Book excerpt from Vukovich: The man who wouldn't lift

In the late 1950s, Indianapolis News sportswriter Angelo Angelopolous wrote a book on tragic two-time Indianapolis 500 winner Bill Vukovich but for unknown reasons, it was never published. Former IndyStar sports reporter Mark Montieth has edited and published the book -- Vukovich: The man who wouldn't lift. Below is the chapter covering Vukovich's 1953 victory.

Revenge Served Hot

Race day unfolded under a blue sky, with a multitude that was to reach 175,000 filing into the grounds. But there was a difference. It was going to be extremely hot this year, with high humidity and gusts of wind reaching 25 mph.

At 9:40, an hour and 20 minutes before the start of the race, Vukovich sat relaxed in the garage with Keck and the crew. He wasn’t as nervous as he had been during the waiting period. Race day brought relief, the moment he’d been sweating out.

Duane Carter, starting in the ninth row, stuck his head in to wish Bill luck: “After you come in first, save a little for ole Carter, Vuky,” he said. Bill smiled widely and answered softly and deliberately, for he was being drawn from a deep introspection. “When you go by, hook onto me, Duane, and take me with you.”

A few minutes later he was in a corner tying his shirt tails with small strings to his undershorts to keep the shirt from billowing. He put in his pocket the silver dollar Fred Gerhardt had given him for good luck before he left Fresno, which he had accepted as a friend despite his rejection of superstitions.

At 10:20 the first cars were pushed out to the starting line, a thrill in itself — a slowly-moving file of shining, spotless machines packing power and destruction, rolled by neat crews in brightly-colored uniforms.

Ominously, one of the members of the color guard of the Purdue University band fainted from the heat during the pre-race ceremony. Soon, two drum majorettes fell victim, too.

At 10:40, during the national anthem, Vukovich stood and stared at the steering bars on the right side of the car, where his troubles had been last year. The last note fading, he checked his goggles — and a dozen cameras focused on him.

Several cockpits had been covered to ward off the sun until the drivers stepped into them. There was a flurry of turmoil as contestants, officials, and crews wished each other luck. Vukovich sat on a tire, taking good wishes perfunctorily, his face locked in determination. He wore a gray sports shirt, khaki pants, pith helmet, and black bowling shoes.

At 10:55 — only five minutes left — Jack Beckley, McGrath’s mechanic, noted the rising temperature: “It’s going to be the survival of the fittest.” Travers was impatient: “Let’s get this show on the road; it’s time for deeds.”

To ease the pressure in this last contact with his crew, he conducted a lighthearted rundown: “Got grease in the transmission? Air in the tires? Check the oil?” And then, apropos of nothing, he said: “I never felt better and had less.”

The two-minute bomb went off. Galvanized, Bill Vukovich, who had a score to settle, quickly tugged at his gloves, stepped into the car, and adjusted his helmet. His face had a gray cast. His expression, behind goggles, was uncompromising, his mouth a hard, thin line. No grimmer determination ever wrote itself across a man’s face. The meld that came from rugged ancestry, adverse environment, disappointment, pride and confidence blended into an arresting countenance.

A multi-thousand-throated murmur rose to a roar as the pace car pulled away and the thirty-three drivers jockeyed into their qualifying positions, three abreast along eleven rows, for the flying start when they completed the circuit.

They completed the warmup lap amid a cloud of dust and the thunder of spine-tingling shouts from the fans. Once the field reached the starting line on the main straightaway, Vukovich suddenly shot out and took a stunning half a block lead into the first turn.

The record for a first lap, which Is hampered by the pace car’s speed and heavy traffic, was 126.564 mph, set by Nalon in a Novi in 1949. On a track where advances in speed normally come in thousandths of a second, Vukovich whirled around his initial lap in 133.097. He was chasing his destiny.

Later, when asked what he thought when he saw the great and growing gap he’d opened, Bill would say, “I jammed my foot on the damned throttle, dove it into the turn, and looked back – and the sonuvabitches didn’t want to race!”

Actually, they tried. Manny Ayulo took up the first chase but after three laps Vukovich was still 100 yards in front. Agabashian next moved into the challenger’s spot, with Art Cross, Ayulo, and Parsons following in order, but Bill still moved away. Suddenly on the fourth lap Andy Linden spun and wrecked. He was unhurt but out of the race. The caution light was lit while his car was removed.

Caution lights are a handicap for the leader. Drivers can’t improve their position while running at a slower speed, but they often get away with closing the gap on the car ahead of them. This light lasted 55 seconds.

Vukovich stayed in front when the green light flashed, and the trailers juggled for position behind him. The Keck crew sent Bill messages on their new board. On the thirty-first lap he was shown a “6S,” with the arrow pointing to the left, to tell him he was six seconds ahead of the second car. Occasionally he was shown “P1” to reaffirm he was in first place.

He nodded calmly to every sign while traveling 175 mph down the home stretch. Once he responded to Hilborn’s message with a thumb-and-forefinger circle meaning Everything’s OK.

The excessive heat was scorching tires, and pit stops began startlingly early. Cross stopped. Then, abruptly, Vukovich did as well on Lap 49. So did Ayulo, leaving Agabashian in the lead.

Beautifully efficient tire changes and refueling got Bill out in forty-seven seconds — the “game-condition” rehearsals paying off. While his crew labored frantically, he accepted a paper cupful of water from Keck, who leaned over the pit wall. Keck offered a clean pair of goggles, but Bill refused them.

Now he had to regain the lead.

It took him just five laps. He got a “P1” on the crew’s message board, then an “O.K.” As he reached his sixty-sixth lap the race began to settle into a smooth rhythm. The hectic maneuvering abated after the initial pit stops and now the other drivers shared a challenge - catch the unrelenting Vukovich.

The weather presented a challenge all its own, however. The Firestone people, who had been feeding an abnormal number of tires to the crews, checked the track temperature. It read 130 degrees. For the fans in the stands and the infield it was 93 with oppressive humidity.

Soon there was a flurry in the pits. Carl Scarborough, having just completed his seventieth lap, got out of his car and stepped over the wall while his crew worked frantically. He needed a relief driver. Then, suddenly, he collapsed in his chair from the heat and carbon monoxide gas resulting from a fire that had been quickly extinguished. His crew stretched him out on the concrete and yelled for an ambulance. Scarborough, appearing gray, was lifted in as photographers flocked around, snapping hurriedly. A burly mechanic shook his fist at them and ordered them to stop. They didn’t. The ambulance sped away to the infield hospital. The race was less than an hour-and-a-half old.

Vukovich, meanwhile, still led, still set a record pace, still clicked off $150 per lap.

The Speedway breaks down its records into twenty-three segments — the first, second, fourth, and tenth laps and every ten laps thereafter. By the eightieth lap Vukovich had established new marks for all but the one at seventy laps, set by Ruttman in ‘52. Two yellow lights had slowed him momentarily, but by the eightieth lap he had boosted his average to 131.346, bettering the standard of 130.832 by Ruttman the previous year.

Bill soon lost one of his closer competitors when Parsons’ crew noticed an oil leak while he was in the pits. Then, even more surprisingly, Parsons collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. One of the hardier drivers, Parsons’ normal procedure during pit stops was to hop out of the car and do a bear dance to improve his circulation. But in these conditions, he couldn’t even stand up.

“I put three cushions under the seat so I could sit higher and get some air across my shoulders and neck,” Parsons explained later. My uniform was so oil-soaked I couldn't get any air in. I had unbuttoned my uniform, but it didn’t help.”

The heat also claimed Jerry Hoyt, a healthy 21-year-old. He was relieved by husky Chuck Stevenson. Then Agabashian, slight, wiry, and durable, signaled for relief — thus answering Granatelli’s question at least for this day. When Freddie had pulled himself together again, he said, “I knew I wasn’t right when I began doing things I wouldn’t normally do. I was getting sloppy, out of the groove … I could feel my heart pounding so heavily I looked down at my chest expecting to see it. The race is like driving in a furnace. When you try to catch your breath and your lungs feel like they’re on fire, then you’ve had it.”

The driver substitutions were coming quickly now. Jim Rathmann, in the low-slung Travelon Special, emerged from it wrung out and bitter: “I just got so damned sick in that damned pig I couldn’t take it.”  Eddie Johnson took over and later described the conditions as “hotter than 700 hells.” Linden tried Hoyt’s car, the Zink Special, after Stevenson had succumbed to the heat. Andy was the third to try it but gave up as well. The car was still in running order, but nobody wanted in.

Bettenhausen asked for help, totally exhausted after 113 laps. He was too weak to remove his crash helmet and his crew helped him to the pit wall, where he gulped huge quantities of water. Hanks had to be assisted to a shady spot, where his crew fanned him and ran water to him. All this was going on with the race a little past the midway point. Nalon kept racing, but he made frequent pit stops merely to have another bucketful of water dumped on him.

Cockpits of the low-slung roadsters were proving inadequately ventilated for this brutal day, and fumes from fuel exhaust and nitromethane, a fuel stimulant, aggravated the effects of the heat.

Beckley had said it — this was survival of the fittest. And where was Vukovich on this pitiless, oven-temperature day, the hottest in all Speedway history? He was clicking off the laps like a taxi meter, oblivious to the conditions, leading so convincingly that the focus shifted to the fight for second place and to the frantic pit activity. His lead was nearly two laps, so he absorbed a second pit stop of sixty-one seconds without losing the lead. He passed cars wherever he came on them, going under or around, and uncannily avoided the sideways jumps and spins that posed trouble.

In the stands, Esther kept swallowing nerve pills.

He was setting records — for speed, for lap prize money in a single race, for total lap prize money earned by a driver in a career — and this was only his third Indianapolis 500. He was achieving a level of public recognition perhaps never before reached by a Speedway competitor.

Bill deferred to the heat that was destroying others only to the extent of tucking his left heel underneath him when he could, to keep it from roasting near the oil line.

He came in on Lap 172 for his third pit stop. He was two laps ahead of the eager Cross and three ahead of Paul Russo, in Agabashian’s car. While his crew scurried to get him out in forty-nine seconds - another remarkably fast refueling and change of four tires that brought loud cheers from the grandstands - he sat composed, poured water down his back, drank a cupful, and yelled into Travers’ ear: “Don’t fill the tank too full because it wants to throw the front end!”

Standing unobtrusively at the rear of the pit area, unnoticeable to Bill, was an old hand, Henry Banks, with a helmet and goggles in his hand. The Kecks, aware that so many men were succumbing to the heat, had asked Banks to stand by for Bill’s stop in the event Bill, too, might need relief.

One glance reassured them; he could go the distance.

Now the entourage to the Bullpen began for Jane Greer and her court. Esther, however, remained in her seat. She remembered last year. So did the crowd, which now crossed fingers for Bill. He remembered, too. With only a few laps to go, he prayed a little.

He stayed in character, though, and passed Nalon in a turn, as if he were trailing in the race instead of leading it.

The joyful preparations for Bill’s victory were interrupted, however, by a news bulletin that first reached the pit area and then went crackling like an electric current through the grounds. Scarborough was dead. For ninety minutes, medical personnel in the infield hospital had given him artificial respiration and oxygen, and then, in desperation, had cut open his chest and massaged his heart. All had failed. Carl Scarborough, age 38, father of three, became the twenty-fourth driver to die at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

Vukovich appeared tense as he turned into the 200th lap. The fans began standing, craning to watch him every foot of the way. The 100,000 within range of the home stretch strained to see if he appeared once more out of the last turn. He did and raced toward the waving checkered flag to thunderous applause as he squared his record with fate.

He had completely dominated the most grueling 500-Mile Race in history, a four-hour battle in which only fourteen of the original thirty-three cars were still running at the end … in which only five drivers went the distance without relief … in which a record fifteen driver substitutions were made, along with a record ninety-one pit stops and a record 206 tire changes. There had been five accidents, one death, fifteen drivers taken to the hospital from heat exhaustion.

He had traveled at record speed along the way, although nine minutes, 28 seconds of running under the yellow caution light had protected the record average for the full 500 miles. He had led 195 of the 200 laps for a record $29,250 in lap money, part of a record winner’s purse that would be presented the following evening.

He was greeted in Victory Bullpen by clicking cameras, noisy newsreel photographers, jabbering radio broadcasters and insistent newspaper reporters, along with track officials and eager commercial representatives shoving their way to the front. His faithful crew and generous boss awaited him but were forced to the background by the crush. He was the grimmest winner in years, his face a heavy layer of oil and dirt that couldn’t hide his deep fatigue. He drove far into the wire enclosure and started fumbling, ineptly, with his gloves. Goggles came off next, then helmet — and he still hadn’t said anything.

Esther was among those waiting. In contrast to the escort of eight policemen given the Hollywood actress, she had been forced to climb the Bullpen fence and identify herself to get in.

It took nearly four minutes until Bill realized people were talking to him. He could only respond with “How’s that?” And then: “I can’t hear a damned thing!”

He was half-angry, still pent up. The roar of the race had deafened him. He looked stunned, staggered more by this reception than the race he had won. He stood up, but immediately sat down. “It’s hot!” he said.

He eagerly took the cold water offered him and a Coke. He kissed Esther, then, dutifully, Jane Greer, and when his questioners demanded he say something he repeated time and again that it was “hotternhell.”

“Which was the toughest, the heat or the competition?”

“Heat.” He showed a burned left hand. “It was a hot son-of-a-bitch.”

He put a wet cloth on the back of his neck.

“Say something!” the microphone men pleaded.

“It was a good, hot race is about all I can say.”

“What are you going to do with the money, buy a racer?”

“Hell, no!”

Quickly leaving his wife and crew, he bolted the enclosure and fought his way on foot through the pressing mob to his garage. He had not connected with his crew in the Bullpen amid the stampede of officials seeking his attention and was eager to see them.

Soon he was slumped in a beach chair as the crew and other friends, now caught up, held back the hero-worshippers.

“I’ve never been so tired in my life.”

His eyes, normally bright, were lifeless as he stared at the floor, a wet wash towel perched on his matted hair, face as grimy as his shirt and khakis. He took off his shoes and rolled his socks down to his toes to cool his feet.

Well-wishers who managed to get past the restraining rope wasted their compliments. He could hardly lift his eyes to greet them, and he couldn’t hear. Esther sat next to him, receiving for him. Once she remarked: “All I need here are my kids.” Bill’s brother Mike stood happily in the background.

In a bit, Travers, seeking a return to normal atmosphere, began to needle: “Hey, Vuky, you’re supposed to win ‘em all. You lost two.” (At the time, the crew thought Bill had led all but two laps; an official check later had him out of the lead for five.) Travers went on: “Everything was just the way we planned. No trouble. Nobody panicked.”

Howard Keck, who owned the operation but was allergic to attention and crowds, was nowhere in sight. He preferred to stay away until the hub bub expired.

One handshaker, with ill-considered timing, asked Bill, “Did you hear about Carl?”

Esther cut in, sharply: “Don’t tell him anything.”

It was too late. The man tried to stop himself, couldn’t: “Scarborough died from the heat.”

Bill’s face went long, Esther glared, the informant made an awkward exit. He said nothing. He then rose wearily, ambled stiff and aching to the car, sat on the right front tire and began talking with the crew. The atmosphere now was of mutual admiration and affection.

“I didn’t know it was so hot,” he said. “The temperature gauge went out about 150 laps … I was sure praying those last laps … I should have stuffed some ears in my cotton.”

Too weary to reassemble the words correctly, he let them stay that way.

He thanked the crew for the smooth pit stops that helped him increase his lead, but in his typical, inverted way: “Boy, I was in them an hour!”

“Hell, everybody was getting relief,” he added. “Every time I saw a car there was a new chauffeur in it.”

A man with a microphone wanted him to speak over the public address system to reach the thousands who were still on the grounds, either unwilling to leave yet or caught in the gigantic traffic jam. Bill answered dutifully, mechanically. He wanted to end it quickly:

“We want to rest a little bit before we say anything … We figured we’d lead all laps we could because you don’t know how long you’ll run … I knew fellows were getting relief, but I wasn’t too bad at any time … That water sure tasted good.”

The interview was over.

Then, turning to his crew, he blurted out: “I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

Coon: “Smoky, you put us on Broadway today.”

Vukovich: “I’m gonna build my own race car next year.”

Travers: “It’s starting again.”

Hilborn, dryly: “He’s feeling better.”

An hour later, Vukovich was still partially deaf and still having to greet people wanting to shake his hand. Travers had left the stuffy garage, whose doors were still closed, to cool off and Keck had slipped in.

Once, Bill wheeled toward the car and exclaimed: “This pig!” Then he looked up at Keck to ask in mock solicitation: “You happy, Howard?” Keck, a man of even fewer words, merely grinned at him.

The crew showed him the marvelous pit stop times but he still refused to say thanks except in his unconventional way: “I could have done that good; got out and changed ‘em myself.”

Agajanian, who had benefited from Vukovich’s bad luck last year, arrived and shouted, “Where’s that goddamn stroker!” Then he kissed him.

“I was running easy, for Crissakes,” Bill said. “I’m gonna make this (race) a thousand miles.”

“I figured out why you went so fast,” Aggie said. “Fresno is so hot all these guys weren’t used to heat like you.”

He then softened his tone: “Bettenhausen says, ‘We’ve got to take our hats off to the guy; he showed us the way around.’”

“Why didn’t they hook on?”

“They figured you were going too fast for them to hook on.”

Pause.

“I should have had some cotton in my ears.”

‘Why didn’t you have any; didn’t you think you were going to finish?”

The doors were opened to let in some badly needed fresh air. Seeing the pressing crowd, Bill retreated to the rear of the garage:

“I don’t want to talk to anybody,” he said. His temporary deafness was a convenience now.

Agajanian remained serious: “Sure glad you won. You won twice and got paid for once.”

McGrath walked in with his wife.

“Hello, McGrath.” Bill’s tone was warm.

Jack took Bill’s hand in both of his. “Congratulations, boy.”

Bill, somewhat uncomfortably: “If we’d had a good engine, we’d really set sail.”

“We heard you went to the hospital,” Lois McGrath said. “We had to come around.”

“Yeah, I had a boy,” Bill said.

Lois nodded toward Esther and said, “We wanted to take her down (to the Bullpen) with twenty laps to go but she said, ‘Nothing doing.’”

Then I stepped forward and said quietly, “I’m proud of you, Bill.”

He leaned in and answered quickly, in a low, intimate tone: “You have to be lucky to win this damned thing!”

He said it not with false modesty, for he had none, but with a trace of irritation. Irritated, because the sheer force of his will was not enough, as he knew from last year’s misfortune.

But Bill Vukovich had his revenge.

This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: Book excerpt from Vukovich: The man who wouldn't lift