Indianapolis 1973: The Age of Aquarius meets the End of the Innocence.

It was 1973.

I was a sophomore at Butler University, rarely attending classes, and engaged to a girl who lived 600 miles away. We were doing the best we could to get together whenever we could, but the truth was, May was her exam month and she was pre-med, so chances we were getting together before her school was done were zero. I was two years removed from four years at Culver Military Academy. As much as I am thankful to Culver for my education, socially speaking, it was not the place to be in the middle of the Viet Nam War.

With these dim prospects on my immediate horizon, I had an epiphany of sorts: The Indianapolis Motor Speedway was but a 20 minute drive (on practice days) from my dorm room at Butler. I had attended Pole Day in 1970 and the race in 1971, so I was not exactly a novice at the Speedway;  although those trips had been under the sanction of the Academy. I had never, however, considered going to practice. What a concept!

I had been addicted to the 500 since 1961. Our family tradition dictated that on the morning of the race, we drew a random pool, then gathered around the radio to cheer our picks and listen to Sid Collins. We'd be glued to the radio on Race Day, and, as we got a little older, qualification days as well.

I believe it was the first Monday of practice in 1973 and there were a few of us generally hanging around the lounge in the men's dorm at Butler, being bored when someone had the brilliant idea, "Hey, let's go to the track!" We all loaded into someone's car and within 20 minutes we were inside the Speedway.

These guys were die hards, so we parked and headed immediately to what was then Tower Terrace. By climbing to the top row we could watch the cars all the way through the south chute and onto the backstretch. We also stayed really close to the entry to Gasoline Alley so we could see who was getting ready to come out to practice. It took only a few moments and I was HOOKED.  From that day on for the rest of the month, if there was the possibility of a wheel turning at the track, I was probably there or on the way there.

By the third time I went out to the track, I had equipped myself with a stopwatch and a camera. On one sunny day, I got some really awesome pictures of cars either in transit to the pits or parked there. I probably burned through two or three rolls of film which I dropped off to be processed on the way back from 16th and Georgetown. This was the "me" that went to the track by myself.

Then, there was the other me. This persona got together with friends to go to the first weekend          of practice. Coolers replaced cameras. Sobriety was left somewhere along the side of 16th St. We all got a buzz and REALLY cold. I think there was even a snow flurry or two that day. Still, a good time was had by all and there was some practice to watch, even if through a haze.

In the week of run-up to Pole Day, I was back in Tower Terrace, stopwatch and camera, MAYBE a beer with a hot dog during the breaks in the action. (Hot dogs were about ALL you could eat at the track back in those days, unless of course you brought your own.) Another roll of film or two.

On Pole Day, we were parked early in turn 1's infamous Snakepit. We'd picked out a spot close to the center of the south chute, laid out blankets, coolers, and even a pup tent. We were well into the cooler (and the Kentucky Fried Chicken) by the time practice got started. Almost as soon as the practice got started, we heard what sounded like a "chirp" and caught a glimpse of Art Pollard losing it. You could tell by the reaction of the crowd that it was serious. I grabbed the transistor radio and turned on WIBC to get their coverage. Even in my inebriated state, I felt the air go out of the Speedway.

Shortly thereafter, Tom Carnegie confirmed the worst, "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with deepest regret...."

The rest of that Pole Day is a blur. I suspect we left shortly thereafter, but frankly I do not recall. I had dealt with death at the Speedway first in the Eddie Sachs/Dave MacDonald tragedy in 1964. That was on the radio and Sid Collins so eloquently explained to my 10 year old mind that sometimes bad things happen. Experiencing death before your very eyes, however, was quite different, somehow more personal.

Ironically, when I got my film back from processing, the last day I'd taken pictures, I had several really good pictures of Pollard's car.  That should have been enough warning. But I was just getting started.

The week between Pole Day and the second weekend of qualifications, I went out there a couple of times, the highlight being one gorgeous afternoon  when I had the tent out and was getting some rays and killing brain cells in turn 1. I was sitting in the doorway to the tent, cold beer (probably a Stroh's ) in my hand, when this guy and girl come strolling by. He had a serious camera and she was definitely NOT dressed for the Snakepit. He snaps off a couple of pictures of me and she steps up and starts asking questions. "Hi. I'm with the Indianapolis  News. What's your name?" I told her. She asked what I was doing that afternoon, and I told her I was playing hooky from Butler. Then she asked if I was having a good time. I took a swig of beer and said of course. Then she asked, "How old are you?" I looked at her. She looked at me. We both looked at the beer in my hand as I said, "19."

Right after the second weekend of qualifying, I got a call from a buddy from Atlanta: He and three of his pals were going to come to the Race. I had a group already that included my brother, one of his friends, a couple of my Indy friends, probably 6 or 7 of us in all, loaded into a station wagon. Add to that two LARGE coolers, tent, blankets, radio, enough beer to float a small battleship, and at least two buckets of KFC.

By the time our group hit the Speedway, a steady mist was falling. We set up shop not far from the end of the pits in the entry to turn 1. I quickly discovered that Race Day in the Snakepit was wayyyy different from practice or time trials. When we set our first "camp" we put ourselves close to a trash can, thinking it would be easy to dump our empties as we went. What we didn't realize was that the horde of miscreants behind us would develop a habit of yelling, "Fore," and pitching their empties in the general direction of the can. Obviously, once this "shelling" began in earnest, we opted to move
a few feet further away from the barrel. Having corrected our initial error, the full party was on.

Unfortunately, the weather was not cooperating. While it never really poured, the track never got completely dry. Finally, the mist ceased long enough for them to get the cars out on the track and attempt to start the race.  Mr. Hulman intoned those famous words and we were off...

Of course, we all know what happened when they came down to take the green. All of a sudden, the number 77 car of Salt Walther became a methanol spewing pinwheel down the main straightaway as cars went everywhere. Our little group got our first indication of the carnage when a tire rolled up to the fence near where we were sitting. I shouted, "Fellas, all Hell's broken loose. We better turn on Sid Collins," and grabbed the radio. Almost as soon as the race was stopped, the mist returned.

We didn't know it then, but that was the last racing we would see that year. Yes, they got the cars lined up one more time that day, only to have the rains return. After that, it was merely waiting for everything to become final.

Our little group began to wander about, looking for amusement in the Snakepit. Some clown who was more intoxicated than we were climbed the fence and began running toward turn one naked. (It was called "streaking" back then, and it was one of the amusements that could be found in the infield, along with topeless blanket toss and other such games.)

Meantime, one of our number decided that this would be an appropriate time to sneak into the pup tent  with the one girl that was part of our group and well, you get the idea. Unfortunately for them, about the time that they really got going, some drunk kicked the tent poles of the pup tent which promptly collapsed, leaving no doubt whatsoever what was going on inside.

Wild cheering ensued.

When the powers that be at the Speedway finally gave up for the day,  we began loading up our gear and planning for the next day. The group from Atlanta had decided that they were going to wait until the morning to decide whether to return to the Speedway or head back to "big A." They had found some "no tell motel" south of town and would call in the morning. The rest of us began the process of getting everyone back where they sort of belonged. By the time we cleared all the Speedway traffic, we had at least a couple of people who were capable of driving.

We ended up on the north side of Indy, dropping off the young lady who had joined our congregation. Her folks were not at home, so we decided we'd have one quick beer before heading out to our final destination. Bad idea.

We did get to see the video of the first lap calamity. We were all amazed that Salt Walther had survived the accident and we all felt for the people on the front rows of seating who had been sprayed with invisible flaming methanol. While we were watching the replays, our personal situation got pretty hot as well. The parents had returned. It was only then that we discovered that the father of our distaff member had forbade her from going to the track. She was summarily grounded for life. We were threatened with immediate arrest and prosecution if we did not get clear the Hell away from their house and never come back. Suffice it to say, we beat a speedy retreat.

I was awakened the next morning at 7 am. My head was pounding from the actvities the day (and night) before.The guys from Atlanta had apparently had all the fun they could handle at the 500 and by  vote of 3-1 had decided to get out of town and head south. I wished them well and then went to check the forecast. Same thing as the day before, showers off and on all day. I called a few of the people who had joined us the day before and by 7:30 we were heading back to the Speedway, all three of us. Because there were less folks there, we were able to snag a parking space in the (then) shopping center lot across from the main gate.

Thinking that it was likely to be another washout, we were milling about the lot when we came upon some poor souls who had southeast vista seats left over, but no beer. We arranged a simple barter transaction. They got beer, we got seats. They got the better end of that deal. Although they actually got the cars lined up, about the time Mr. Hulman told the gentlemen to start their engines, the rains came again. No racing today.

As we returned to our car, we came across another group of people that had had their fill of Indy for 1973. As they were wandering toward their car in the lot, they offered their tickets up to anyone who wanted them. Free. They's simply had enough. Figuring it couldn't rain forever, I asked for two. Then I looked at the tickets. Penthouse Paddock. Best seats in the house. I was stunned. If only it would quit raining.

Soaked, disgusted and in need of a good meal, I headed for my parent's home in Anderson. I asked my mother if she would wake me at 7 am, and told her that I had great seats for the 500. For the third day, it dawned overcast and rainy. From all I was hearing on WIBC, there was almost no chance that the track would get dry anytime soon. My father, on his way off to work, asked if I would mow the grass.

Understand, my parent's  home sat on almost 4 acres. "Mowing the grass" there meant about a four hour ride on the back of a Cub Cadet. Although it had quit raining in Anderson, the wet stuff was still falling at the Speedway, so I started off on the tractor. I'd been going along, about halfway done with the mowing when I saw my mother waving her arms at me from up by the house.

Once I had parked the tractor, Mom came up to me and said, "They're getting ready to start the race!"
Sure enough, they were lined up and Mr. Hulman was once again telling the gentlemen to start their engines. and here I was, (at minimum) an hour and a half away, not counting for whatever traffic remained. Since the forecast did not seem to be improving,  I decided to stay where I was. As it turns out, my decision to just sit down and listen to the radio at my parent's house was the best decision I could have made. I too had had enough.

We all know what happened: Swede Savage whacked the inner retaining wall shortly after warning his pit crew that the handling on his car was going away. The car erupted in flames which would claim Savage's life some days later. In the ensuing melee, a crew member was struck and killed by an emergency vehicle traveling the wrong way up pit road. Mercifully the rains came and ended the disaster. Gordon Johncock, Savage's teammate, was the winner. Even he had had enough.

Over then next fourteen years, I would attend all but one 500. I would see two four time winners crowned and sit in almost every corner of the Speedway at one time or another. I would get rained on in 1975 and 1976, then be rewarded by watching A. J. Foyt win his fourth the next year. I would see Tom Sneva walk away from a crash that should have killed him. I would see the first woman qualify at Indianapolis and Rick Mears win a couple of times. I would see Danny Sullivan spin right in front of me and avoid wall contact to spirit away yet another win from Mario Andretti. Twenty four years yater, I would return to watch J. R. Hildebrand snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by crashing into the turn 4 wall with the checkers awaiting him, handing a second victory to the popular Dan Wheldon.

 I may even go back again someday, though most years I watch the 500 from the best seat in the house...(my house, that is.)

But, hopefuly, there will never be another 1973.