By Bob Markus

There were tears (mine)at the beginning and tears (Helio Castroneves's) at the end and in the middle more wrecks than you'll see at the diciest intersection in your town. I cried because I always do during the ceremonies that lead up to the Indy 500. I'm not sure why, but by the time the cars are lined up in their precise rows of three abreast, 11 rows in all, and some pseudo celebrity sings the National Anthem I can feel the mist beginning to form in the corners of my eyes. When they play taps, in memory of former race drivers who are with us no more, a few drops of moisture will find their way onto a cheek. And when Jim Nabors sings "Back Home Again In Indiana" I almost lose it altogether. Of all the events I covered in 36 years of writing sports for The Chicago Tribune, the Indianapolis 500 was by far my favorite event, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway the only place I wanted to be on, originally, Memorial Day (May 30), but laterly the last Sunday in May. When I die I'd like Mario Andretti to scatter my ashes at the Speedway. I haven't told Mario yet.

Helio Castroneves had a different reason to cry. In the course of a month he had redeemed his Get Out of Jail Free card and ended up on Park Place. He went from facing a 35-year prison sentence to winning the world's most famous race quicker then Marco Andretti could be punted off the course by a 20-year-old rookie. Helio was not the one I wanted to see drink the milk in victory circle, although I have nothing against him. He seems to be an engaging young man and there is little doubt he is a talented driver and dances a mean cha cha cha.. You don't win three times at Indianapolis without talent, even if you are driving for Roger Penske. But driving for Penske does help. The victory was Roger's 15th as a car owner and nobody else comes close to that. Penske is the most organized and success-driven man I know. He is precise and analytical in everything he does. I first met him when he was still a driver. He hasn't changed much except he's a lot richer. I have seen him flustered only once in all the years I've known him. That came in 1987 after he had hired Danny Ongais to be one of his drivers It was a monumental break for Ongais, a man with a ton of talent who was his own worst enemy. He could do anything with a race car except make it talk. Danny was almost as silent as his race car. So it came as no great surprise to me that when I went into his garage hoping for an interview, he declined. I found him sitting in a corner of the garage, eating an orange and said, "Danny, can I ask you a few questions?" "I'd rather not," he politely replied. As I left the garage I serendipitously ran into Penske and told him what had happened. "Let me talk to him," Roger said. He went into the garage and ws back out in under a minute, wearing a quizzical look on his face. "He says he doesn't want to talk," said Roger. I went ahead and wrote the Ongais story anyway and was just about to hit the button sending it to The Tribune when the claxon that signals an accident on the track went off. Looking up at the TV monitor I saw that, as I had feared, it was Ongais in the wall. He was out of the race, Al Unser took his place and won his fourth Indy 500, and I managed to save my story by simply writing a one paragraph insert that said something about his pentient for self destruction biting him again.

I fell in love with the Indianapolis Motor Speedway from the day I first drove up Georgetown road past the half mile of grandstand and entered through the back gate. The Tribune had not covered the race for several years and opposed it editorially. I finally managed to convince the sports editor, George Strickler at the time, that we were going to make it the lead story on the morning after the race so why not have one of our own reporters, namely me, write it. I knew something of the history of the Indy 500 and had done a few columns by telephone; the one with Jimmy Clark after he won in 1965 comes to mind. But I really knew very little about the sport itself. I soon found out something about the Indy 500, something that makes it special. There is an "We're all in this together" attitude at Indy that I found nowhere else in the world of sports. It was to be expected that the public relations people for the teams, the track, and the tire companies would be helpful to an awestruck newcomer. In fact, the Speedway itself offered little guidance outside of the program they gave you with the names and numbers of all the drivers. But the tire company representatives more than made up for it. On my first day at the track the late Dick Ralstin of Goodyear took me around the garage area and introduced me to all the significant players, whether they drove for Goodyear or Firestone. John Fowler of Firestone was equally helpful. What surprised me, however, was how helpful the other writers were, especially the writers for the Indianapolis papers. Guys like Dick Mittman and the late Ray Marquette (pronounced Mar-kwet) were happy to point you in the right direction. As it turned out, Ralstin was the one who saved my bacon, as Roger Penske would put it, that first year. Not knowing any better at the time, I sat in the press box and the view was spectacular and so was the racing. The press box was the place to be--as long as the race was going on. But when I tried to get to the post-race interview room, I had to fight 200,00 other people who were going in the same general direction, utilizing the one narrow tunnel that leads from the main grandstand to the infield. An hour later I reached the interview room just as race winner Bobby Unser was leaving, followed by a mob of admirers. I was in a panic until I spotted Ralstin bringing up the rear of the group. I explained my plight and he said "Don't worry; come on into our office. Bobby's doing some phone interviews and then you can talk to him." So I had a one-on-one interview with the Indy 500 winner, who would go on to win it twice more.

The really great thing about covering Indy is--or at least was--the accessibility of the drivers and their ability to deliver quotes that you could put down on paper unfiltered. There was a good deal of interplay between writers and drivers. One year, I think it was somewhere in the late '70s, Dick Mittman and I were in somebody's garage when Mario Andretti came in holding a curious looking object that appeared to be a pipe with a propeller behind it. "We're using this to test your wind power," explained Mario, who proceeded to blow into the pipe, causing the propeller to spin wildly. "Now you try it," said Mario, handing me the gadget. I took a deep breath and blew as hard as I could. Nothing. "Try it again," urged Mario. Still nothing. Presently the three of us headed for the pits and when we got there, Bobby Unser and A.J. Foyt nearly keeled over from laughing so hard. I didn't get the joke until Bobby handed me a mirror. My entire face was blackened. I looked like Al Jolson. The secret of Mario's success and my humiliation it was revealed to me was that there was a hole on the bottom of the pipe that you had to cover with a finger. Otherwise you'd be blowing black carbon back into your face.

Although I tried not to show it in my writing, I had my favorites among the drivers. Mario and Johnny Rutherford for sure. Rick Mears, Scott Brayton, Tom Sneva. Teo Fabi, certainly, after I spent a month on his pit crew. But, in reality, they all were pretty good guys, even Foyt, who could be cantankerous, but also utterly engaging. It seems a little strange now watching the race and realizing there were only two drivers--John Andretti and Paul
Tracy, who I knew. So I was rooting for them and for Marco Andretti because I knew his dad and grandfather and Danica Patrick because she's Danica. I've never met Castroneves or Dan Wheldon or Tony Kanaan or Danica for that matter. I haven't been to the Indy 500 for seven or eight years now, but it still sings to me. The song is sweet and sentimental and that's why it still has the power to bring me to tears.