Guest Writer

IT’S BEEN A GOOD RIDE

Enamored at an early age with an item called a wheel, whether on the little red wagon or a bicycle that I took to with a solo sortie without mishap, it became inevitable I would be drawn to power driven vehicles.  Alas, I was taken by my beloved father to a midget race in a little upstate New York village named Caledonia in 1947.

At the age of ten I was completely overwhelmed, in awe of these cars racing around an oval, throwing dust, wheel to wheel, and I do remember vividly several incidents where they would go through a ballpark-like wooden fence and end up on a pile of rocks and debris.  Without question the ambulance was the busiest carrier of the afternoon, and never once did the thought enter my mind that a driver would be injured or taken from us.  Youth somehow dismisses that facet, although years later I would wonder if a young man named Keith Powell from Buffalo, NY had passed in front of me to his demise.

I was hooked!  I scanned the newspaper for race results as if I had a clue as to the whereabouts of Langhorne, Sacramento, Phoenix or Indianapolis.  But I devoured it all if it was in print, and later I discovered Speed Age magazine, the bible of Golden Age.

Time passed, and I was fortunate to discover local stock racing at a wonderfully groomed half mile track, Monroe County Fairgrounds, where I peddled my ten-speed bike out to sit by the side of the road and watch the touring NASCAR greats of old tow their racing cars by me for the night’s events.  I watched Lee Petty, the Flocks (Tim and Fonty), Ned Jarrett, Curtis Turner, and “The Rebel,” Ted Mundy pour into the fairground pit area.  Then I would pedal back home, about eight miles, deliver the evening paper, and then Dad would take me back to witness (with the capacity crowds) the Hudson Hornets, the Big White cars of Karl Kiekhafer tear up the half mile with reckless abandon.

1955 arrived, and over the ensuing period of time, I had graduated from high school with the V-8 Model A, which I had to leave behind when I went to college in mid-Ohio.  Memorial Day weekend was approaching, and the final exams schedule was cooperative, so with five dollars in my wallet, an athletic bag with clothes, and some potato chips for nourishment, I set out by thumb to the Mecca of auto racing, Indianapolis.  Fortunately it went well, and I was befriended by a young man outside of Indy who took me as close as he could to the Speedway.  Tom Ricketts, wherever you are, thank you!

Naturally I discovered the 16^th Street Speedway, two midget shows yet to be run, but with no money and no place to put my head, knowing somehow I had to see the shows, I sneaked in.  This was entirely out of character, and I suffered a severe case of paranoia that I was going to be discovered without a ticket stub and escorted out the gate.  But a show of shows, first class midgets, top name drivers that I had only read about, were dicing it out almost within arm’s reach.  Did it get any better than this?  Little did I know.

But realization set in, the midget races were over after midnight, and now where was I going to sleep?  After endless walking, totally exhausted, I picked out a piece of grass, complete with a tree for overhead shelter.  I wrapped my hand through the loops of my athletic bag to hopefully prevent theft and dropped off like the proverbial rock.  Ironically, I can take you to that faithful tree on 16^th Street today, right in front of Conkle’s Funeral Home.

KA-BOOM!  An earth-shattering explosion shattered my sleep.  I cam bolt upright with the thought the world had ended.  No, my first Indianapolis 500 was about to become a true devotion.  It was the bomb that the Speedway set off to signify the opening of the gates for admission to the grounds, and the rush was on!