Modern Living: Life and Death at Indy

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one point in last week's disastrous Indianapolis 500, one of the thousands of sodden revelers camped out in the axle-deep infield mud aptly summed up the utter madness of it all. Asked what he thought of the world's largest, richest and costliest racing event, he said: "What race?"

Good question. One rationale for the Indy has been that it encourages innovations in auto design, especially in safety devices. It is also supposed to be a stellar sporting event, a contest of skill. Neither is true. Rather, the Indy has become a vast ritual of the auto culture, with violence and increasing speed goals as the icons. Some 300,000 spectators show up, many of them having traveled long distances for the chance to wheel their cars and campers into the infield, break out the barbecues and beer coolers, and join a kind of high-octane happening. Others pay up to $40 a ticket knowing that they will watch more of an attrition process than a race, that most drivers will never finish the 200 laps, that crackups are virtually certain to occur. The prospect of flaming crashes and shattered bodies and the knowledge that fans are also exposed to risk seem to be part of the allure.

Bad Omens. The only sure Indy winners are the crowd's feeders and keepers. Indianapolis turns into a commercial carnival for the race. This year local businessmen successfully lobbied to have the race date moved from Saturday to Monday of the Memorial Day weekend so that they would have two more days of heavy profit. Motel owners charged $150 and up for a minimum three-day stay. Cab drivers were getting $12 for rides to the Speedway that normally cost $2.25. Service stations began charging for the use of lavatories that are normally free.

This year the omens were bad even before the race began. Driver Art Pollard was killed on May 12 during the elimination trials. On race day, a threatening sky did not reduce the throng that turned out to see wonders like Linda Vaughn, a busty blonde in gold lame, parade on behalf of a transmission manufacturer. The racing cars were billboards on wheels, plastered with ads for everything from beer to motor homes.

Custom calls for the 33 cars to line up three abreast in eleven rows, circle the track and then gradually quicken the pace for a nice orderly start. But once the winged, turbo-charged monsters come roaring down the final straightaway at 150 m.p.h., each trying to jump lanes or sneak ahead, the result is more like a motorized stampede.

As in recent years, the scramble at the start caused another devastating accident. Moments after the starting flag dropped, David ("Salt") Walther got caught in a squeeze midway in the pack and veered so sharply that his car went sailing into a wire-mesh fence in front of the stands, cartwheeled down the track and exploded in a flaming shower of debris. Three other drivers and a dozen spectators were injured. Walther was taken to the hospital in critical condition, with a broken wrist and burns over 40% of his body. The race, halted after the accident, was then postponed when it again began to rain.

The next day was more of the same —more delays, more downpours, another frustrating postponement. Fans meandered about in the mud, bored and, in some cases, broke. The drivers passed the time tossing Frisbees in Gasoline Alley, starting impromptu soccer games and playing gin rummy.