Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (17 page)

As the slight, handsome Agabashian stepped closer to Vukovich, a
bystander brushed against them, causing Vukovich to drop his helmet.
As he reached down to pick it up, Agabashian reeled in horror. This was
to him the ultimate curse. The mark of death. Helmets were sacred talismans to many drivers, as Ascari's had been to him. Dropping it was,
to Agabashian, akin to riding with a black cat in a car numbered 13 (a
taboo number never used in big-time American racing).

Agabashian, his face stiff, pulled away from Vukovich and slipped into the crowd. Thinking little of the incident, Vukovich shrugged
and headed toward his car.

Along pit row, Dinah Shore, dressed in a bright red suit, began
singing the traditional "Back Home in Indiana," which had in the past
been the job of opera star James Melton. This time, in deference to
Mitch Miller's popular sing-along TV show, the lilting star requested
that the grandstand audience join her in the second verse. The
response among the chilled crowd was limited at best.

Back in the fifth row of starters, Bob Sweikert made a final check
of his pink Kurtis-Kraft before climbing into the cockpit. A week
before, word had come from Glendale that chief mechanic A. J.
Watson's young son had died. He had rushed home to be with his
wife. Sweikert, an expert mechanic in his own right, had taken over
the final preparations of the car.

Shielding the microphone against the wind that blustered out of
the west, track president Tony Hulman gave the traditional call to
arms, "Gentlemen, start your engines."

Thirty-three raucous, blatting Offenhausers bombarded the
grandstands with noise and methanol fumes. Travers pulled the
portable starter from the snout of the Hopkins as Vukovich pulled on
his helmet and driving gloves. Coon stood behind the tail of the car,
ready to push it away on the starter's signal. Holding his ears against
the thunder around him, Travers went to the cockpit and brushed
Vukovich's shoulder in a rough gesture of good luck. Vukovich
returned it with a cursory nod. He had entered another zone.

The Chevrolet convertible pace car, driven by Keating with Tony
Hulman beside him, rolled out of the pit lane. The thirty-three race
cars lumbered slowly in its wake. They disappeared around the first
turn and out of sight as the crews scuttled back to their positions in
the pits bordering the straightaway.

Two pace laps. The massive crowd was on its feet. A deafening
bomb exploded and an immense cluster of multicolored balloons blossomed over the infield and quickly scattered in the breeze. The
field reappeared, gaining speed. The grandstands became a sea of
waving hats, hands, and handkerchiefs. The drivers returned the
salute with their gloved hands.

By then most of the establishment press, the big-city reporters,
and a few Associated Press and UPI staffers and magazine writers
had adjourned to the press box, a long row of seats hung high
under the eaves of the grandstand from which pit action could be
observed. Standings were unknown during the race, save for the
teletyped bulletins passed around every ten laps by Eagle Scouts
selected for the honor. Rather than sit there in splendid isolation, I
chose to stay trackside, standing directly behind the Vukovich pits,
where I could observe Coon and Travers as the race unfolded a few
feet away.

One more pace lap and the Chevrolet scurried into pit lane. Bill
Vandewater, the starter standing at the edge of the track, whipped out
a giant green flag and began waving it at the wildly hued clot of
mechanical bulls charging toward him. Accelerating hard, they rumbled past, briefly enveloping him in a cloud of dust that had lain dormant in the grout of the bricks.

Distant thunder. The backstretch. "Jack's got the lead. Vuke's in
second, right on his ass," yelled Travers over the din, somehow in
receipt of information unseen by others. It was the beginning of a
long, desperate, raggedly insane battle for the lead between McGrath
and Vukovich. The others were left behind to fight for the pickings
as the pair dueled wheel to wheel, passing and re-passing, sometimes
two and three times a lap. Never in the history of the Speedway had
two men struggled with such mechanical intensity. Generally, such
tiffs lasted no more than a lap or two before one driver or the other
established supremacy, through either sheer will or superior horsepower. But this time, McGrath and Vukovich each refused to give, slicing into the corners abreast and wailing down the long back straight side by side. The crowd was on its feet, its cheers faint and squeaky
against the din of the engines.

The war went on for forty laps before smoke began to ooze from
McGrath's exhaust pipe. I walked to Travers, who was holding a pit
board that said, "P1 137." It signaled Vukovich that he was first, running a record-setting 137 mph, a phenomenal speed considering his
heavy fuel load and the gusting wind. Travers shouted, "McGrath's
gonna blow. Just like I told Vuke. That pop is death on an engine." He
turned and held up the pit board as Vukovich passed.

A yellow flag was waved by Vandewater. Agabashian had spun,
gyrating into the infield grass without injury. I thought of the helmet.

A slit in the clouds produced a suggestion of sunlight. Perhaps the
weather was clearing. Things were back in order. Vukovich was leading. McGrath was faltering. The rest of the field was straggling, far
behind. I began to compose the lead for my story. On the fifty-third
lap, McGrath coasted into the pits and climbed out. He opened the
hood of the Hinkle as he was handed a spark plug wrench. After
extracting the plug, he examined it and shrugged his shoulders.
Clearly the plug had told his trained eye that the engine was mortally
wounded. Yanking off his helmet, he turned and stalked toward the
garage area.

Back at the Vukovich pit, Travers and Coon were preparing for their
driver's first stop for fuel and tires. Four fresh Firestones were laid at
the pit wall while Travers checked the valve on the immense tank of
methanol fuel mounted at the back of the pit. The movements were
routine, measured, almost laconic by the perfectly trained crew.

Another yellow flag. This time Vandewater was at the edge of the
track, waving frantically. The cars slowed as they passed. Several
drivers were gesturing toward the backstretch. Others were tapping
the tops of their helmets, indicating that somebody was upside
down. I looked for the blue Hopkins. It did not come by. Travers
looked worried. He stared at the stopwatch in his hand. The pace car was out on the track, leading a pack of cars now lumbering by at 50
mph. The stands were silent. Someone gestured behind me. I spotted
a pall of smoke rising in the distance, apparently near the exit of the
second turn.

A man in a suit with an AAA armband came up to Travers. He
was obviously an official. He moved close to Travers and whispered
in his ear. Travers reeled back, clearly disturbed. He moved to Coon
and spoke softly. Coon dropped his head, then looked back at the
rising smoke.

A man came up and said, to no one in particular, "Four cars. Vuke's
upside down, outside the track. Car's on fire. Looks bad." Bryan came
by, ugly smoke pouring out of his exhaust. Clearly his car was in trouble, but at least it was still moving. Vandewater kept the yellow flag
waving. I turned to see Travers and Coon leaving the pits. I followed
them back to the garage area in silence. Several reporters came up,
but they brushed them off and kept moving. They reached the
garage. Before I could catch up, they went in and closed the door. I
dared not follow.

Tom Medley came up. I hadn't seen him in two years. There was no
greeting. His face was dark, absent his usual joviality. "Real bad," he
said grimly. "I heard Vuke's had it. Went out of the park trying to miss
some other cars. Maybe Ward. Boyd. Keller, too."

"Where?" I asked.

"Out there on the back, right near the pedestrian bridge," he said.
"A guard with a walkie-talkie told me Vuke got into a bunch of spinners. Couldn't get through. Boom. Flipped and landed upside down.
He's still in the car."

"Any chance he made it?" I asked.

"Naw. He's a goner," said Tom, walking away.

The rumble of cars on the track was subdued, meaning they were
still running slowly, under caution. This meant the wreck was large and
complex and would take a long time to clear up. Suddenly the whole insane world around me was repellent. More men walked past, heads
down, mumbling about Vukovich. All confirmed he was dead. I
looked again at the closed doors of the garage, filled with joviality and
hope such a short time ago. My watch read a few minutes until noon.
Medley came back. "They just announced it on the PA system. Vuke
is dead. The three other guys, Ward, Boyd, and Keller, are OK, I guess.
Looks like he won't win his third in a row."

The entire Speedway was hushed, even the muffled growl of the
cars running at low speeds. I thought of the Buick man and his speculation that bad accidents somehow stimulated and energized the
crowd. Not on that blustery day at Indianapolis. The crowd was
wounded-if not dead-as they watched the wispy smoke still rising
from the backstretch.

Enough of this, I thought. My story was ended. My subject was
dead. I had to get out of the place. Elbowing through the silent
masses, I made my way to the tunnel under the front straight, a narrow, dank tube leading to Sixteenth Street. Once there, I drifted for a
moment, seeking my bearings. Then it came to me. It was two blocks
away. Walking quickly, I made my way to the little malt shop where
Vukovich had celebrated his first victory. It seemed right. I ordered a
vanilla milk shake and sat down, silently toasting the Mad Russian, the
Fresno Flash, Vukie, Vuke, or whoever, who had so dominated the
bravest of the brave. In the distance I heard the thunder again. The cars
were at full throttle. Racing had resumed. Speeds were up. The wreck
was forgotten. A small radio on the counter carried the race. Sid
Collins, "the voice of the 500," was chattering away as if nothing had
happened. Sweikert was leading in the Zink Pink Kurtis. He seemed
headed for victory, but I didn't care.

Leaving half of the shake, I began the long walk down Georgetown
Road to Newsome's place. The roar of the cars beyond the high barrier of the grandstands was menacing-and vaguely frightening. By
the time I reached Ray's house, the yard was half empty. In place of the cars were empty beer bottles, rumpled newspapers, and other
effluvia of a large, absent crowd. The big Roadmaster was gone. The
Buick men had left, headed back to Philadelphia, where they would
recount the moment when they had witnessed history and the
demise of a legend.