I realize you had a run-in with Foyt and that prolly put the sour taste in your mouth.
What really soured me on Foyt was his arrogance toward the Granatelli/Jones team at the 1967 awards banquet. He was sure to tell Jones (more than once) that "cheaters never win". I am one of those that appreciated the innovations that the Indy cars once brought to the table. And love it or hate it, the #40 turbine car was nothing, if not innovative. Apparently if you weren't running a twin-cam Ford, a turbocharged Offy or a stock block Ford in the 1967 500, you were a cheater in Foyt's eyes.
Andretti looked pretty smart in qualifying, sitting on the pole at some 2.9 MPH faster than the feared turbine. But everyone was aware Jones qualified with the motor he was going to run on race day and with a full load of fuel, where as everyone else was running a qualifying engine and minimal fuel loads. And we saw what happened when Jones started sixth but was leading the pack coming out of turn two. Like I said, love it or hate it, Andy Granatelli showed what could be done by thinking outside the box.
Foyt drove a smart race that day, he ran as hard as he could to stay as close to Jones as he could. And when the turbine faltered on lap 197 (after leading 171 laps of the race), Foyt was poised to take the win. But one lesson I learned is that losers have to learn to lose with class, just as winners have to learn to win with class. And Foyt demonstrated zero class at the banquet.
We're quite familiar with Foyt in this area, too.
Bob Higman took Foyt in and gave him a midget ride, way back in 1957. Foyt helped Bob work his farm through the week and drove Bob's midget on race nights. That farm is just a tick over 4 miles south of where I'm sitting. Bob was a helluva good guy and is sorely missed by all who knew him.
In 1969, Bob was crew chief for the Jigger Sirois Indy 500 team. Sirois drew #1 and went out to qualify on a very cloudy Pole Day morning and was really slow. Bob figured he would take what he could get and try to work on the car to find some more speed if they were bumped out of the field. Bob turned away to grab the stuff he had carried down to turn 4 and while he was doing that, the car owner grabbed the flag and waved off the attempt. Within minutes, the skies opened up and poured, washing out the rest of the day. Had the run been completed, Sirois would have owned the pole at speeds that were just shy of 162 MPH. His time was actually fast enough to have qualified him for the race, but the car owner waved off a second attempt the following weekend and the motor gave up the ghost on their final attempt. Sirois was never able to line up for the 500, in seven attempts.
I will slide on down to Union Jack's though!
Well, that's within spittin' distance! :winkn: I've an uncle who lives on Patricia, just north of 30th, in Eagledale. When I started classes at Lincoln Tech, he had just joined the Speedway Fire Dept. New firefighters were chauffeurs on the trucks, so he had to know the location of all the fire hydrants within the city limits. And since I was pressed into service helping him learn, I grew pretty familiar with Speedway, myself. I nearly moved to Speedway, a couple of times, but it's proximity to Indianapolis always prevented me from pulling the trigger.
The company I am contracted to has offices up at Keystone at the Crossing and they always remind me I can come to the offices to work. Like I want to drive back and forth to Indy every day? Not a chance that's ever going to happen. If you're familiar with the area <shudder>, I lived at what is now known as Park Place at City Center, on North White River Parkway. Back then, there were no metal fences and gates, it was just government-subsidized, low-income housing. Of course the school referred to it as "student" housing and there were *cough, cough* three IU med school nursing students who lived *cough* directly across the hall. But that was where the fun ended, because the place was plain, flat mean. The elevators rarely worked, so my roommate and I would have to take the girls down to their cars and go down to escort them back up again. We were on the 7th floor, so that meant rolling at least three, passed-out drunks out of the way, each direction. And you damn well better be ready to fight your way through, too. A buddy tried to convince me to move over to Woodruff Place, which was junkie haven in the early 70's. Thirty-nine years later, the smell of creosote and stale urine still takes me back to River House Towers.
uke: I suppose if I had lived in a nicer place, my opinion of Indy would be a bit different. But I was working nights to cover tuition and rent, so that was all I could afford.
hmmm: you can decide which). Either way, he's driving a super-sweet tricked out and blacked-out Porsche Cayenne. Must be nice.
, to say the least), I remember being amazed at all the mud that had been drug out onto 16th Street.
