished a solid fourth. It was a competent race, but the atmosphere was funereal, lacking the electric buzz of a true Grand Prix occasion.

A Legacy of Lingering Questions:
The checkered flag fell on Riverside’s F1 experiment. The financial loss was significant. The lack of buzz was undeniable. Formula One packed up its cars and never returned. The US Grand Prix hopped to Watkins Glen in New York for 1961, finding a more receptive (though still niche) audience on the opposite coast. Riverside, meanwhile, settled into its immensely successful, deeply American identity as a bastion of NASCAR, IndyCar, and sports car racing for nearly three more decades, its F1 chapter rapidly fading into obscurity before its demolition in 1989.

Riverside’s F1 race stands as a haunting “what if?” What if the LA Times had embraced it? What if American fans had been more familiar with the spectacle? What if the championship had been on the line? Could Riverside’s unique challenge and California glamour have fostered a lasting F1 tradition? Instead, it remains a poignant footnote – a brief, bright spark of ambition that landed on arid ground. It’s a reminder that even the greatest tracks need more than just tarmac and talent; they need promotion, passion, and perfect timing. Riverside had the first two ingredients naturally. But on that December day in 1960, crushed by a media feud, cultural disconnect, and bad timing, its chance to be America’s Monaco vanished like a desert mirage. The ghosts of its F1 aspirations still whisper in the dusty canyons of Moreno Valley.