The Waterbury Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1917-1946, 1935-05-31
TODKN8
SpORT ARAD!e.
bAAk{b!
BY HENRY McLEMoRE

(Umte0 FfcSs Stam COrTeSpOnutHtt
indianapolis, May 31-(U.P.)-
This is being written in the press
rookery of the Indianapolis 500
mile speedway.
1t Is Thursday noon, and down
below. roaring like all the hornets
of hell and travelling like bats out
of the same place, are the madmen
of the roaring road, risking their
lives. for victory in Americas
Grand Prix.
The press stand is directly in
the middle Of the homestretch Of
the two and a half mile saucer.
To the right is the treacherous
northwest turn, and the vivid little
cars, all yellow and green and red,
are darling up and down its slick.
sloping sides.
To the left is the wicked south
west bank-dead mans curve. Its
concrete retaining wall is splotch-
ed with big gaps Of fresh, white
splotches is a tombstone, for they
mark the point where some driver
couldn't hold the wheel and went
HURTING and spinning to disaster.
OF On Time
1t is to this turn that go to
watch the start of the race. Sharp
ly at 10 o'clock the pace car rolls
away from the starting line, fol-
lowed by the field of SO. The driv-
ers are in groups of three. They
roll by slowly the first time, for
they have two and half miles to
gain a flying start. Following them
with the glass see them pick up
speed in the backstretch, and as
they round the far turn they are
running some IS miles an hour.
They are in the home stretch.
The pace car swings to one side:
and the hos give their mounts the
gun. The effect of this acceleration
from where I'm sitting, is that OF
a giant snake, suddenly angered.
One second the snake is leisurely
crawling along; the next 1t springs
into lightning action.
The cars, laundering now, blaze
beneath the starters tower, a gall
lows-like structure just in front of
the timing stand. The starter drops
the big green flag. A bomb ex-
plodes. The race is on.
So Is the race for the first turn
my turn. Here are they, sS cars,
hammering better than 100 miles
an hour. This is the turn that OFF,
cials dread, for mistake by any
driver and half the cars will jam
up, scattering their human cargo
all over the bricks.
They're in the curve now, all
33 of them, massed together on a
sloping, slippery track but go feet
across. They are almost wheel to
wheel. The drivers could lean out
and pat one another on the Shout
ders. Tires scream their vicious
scream as they bite into brick. Mo-
tors sputter and roar. Vari-colored
flames spit from exhaust pipes. It's
traffic at its worst.
Thrills
In the space that breath Is
held you see thousand things.
You see the set faces of the drivers
as they wrestle with cars fighting
for their heads. You see the back
wheels of the little blue car swerve
sickeningly. You see the man be-
they don't straighten out. They do.
lHSH With tuTOdty IOdT hS
cars are out the curve and into the
straightaway-the glorious straight
away. And you take dep breath.
Back at the press tower again.
Above the whine of the motors
comes the wall of an ambulance
siren. There's nothing as chilling as
a siren. And out here it's doubly
sickening. for it can mean but one
thing-somebody has cracked up.
The reporters search all of the
track visible from the tower with
their eyes.
Wen have to wait on tn loud
speaker speaks: and in the same
fiat voice as the police radio.
There's car gone over the wall
at the northwest turn. We don't
know who it is"
You check the cars as they come
by. There goes Bill Cummings: it's
not him. And there's Mays, and
yonder comes Petillo's yellow job.
The loudspeaker ends your
guessing.
"Clay Weatherly is over the wall.
Car No. as. He is dead. His mech
anic has a broken back. You'll find
his address and nearest kin in your
program"
You write bulletin on the acci-
dent and go back to watching the
race.