I think of Indianapolis every day of the year, every hour of the day, and when I sleep, too. Everything I ever wanted in my life, I found inside the walls of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I love it all, from the first to the last day in May. On the morning of the race, if you told me my house had burned down, I'd say, “So what” The moment that race starts is always the greatest moment of my life, and the day I win that race, it will be as if my life has ended. There is nothing more I could want out of life.

It was, as I recall, a beautiful Indiana spring day, sun shining, sky blue, clouds floating lazily overhead. As my friend Steve and I made our way into what everyone called the Brickyard, I thought the experience was living up to its billing as “the greatest spectacle in sports.” Or maybe it was just racing. At any rate, it was a spectacle; rainbow colors of clothing, smell of booze, roasting hot dogs, pretty girls, millions of people it seemed like, and the cars were themselves a spectacle to behold.

We got the cheapest tickets, which put us in the infield, and there came my second vivid impression. We were so close. I could get so close to the cars in the pit stop that I could probably have driven away with one had the driver not been in it and the little matter of not having a clue how to drive it. An English driver named Jim Clark was sitting on the pole as the fastest qualifier. His car looked liked a bathtub on wheels with a steering wheel. His uniform looked like something out of a space movie.

We were thrilled like everyone else when the voice of Tony Hulman came booming over the loudspeaker, “Gentlemen, start your engines.” And the collective roar of 33 engines revving up sent goose bumps across my arms. Thirty-three cars, three abreast, and here they come roaring right at us! The race was everything I dreamed it would be.

And then, in an instant, I went from heaven straight to hell. All those sexy women stuck in my mind vanished like vapor, replaced by “a huge plume of black smoke” and a horrendous noise. A car had hit the wall and burst into flames. I could see and smell the smoke, still can, and the car just sat there in the middle of the track, spewing bright red flames that could be seen I would think for miles. Another car hit that car; more cars hit the two cars.

The race was stopped. My Indy 500 adventure was over almost before it began. The second lap. That's how long heaven lasted. Not even five miles. On the fourth turn, a car slid across the track into the wall and then bounced back on the track. No one knew what had happened exactly, beyond the obvious. There was a terrible wreck. All we could do was wait. Ambulances and fire trucks rushed to the scene, giant sprays of water fought the flames. It would be two hours before the race would resume. During the waiting, word spread that a driver had been killed.

I see a driver being carried on a stretcher into the infield hospital. I am close enough I could have reached out and touched him. He is burned so badly there is no way to tell who he is. The figure is barely recognizable as a human being. I have never been able to get that image erased from my memory. Later I learned he was the one who lost control in a car other drivers had called unsafe. His name was Dave MacDonald, a rookie.

The driver of the car that hit the car that hit the wall couldn't see through all the black smoke and rammed right into it, bursting into fiery flames. He burned to death in plain public view. That driver was one of the famous ones. His name was Eddie Sachs. He had yet to win but twice sat on the pole, in 1961 and 1962. His rookie year was 1957. His last year was 1964.

I have never gone back.