Winging over the scrub-clad dunes, it looked like a space invader executing a terrifying attack on a remote outpost. We had never even imagined such an otherworldly apparition. Yet here it was, leaping over the skyline to strafe our raceway with fire in its belly and conquest in its heart.

Not all of us fled screaming. But even at that moment I believe we all knew: upon us had come a seismic Revolution in Racing.

That happened to me in 1966. It changed my life. I had ridden my Triumph motorcycle out to the far end of New York’s Long Island to Bridgehampton, a fast, swooping hilltop road course. Here would be my first opportunity to see a breathtaking new racing series called Can-Am.

“It would be anybody’s first chance to see a ‘winged white wonder’”

It also would be anybody’s first chance to see a startlingly innovative, ‘winged white wonder’ from Texas – the Chaparral 2E.

Riding home that night, my helmet still filled with the roar of huge V8 engines and my mind’s eye replaying jaw-dropping action between the Chaparral and three dozen Lolas, McLarens and other big, sleek, scary-fast machines, I knew that my view had been forever cemented as to what motor racing should be: step-back-in-fear awesome.

Can-Am’s official name was Canadian-American Challenge Cup Series. To create it, sports car organising bodies in both nations pulled together what had been a catch-all collection of regional events across North America into a single professional drivers’ championship.

Thanks to a maker of automobile polishes, which put up eye-popping prize money and an attention-grabbing ‘Floatile’ trophy, this ‘Johnson Wax Can-Am’ is said to be the first sponsored motor sports series in history.

To further boost credibility, J-wax brought in retired driving maestro Stirling Moss as ‘Can-Am commissioner’. The future Sir Stirling worked hard at the job.

The new, continent-wide programme attracted more attention than the earlier regional format. Increased spectator enthusiasm brought in more interest from the media and therefore from sponsors, which in turn drew in more competitors with strong, new cars.

Very strong. Not only did Can-Am catch the acquisitive eyes of North American road racers, their oval track colleagues in IndyCar came flocking for the prize money too.

Beyond that, the upstart series schedule was cleverly designed to attract overseas competitors. The six rounds of that inaugural season filled gaps around the trio of North American grands prix in Canada, the US and Mexico. For European F1 stars used to then-unimpressive European pay scales, the idea of driving for dollars on their off weekends was irresistible.

It so happened that Great Britain also had developed its own breed of locally made chassis with imported American V8 horsepower, and local fans more used to small engines loved these ‘big bangers’. UK constructors like Lola and McLaren eagerly took on the North American challenge too.

For race fans looking back from today, when practically everything about a competition device is designed to a rulebook, it may be hard to grasp how uniquely unregulated these cars were. Can-Am rules were both few and liberal.

As long as the vehicles could loosely be described as ’sports cars’, with bodywork covering the wheels, cockpit doors and two seats, and providing that rudimentary safety regulations of the day were honoured, builders were free to let their imaginations run completely wild.

The only limitation on engine size was a minimum. Anything smaller than 2.5 litres was not allowed. Otherwise, drop in the biggest engine you could find. More than one engine, if you pleased.

“The upstart series schedule was designed to attract overseas competitors”

Also ungoverned were the sizes of wheels and tyres; dimensions and configuration of chassis and bodywork; aerodynamic shapes and appendages; construction materials; fuel capacity; overall vehicle weight… Can-Am was practically a free formula. Any crazy innovation was welcome.

Such hot rod-style design freedom is scarcely believable today, but it seemed appropriate to the psychedelic 1960s. It was a decade rife with revolution, that time of flower children flocking to Haight-Ashbury and astronauts going for the moon. Auto racing’s 1960s opened with mid-engine cars changing the very shape of the sport and continued with ever-larger engines — and ever-bolder aerodynamics and ever-wider tyres — shattering all previous concepts of performance limits.

“The only limitation on engine size was a minimum – 2.5 litres”

In dizzying succession we saw Carroll Shelby’s wild and woolly Cobras, Ford Motor Company’s open, epic assault on Le Mans, and Jim Hall’s clandestine collaboration with General Motors on his enthrallingly innovative Chaparrals.

Motor sport, long regarded as an obscure pursuit of the borderline lawless, was achieving social respectability. At a period of intoxicatingly rapid growth, free-formula racing seemed perfectly natural, and Can-Am gave full expression to that heady spirit of liberty.

My long-ago weekend at the dear old ‘Bridge’, a mere memory now, resulted in a new direction for me. I had been keen on racing, and was developing a modest side-hustle in taking pictures and writing stories about various events, but such sporadic assignments couldn’t bring in enough income to walk away from my boring but steady regular job.

Can-Am changed that equation. Suddenly, North America had something going on that interested my British client. So I packed my parachute and jumped. And landed in something so satisfying that I’ve been doing it ever since.

Time has brought enormous change to the motor sports world as I used to know it. Fans today rightfully wonder if that old Can-Am they keep hearing about was really so great.

“Can-Am was a drivers’ championship, but it was all about the cars”

In a word, yes. In my opinion, anyway. And it’s all because of the incredible cars we used to see. “Can-Am is boring,” was a gripe I sometimes heard, but that came from people cooped up in press rooms. All they saw were cars whizzing by the window. Singly, most of the time.

Admittedly, the big fields tended to string out. Cars were very different in performance from each other, and drivers came in all levels of expertise and motivation. We sometimes did get stirring competition to enjoy, but honestly, it wasn’t usual.

I wished the grinches would come out and walk the circuit with me, feeling the thunder in their bones and seeing the lurid antics of those overpowered machines heeling and heaving and sliding around the turns. True, Can-Am was officially a drivers’ championship, but it was really all about the cars. Those incredibly powerful, virtually unrestricted, rapidly evolving speed machines fascinated me. And they still do. I don’t see their like today.

American author and photographer Pete Lyons covered the Can-Am series for the British weekly magazine Autosport from 1966-72. His work resulted in three later books about the series. These and over a dozen other titles, along with his archive of in-period racing photos – some of which are reproduced here – are described at his website: petelyons.com