Guest Writer

IT’S BEEN A GOOD RIDE

PART II

I paid the grand sum of $l.50 to join the rush of pedestrian and vehicular traffic that was literally pouring into the infield of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway; I didn’t comprehend the urgency at a little after 5 a.m.  The race didn’t start until 11:00, but somehow I gathered the information that one had to secure his place at the snow fence that encircled the infield, stake your claim and don’t leave it!  Cold, a little grungy, and being blessed with better than the average speed afoot, I found a spot in Turn One, in the dew dampened grass, and now what?

I couldn’t sit down, and I needed a shave.  Wash the face?  Out of the question, at least for the moment, and soon had people on both sides of me that appeared benevolent.  “Would you save my place?”  Receiving an affirmative answer, I trudged off to find a facility and somehow came across a section of newspaper.  Aha!  In true hobo fashion (when I returned to my sacred spot) I spread out the newsprint, covered up with the rest of it, and with my head on my athletic bag, more for security of the contents than comfort, I dozed off to a very uncomfortable state of rest, with the thought in my mind, if my parents only knew, they would be very far removed from happy.

Rewashing my face in the dew, I shed my “blanket” and stood awaiting some activity on the track.  Eventually I was rewarded with the pomp and circumstance of marching bands, celebrities in vehicles, the stands filling to capacity with fans, thousands of cars parked behind me with people spread out on blankets, as if this were the world’s largest picnic.

Over the P.A. system the famed announcement was made, “Gentlemen, start your engines,” and I could hear this low grumbling behind me and to my right.  Finally the field began to file into turn one with the youthful Jerry Hoyt on the pole, looking to me a little out of place with wire spoked wheels as the famed Halibrand magnesium brand had made their entry into the racing endeavor.  I gaped in wonderment at these beautiful creations, the variety of colors and paint schemes that I had only been able to read and observe off the printed page, completely in awe of the men and their machines, plus the sound.

The sound faded as they circled to the far end of the track, the din of the crowd noise taking over for a moment, and then the tremendous roar as the field got the green, drowning out the enthusiastic cheers of the fans.  Eyes glued to the first turn, I could see that The “Flying Splinter,” Jack McGrath, had taken the lead as he had cut from his outside first row position in front of Hoyt and Bettenhausen.  It didn’t take long before two time winner Bill Vukovich was in the hunt, gunning for this third consecutive win, and a odds on favorite to pull it off. 

What ensued was one of the classic confrontations in the history of the Speedway, first McGrath, then Vukovich, at times nose to tail, all eyes glued on this contest for the lead until McGrath pulled in on lap 54 with a sour magneto ending the magnificent speed duel.  

Two laps later the caution flew and almost immediately the crowd took note that Vukovich wasn’t present anymore, along with Johnny Boyd, Ed Elisian, and future two time winner Rodger Ward, and Al Keller.  The P.A. system announced an incident on the back straightaway, and as I turned around to look over the vast throng of cars and people, I could see a column of smoke arising skyward.  I set off at a dead run to see what had transpired, but by the time I arrived, there was nothing but a sea of people that afforded me nothing more than a glimpse of the carnage.  Slowly, I turned as just before I arrived back at my spot in Turn One, the announcement was made that nobody ever wishes to hear.

The thought had never entered my youthful mind that this could and did happen, all to frequently during that age of auto racing, and for a few minutes was more than shocked and dumbfounded.  But since that fateful day never again raced to the scene of a fatal incident, or if I photographed what ensued to be a demise of a driver, it will never see print.  From my parents wonderful tutelage, it is just not done in good taste for any amount of financial gain or notoriety.

The quiet murmuring of the crowd was brought back to life by the fall of the green restart, with Jimmy Bryan in the lead, but his steed failed and a California born Bob Sweikert took the lead, surviving challenges by the superb midget chauffeur Art Cross and the immensely popular Pat O’Connor.

I couldn’t believe what had transpired, the gentleman I had picked to win the race had done so, and then in a bizarre twist of fate while wandering around near the garage area, savoring all the flavor I could, watching Jimmy Daywalt climb a fence to converse with friends, approaching me all alone was the man of the hour, Bob Sweikert.  A smile across his face, his white coveralls grease stained and oil smeared, and of all things he stuck out his hand to shake mine, I hopefully think I said “Congratulations,” and he asked, “Where are you going?  Why don’t you come with me?”

Into the garage area I was escorted, never challenged by the guards, I had arrived in heaven, but immediately Bob was swarmed upon by his compatriots, admirers, friends and the media, and a simply striking and stunning young lady, his wife, Dorie.

The realization finally set in, it was time to think about the long haul by route of thumb to get home, and set off to l6th Street, where luck shined on me again.  Two fellows from Buffalo, NY picked me up, said help yourself to the chocolate cookies, homemade.  I ate the entire tin; fortunately for my hide, they didn’t ask for any on the journey or would have probably been put out on the side of the road prematurely, deservedly so, I might add.

But the “love affair” with the Indianapolis 500 was launched on that fateful day in l955, and other venues of auto racing.  As I approach fifty consecutive races at IMS, I have been fortunate, lucky and blessed, there is only one Indianapolis 500, and it is as stated, “The Greatest Spectacle……….”