40 years later, an Indy 500 tragedy too painful to forget
INDIANAPOLIS — The images of Swede Savage's fiery wreck at Indianapolis Motor Speedway still burn brightly in the memories of those who witnessed it 40 years ago this Memorial Day weekend.
The explosion and disintegration of Savage's car still is difficult to watch on video and even more painful to talk about for drivers who need no video to remind them of what happened that day.
“You never forget it,” A.J. Foyt, a four-time Indy 500 winner, said softly. “It's still on my mind.”
In a split second during that Indy 500 in 1973, with heavy winds sweeping across the monstrous 2.5-mile oval track and gray scattered clouds overhead, the roars of 300,000 fans were silenced when Savage's car slammed into the inside wall coming out of the fourth turn, broke into pieces and exploded into a fireball.
Drivers and fans were convinced Savage could not have survived. Savage did, but died 33 days later in Methodist Hospital Medical Center. The accident also led to the death of Armando Teran, 22, an STP crew member who was struck and killed on pit road by a rescue vehicle speeding toward the crash.
Savage's wreck was the third explosive crash in Indy's deadliest year that claimed the lives of three men and permanently scarred another. During pole qualifying earlier that month, driver Art Pollard was killed in a horrific crash when his car topped 191 mph, then struck the outside wall, burst into flames, spun into the infield and rolled several times. He died later that day at a local hospital.
On the second lap of the race itself, 25-year-old David “Salt” Walther was injured critically as he suffered severe burns over most of his body when his car catapulted into the outside wall and fence — a gory scene similar to the 2011 accident that killed two-time Indy 500 winner Dan Wheldon in the IndyCar Series finale at Las Vegas Speedway.
Walther, whose once-promising career was derailed that rainy day, died in December at age 65.
Agonizing reminders
Open-wheel racing, said 1969 winner Mario Andretti, has died many deaths since, in part because every subsequent crash, every racing death, conjures up painful memories of 1973.
Winning the Brickyard's coveted Borg-Warner Trophy remains the aspiration of nearly every open-wheel driver. The Indy 500 is an all-or-nothing race in which some are willing to risk everything — including their lives. That reality is reinforced by this year's theme for Sunday's 97th Indianapolis 500: Indy 500 or Bust.
“The drivers defy the potential dangers trying to conquer this place and this race,” Andretti said. “It's what keeps us motivated. I felt I was willing to take the calculated risk to win the Indianapolis 500. I felt I wouldn't make a mistake that would kill me, but I knew I could pay for someone else's mistake.
“I had to accept that or do something else with my life. One thing is for sure, if you dwell on the negative, you better get out of it. That day you become tentative is when you become very dangerous. You have to be on the offensive but not stupid about it.”
The 1973 fatalities, coupled with the earlier deaths of Eddie Sachs and Dave MacDonald during the 1964 race at the Brickyard, were numbing truths for a sport in which death had become an acceptable reality. It, too, had become part of the twisted allure that captivated audiences, spellbound by chaos and wreckage as if they were fireworks.
“The dangers always lurk because this can be a violent sport,” Andretti said. “That in itself is part of the attraction. The early part of my career I figured my chances of survival would be rather slim after losing so many of my friends — including Swede.
“I don't have a death wish, but I had a goal and felt I had to proceed. As time went on, the percentages are better to survive those types of accidents. All our drivers now have a 99 percent chance of retiring on their own terms.”
The enhanced safety measures have enabled drivers to walk away from other devastating crashes the past two decades. But reducing the size of the fuel tank (now 18 gallons) and switching to less combustible fuels are among the primary reasons open-wheel racing is safer, Andretti and Foyt said.
Walther's 75-gallon fuel tank, which was nearly full of methanol, shattered as his car slammed back onto the racetrack. As the car spiraled along the front stretch, spectators were doused with fuel. All survived, but nearly a dozen people suffered burns and lacerations caused by debris that was launched into the grandstand.
The 57th running of the greatest spectacle in racing took three days to complete, mostly because of an unrelenting rain. Gordon Johncock took the checkered flag under caution with 67 laps remaining on a dark, gloomy Wednesday afternoon.
“I would tell people for years that Johncock won the race that no one wanted to remember,” IMS historian Donald Davidson recalled. “Then again, he won the race that no one could ever forget.”
Causes of wreck
Still, a tragedy that ultimately forced the United States Auto Club to shift its focus to safety remains etched in the minds of the survivors — including Foyt, Andretti, Al Unser Sr., Bobby Unser and then-owner Parnelli Jones.
“Whenever we would lose a racer, it was as if you would lose a piece of yourself,” said Jones, 79, the 1963 Indy 500 winner who, along with Bobby Unser, sorted through the causes of the crash during last weekend's time trials. “The big ones like that you can't accept.
“I remember in 1964, it looked like the whole front straightaway was on fire. I didn't want to accept what was going on around me. I'm sure it was the same way for those drivers in 1973, but you have to pick up your boots and move on.”
These days, at age 78, it's a difficult task for Foyt to navigate his way from Gasoline Alley to the perfectly aligned rows of bricks near the start-finish line at IMS.
The years haven't been kind to a knee that was surgically repaired three times. Age now has the upper hand on the square-jaw, tough-as-nails Texan whose countless injuries over four decades of racing have emboldened him to become the consummate survivor.
Foyt admits he barely escaped the 1973 crashes. As he did so often during his open-wheel career, he came out clean on the other side of the fireball that engulfed the cars of Savage and Walther.
“The 1973 race was a terrible race,” Foyt recalled. “I remember the wind blowing real bad. I really think Swede was unconscious way before he hit the wall. He came off (turn) four and never tried to correct (the car). He never put the brakes on.”
Foyt, who won the tragic-filled 1964 Indy 500, said last week that he believed Savage sustained a head injury a week earlier during a road race in Ontario, Calif., that may have been partly responsible for his crash.
“I think that could have bothered him a little bit before the Indy race,” Foyt said. “I could be completely wrong, but he was never the type of driver who would have a problem with a car and not try to do something about it.”
Thirst for danger?
There remains a vivid picture in Foyt's mind of Savage's car colliding into the outside wall and exploding as if it had been pierced by a torpedo. The scattered remains spewed near the exit in Turn 4.
Even the thought of it 40 years later still evokes a heart-wrenching response from Foyt, an owner who tries to shelter his emotions far more than he did as a driver. But the pain of an inescapable memory is still there in his voice and on his face.
“I hated to see someone get killed because so many times I knew (him),” Foyt said. “If you're going to be a race driver, you have to bite your tongue and go on with it.
“When that green flag goes down, you gotta worry about yourself. It's you, the car and the racetrack.”
It's about the racing at the Brickyard, too.
Rick Mears, a four-time Indy 500 winner, warned the race could lose its appeal if the element of danger is lost. While other sports have inherited dangers, auto racing by definition is dangerous, considering the blend of fuel, speed and bravado in the one-eighth mile short chutes that seldom accommodate all three.
“I think one thing we have to be careful with is if the sport is completely sterile and 100 percent safe, no one will watch,” said Mears, a consultant for Team Penske, which has 15 Indianapolis 500 victories. “We won't have a race.
“I think there has to be a little drama. It doesn't have to stay dangerous, but it's an element of this sport that makes it what it is.”
Like Savage and Pollard, Andretti accepted the dangers. However, it was harder to accept when his son Michael Andretti and grandson Marco Andretti began racing at the Brickyard. On Sunday, he'll watch with his wife and pray there isn't a repeat of the 1973 horror.
“When I watch my son and grandson, I appreciate all my wife went through all those years,” said Andretti, 73. “When you're on the sideline, it can be dangerous. The choice is something we all made.
“It was Swede's choice. It's the life of a race car driver, especially at the Indianapolis 500.”
Ralph N. Paulk is a staff writer for Trib Total Media. Reach him at rpaulk@tribweb.com or via Twitter @RalphPaulk_Trib.
