Bill's Bulletin Board

There was a time in my life when I would have been looking forward to the weekend just past most eagerly.

It was Memorial Day Weekend in the States. I would have followed the preparations leading up to the big event, read the prognostications while forming a few of my own (seldom with any success) and basically readied myself to be entertained.

But that was some years ago, and my interests have drifted to other things.

The weekend meant nothing special to me; that is until Sunday morning and I was flipping through my copy of the Sunday Sun, and it hit me.

The Indianapolis 500 was Sunday. I had forgotten about it. I glanced at the line-up, seeking names that might spark memories of a former interest. There were a few, like Paul Tracy. And there were some last names I recognized, following given names that were unfamiliar to me. There was Graham Rahal, and I wondered if he was related to Bobby. And there was A.J. Foyt IV. With a couple of other exceptions that I'll get to presently, the 33 drivers lined up in the event were strangers to me.

Such would not have been the case a few years ago.

Many in my circle could never understand my fascination with race cars, and in particular the Indy style of cars. My parents were aware of my interest, of course, and I think they were a little puzzled by it. I was never mechanically inclined, showed not the slightest amount of interest in becoming a mechanic, and understood some of the technical terms I was hearing as words associated in some way with racing, without really grasping their meaning.

I knew my folks (my father in particular) didn't really approve of the sport. We were at dinner one night, many, many years ago, when a news report came over the radio that a very prominent Formula-1 driver had been killed.

"That's terrible," I remember my brother observing. "He was winning so many races."

My dad, rather absently, commented that guys who get into that line of work had better be prepared to be killed. "It's their choice," he observed.

I guess I had dreams as a boy about being a great race car driver, when I wasn't fanaticizing about being a great hockey player, football player, boxer, prime minister, etc. But they were just dreams and I never really pursued them, which is partial explanation why this piece isn't being composed at 24 Sussex Drive.

But as my interest in most sports decreased, I still watched racing. I used to get up early Sunday morning to tune into the live coverage of which ever European Grand Prix was being televised that day. And I would be a very happy camper indeed if I found there was to be an Indy race on the tube that afternoon.

I was never much for stock cars, although I would watch a race from Daytona if it was on and I had nothing else to do. It was the open-wheel races that really attracted me.

Actually, that's not completely true. I did like the open wheels, but what I was really hoping for those Sunday afternoons was to see Mario Andretti in the winner's circle.

I was a fan of Mario, but not a fanatic. I didn't have picture of him on the walls of my bedroom, and I never sent away for his autograph. He was just a prominent race car driver who had success and who I admired. If he was in the race, to my mind there could be only one satisfactory outcome.

Those of you who might recall Mario's career will understand it when I say a lot of those races did not end satisfactorily. There were many heartbreaks and much frustration involved in watching some of his races. Yet there was always hope in me as I watched.

The wins were few as the years progressed, and the few that there were just happened to occur on days when I couldn't be near a TV to watch.

And then it happened. It was a Sunday in 1993, and I was watching an event taking place in Phoenix. There were just a couple of laps left in the race, and Emerson Fittipaldi was comfortably ahead of Mario, who was in second place. I was sitting there, VCR in full operation, letting hope spring eternal. And it did. I saw a car had spun out, and recognized the distinct red and white that symbolized Penske Racing in those days and was bouncing up and down in my chair for a good 10 seconds before the TV announcer (somewhat hesitantly, as I recall), announced that it was Fittipaldi who was out of the race.

Mario held on to win the race, and there was one very happy viewer north of the border that day. I celebrated that evening by watching the entire race again. It was a great evening. I'm pretty sure that as the last race he won in his career.

You might think I have replayed that tape so many times that I have worn it out. I wish that was the case. But there were other things that were recorded on that same tape, including an event of political significance, and a staffer of a politician where I was working in those days phoned me and asked if I happened to have that particular happening on tape. I told her I did, and she asked if she could borrow it to have the tape dubbed.

"No problem," I said, "as long as I get the tape back."

I even told her why the tape was of such personal importance, and she assured me I would have it back in days. I guess I should have known better.

I never saw it again.

Mario retired from driving not long after that. For a time, I thought I would be able to transfer my interest to his son Michael, but the magic was pretty-well gone for me.

I did attend one race. Early in this century, a local young man was competing in one of the preliminary events at the Toronto Molson Indy, so I obtained a media pass and headed to the CNE grounds. I found the chap I was looking for, talked to him, got some pictures of his sitting in his machine, got some pictures of is out on the course, then focused my attention on the major players. This was the first time I had ever been this close to these machines, and I had never personally seen them actually in operation. It was a real experience.

For those of you who have only seen these cars on TV, be assured the tube does not convey how fast they are really going. From the garage area (the only place my media credentials allowed me to go), I had a view of a small stretch of the main straight away on Lake Shore Boulevard, and once the race started, all I could see were blurs. Another thing you don't realize from TV is how loud they are. I tried phoning home on my cell phone, but gave up. I couldn't hear a thing on the other end. I didn't even know until I got home whether anyone answered or not.

I only stayed for the first couple of laps, as I was taping that race too. The only other memorable experience of the day was coming within a couple of feet of being run down by Michael Andretti riding a motor bike. I excused it, because he was a man with a lot on his plate that day.

Oh yeah, he won the race too.