This is the final part to my story. Thanks again for the interest!
Hours of TV coverage surrounded the final race of the season. A close battle for the season championship, and the return of Indy 500 winner Dan Wheldon. Sound waves echoed around the 1.5 mile oval as the Indycars fired to life. Two parade laps and the green flag was out. Drivers hustled for position. Some moved up, some fell behind. Wheldon weaved his way past 10 cars from 32nd to 22nd in the first 10 laps.
Tires squealed and two cars spun around, facing the cars approaching at 215 miles per hour like rams preparing for battle. Carbon fiber sprayed, colors of hundreds of sponsors littered the track. Cars fluttered into air like wind blowing a pile of leaves. Explosions of carbon fiber, steel, and fire sprayed onto the track.
Momentum played its self out and everyone ground to a stop. Some cars on their side, some upside down, and some still on fire. Drivers pulled themselves out of the cars. Some hurried by their burning cars, some were slow and weary from the shock of the accident. All of the 15 drivers except 3 were out. Two drivers needed help out of their cars, the shattered discs in their back making a self exit impossible. The third driver lay limp in his car like a rag doll. Just the flat black cockpit remained of the car. No wheels, no wings, no side pods, no engine, no paint. The car was unrecognizable. It could be anyone. Even the driver’s signature helmet was scuffed and damaged to the point that it was unrecognizable. The car, driver still inside was covered with a tarp before anyone could figure out who was inside. Frantic work ensued on the driver inside. A helicopter took off from the track, the driver still unknown.
After every crash you fear the worst. No matter the driver, you feel sorrow and hope for they lumber out of the car. With a modern Indycar’s carbon crash structure fatalities are rare, but at 220 miles per hour no safety level is enough. Every season you find yourself sitting on your couch or in the grandstands hoping for a drivers life. Nearly every time your heart sinks but is uplifted when the driver waves his hand out of the cockpit, or even wiggles his helmet. This time our hearts were never lifted, instead filled with sorrow and remembrance as tears flowed down our checks.
The entirety of the track fell in silence. Some respectfully morning, some with uncontrollable tears running onto the cold pavement. Who would I cheer for? There was no one to make me smile every time I saw an interview. No one to pump my fist at with every pass. No longer would the Indycar paddock by graced with the kind smile and smooth British voice of Dan Wheldon.
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