From Ol’ 98 to ‘89, This Was No. 1

It was the greatest Indianapolis 500--at least that I have seen.

I was there first when Parnelli Jones won in 1963 in a car that was as tough and relentless as he was--Calhoun, or Ol’ 98. Parnelli was tossing oil from a crack in the oil tank in the late stages of the race, and only a vigorous, arm-waving, fervent plea by car owner J. C. Agajanian prevented the steward from black-flagging old Calhoun (and old Parnelli) off the track.

Later, Eddie Sachs, who had spun, blamed Parnelli’s oil, and Parnelli socked him in the mouth at the victory banquet.

Parnelli shouldn’t have done that. Poor Eddie, who loved the Indianapolis 500 the way some men love God, was to die in a pyre on the front straightaway the next year.

I saw the Great Scot, Jimmy Clark, solidify the rear-engine revolution at the Speedway in 1965. Indianapolis loved the big, noisy, bombastic roadsters--in particular the 750-horsepower Novis that made just less noise than the Battle of Verdun on their way around the race track but never won anything.

They didn’t know what to make of the graceful, little, cigar-shaped British Lotuses with the Ford engine in the back but they caught on quickly at Indy when Clark gave them a lesson in rear-engine driving. The car just buzzed around like a flight of wasps but it went through the corners like a runaway snake and won easily, dooming the roadster at Indy.

There was 1966, the year the Formula One drivers, Clark and Graham Hill, both showed up in the winner’s circle, claiming victory, and a recheck gave the win to Hill.

That was the year 11--count ‘em--cars went out without running a lap. They crashed at the start, the race was held up for 1 hour 18 minutes and Dan Gurney observed disgustedly, “You’d think 33 of the world’s best drivers could at least back out of the garage safely.”

There was the year Parnelli Jones drove the turbine, a car as silent as a rocket and it outclassed the field the way a jet plane might a covered wagon--until a $1.98 bearing burned out and stopped it while well in the lead on Lap 197.

What I remember most of that year was sitting on the pit wall with the turbine car owner, Andy Granatelli, after the race was halted on Lap 19 by rain. I watched as the rain pelted down on the car imperfectly covered by a sheet of clear plastic with a big tear in it, water oozing into the vital parts.

“Why don’t you move it in the garage?” I asked Granatelli.

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s not in the rules.”

“You have to sit here and let it get wet and rusty?” I asked.

“Yes,” Andy said.

The rule has since been changed, but I know the car Parnelli got into the next day must have been as wet as a kayak.

There was the year Mario (no last name needed) won his only Indy. He’s probably the greatest driver never to have won two.

There were other years. There was 1971, the year the automobile dealer piloting the pace car crashed into a photographers’ stand.

That was also the year Mark Donohue’s car flamed out on Lap 67 and they left it parked on the track apron, where Mike Mosley hit it on Lap 167 and took himself and Bobby Unser, who spun into the wall to miss Mosley, out of the race.

Steve Krisiloff’s car, which had blown its engine on Lap 12, was still parked there, too, in the right place for the crash to collect it, so for want of a tow truck, four $150,000 cars were wrecked.

There was the year only 3/1000th of a mile an hour separated Gordon Johncock and Rick Mears.

But for sheer melodrama, nothing can top the 1989 renewal.

It was supposed to be another Rick Mears-Roger Penske festival, a race won on the drawing boards, but it was obvious to veteran Gasoline Alley addicts at the flag drop that the dashing Brazilian, Emerson Fittipaldi, was sitting in the fastest car. He not only jumped Mears at the first turn, he opened up a half-a-track lead on him.

But first one, then the other of the second-generation drivers came at him. Michael Andretti, who drives a race car as if he were leaving a forest fire, overtook Fittipaldi for a while about three-quarters of the way through the race, till he overtaxed his engine and came in smoking.

Then the racing between Fittipaldi and Al Unser Jr. on the last 10 laps was right out of a dime novel, and took the sport back to its leather helmet and goggles days.

The stakes are so high at Indy--it turned out the winner got $1,100,000, no less, and the lasting fame only winning at Indy brings--that the players in this high-stakes game are willing to ante their lives.

When the cars piloted by Fittipaldi and Unser touched tires, you knew they were both hoping not to throw snake eyes. But they rolled the dice. Unser lost but became a folk hero. That’s what Unsers do--win or crash.

A crash on Lap 199 between the two leaders is not something you’re apt to see outside the pages of pulp fiction. It makes for great theater and puts the 1989 Indy 500 alongside the Babe Ruth called-shot World Series, the Dempsey-Tunney fight or the 1960 Arnold Palmer Open.

A vintage event. A great year. A collector’s item.