The Indianapolis Motor Speedway, founded in 1909, is the world's oldest permanent motorsport facility. It's changed a lot since the early days—pavement instead of bricks for a racing surface, new stands and administration buildings—but the track is essentially the same. It still has corners banked at 9 degrees, 12 minutes, and those corners are the same radius they were a century ago.
More than that, the track is still a magical, ghostly place, eerily alive with death and life. Stand on the front straight and stare into Turn 1—it looks like a tunnel, or maybe a wall of asphalt—and you feel the echo of death and time in your bones.
For decades, the Speedway hosted just one event—the Indianapolis 500. The 500-mile, 200-lap race is as much a part of the American fabric as baseball, and its relevance needs no explanation. You can now see NASCAR or MotoGP, among other things, at Indianapolis, and they are fine and entertaining. But the track is never more mystical or mythical than when filled with Indy cars. And it is never more filled with Indy cars than in May, during run-up to the 500.
Indy cars are special. They have open wheels and hellacious speed, lapping the Speedway at over 200 mph. They look something like Formula 1 cars but are simpler and arguably more versatile. They're also cheaper, since Indy's rules are far more restrictive. They're designed for ovals and road racing—lapping tracks like the Speedway, but also street circuits and permanent road courses.
The oval part is key. Men have died in Indy Car more recently than in NASCAR or F1, and not on a street or a road course. Until the early seventies, you could still kill yourself on an oval without really trying, and a lot of guys did. Indy cars are safer now but far from bombproof; earlier this week, Canadian driver James Hinchcliffe almost died when a front suspension component broke at 228 mph and sent his car nose-first into the wall. A suspension wishbone reportedly lodged in Hinchcliffe's legs, trapping him in the car. It was the fourth accident in a qualifying period rife with frightening moments.
Frightening in part because, as the line goes, there are no small wrecks at Indy. During qualifying practice for this year's 500, several drivers averaged more than 230 mph over one lap. Under ideal conditions, drivers can rip into Turn 1 at 235 mph without lifting the throttle. (The all-time average-speed record, a 237.498-mph lap by Arie Luyendyk, came in 1996, when cars made more power but had less aerodynamic downforce, and thus less grip.)
Drivers here often are separated by hundredths of seconds. Tiny mistakes—a twitch on the wheel, a nudge on the throttle, things most people wouldn't notice on an in-car camera—can lose a position at best, risk a life at worst. A crosswind barely sufficient to ruffle your hair can turn a handling sweetheart into a homicidal demon.
I stood on the exit of Turn 1 during this year's qualifying, watching through a photographer's access point as cars tracked out two feet from my face at 230 mph. The great rush of air and noise and violence is enough to liquify your kidneys, but it also feels oddly compelling and ancient. Television can tell you a lot, but you see little of the place's glory and risk until you walk through the gates and stand on the grounds.
Rick Mears knows this. Now 63, he raced at Indy from 1978 to 1992, and is generally regarded as the track's old master. He is one of just three men to win four times, and he holds the record for most pole positions by a single driver (six). Unlike most men, he came to Indianapolis as a rookie and almost immediately ran with the legends. And he was possessed of such talent and racecraft that he didn't hit the wall—and even then, it was because of a mechanical problem—until 1991, 13 years into his career at the Speedway.
On my first day at the track, an old-timer noted that Mears walks in a fashion known as the "Indy Shuffle." You see it occasionally in the older guys, the strange gait that comes from breaking one or both legs in a crash. Modern Indy cars are built around computer-designed carbon-fiber tubs designed to protect a driver in a crash; Mears raced back when the cars were riveted aluminum shells full of fuel bladders, like a Cessna, or relatively simple carbon tubs designed with little thought for safety. Either way, there wasn't much give. As one veteran told me, "It wasn't just breaking legs. It was turning them to powder."
The race is Sunday. I was at the Speedway one week beforehand. I didn't see Mears walk, so I can't confirm the shuffle. But I did get a chance to talk with him about the 500, and what it takes to go fast on IndyCar's "fastest, scariest, and most dangerous track."
TL;DR: The short answer is balls.
WIRED: I hadn't seen cars run at the Speedway before yesterday. One thing that struck me about this place was how much of the magic and the weird old speed temple vibe you don't get over television. Does it work the same way for drivers?
Rick Mears: It does. A lot of guys don't respect it until they're here and they figure it out. It looks like just four long corners. And people watch it and think, "Oh, well, what do you do? You just drive around there all day."
There's a lot more happening out there than anybody realizes. In qualifying, in four laps, you never run one corner the same way twice. It's constantly changing, as a tire goes off, as the wind goes down, as the fuel load changes. And the guys that can adapt to that and deal with it, and learn how to make the corrections needed the next time through that corner—instead of doing the same thing, expecting a different result. It doesn't work. You've gotta change something, and I'm talking this (mimes twitching steering wheel with his hands), not talking this (waves hands around). That's the last two or three percent. That's what you don't know until you run here.
Is there a common thread among guys who figure this place out quickly? It's different from any other oval. What does it take to be fast here?
Respect for the track and the speeds, I think. I've seen a lot of young guys come in. It's one thing to come here and run a couple quick laps. But to get that last two or three percent, it becomes very difficult.
An example is [ex-F1 driver] Emerson Fittipaldi. I saw an interview of his after one of his first oval-track experiences, when he first came to IndyCar. I remember him saying, "I got out of the car and thought, 'Man, I've got a lot to learn.'" ** I thought, "He's a racer. He understands." It takes smoothness, it takes no mistakes, it takes patience. And that's one of the biggest things on the Speedway, is patience. And that's what I try to tell anybody new we have, you know, to just relax. Make laps.
After I'd driven for, I don't know, how many years, I'd come here and the first five or ten laps, getting up to speed and being two or three miles per hour off. I remember thinking, "Aw, man. Where's this gonna come from?" And after another 20 or 30 laps, it's there. You get acclimated, you start fine-tuning things. But if you get excited and say, "Where's it at?" and force the issue, this place can bite you. Really quick.
What percentage of guys get rattled after they have a "moment" in the car? Or after hitting the wall?
It just depends on the individual. Everybody's different. I never had a problem after, as long as I knew what happened. If I made a mistake, it was, OK, I'm not gonna do that again.
How long did it take to get comfortable here each year? Was there always that 20- or 30-lap build-up?
Yeah. I just never rushed it. You get a lot of practice time here. The pressure here—the big part—was qualifying.
Do guys tend to rush it?
Some of the young guys maybe do. They don't quite understand how quickly it can bite 'em. With the rookies and the Indy Lights kids when they first start—I tell them that this place, it lulls you into feeling slow. The straightaways are so long, the corners are so long. You can get very relaxed. You can get into the feeling and get behind the car, instead of being ahead of it. And that's when it jumps up at you.
You're widely viewed as a master of this place, but when you were learning it, who helped you? Who were your heroes?
Well, the first really professional driver I met was Parnelli Jones, in off-road [racing]. He'd already been here and was playing around in the desert. I got to know him, and any questions I had, he always helped me out. The next one I met was Bobby Unser, through the Pikes Peak hill climb. He'd take me out on tracks I'd never been to, in rental cars, tell me what to do and what not to do.
But also, I just watched. As a driver, I had my own ego and my own pride. I hated asking too many questions. I usually kept my eyes and ears open and learned that way.
You consult for Penske Racing now—helping young drivers get their heads around the Speedway. What does that entail?
It varies all the time. The job description is "whatever's needed." Like, with Will [Power, Penske driver], when he first came on board, he had a lot of road-course experience but not a lot of oval experience. So I tried to help steepen the learning curve. You get a young driver in who doesn't have a lot of experience in general, it's working with the team, the media, the promoters, whatever you feel like he needs the most help in.
Obviously, these four [Penske drivers] now [500 veterans Helio Castroneves, Will Power, Juan Pablo Montoya, and Simon Pagenaud] don't need a lot of help driving the car. So then it's another set of eyes and ears watching other guys on the track, maybe make suggestions for different lines in corners, floating back and forth between pits. Inputs on problems. Things like that.
What is there to teach a veteran?
A lot of times, if they're struggling, they'll come and say, "What do you think about this? What do you see so-and-so doing out there? What do you think I can change?" If things are going well, there's not as many questions to ask. It just varies. It depends on the guy, the day, and the car.
That's the other big thing about this place. A lot of guys who have run other road courses and slower tracks, you can carry a car more there. (Translation: Make up for a poorly set-up car with driving skill—Ed.) And here you flip it—you have to make the car carry you. (Get the suspension setup right, producing the most grip and balance—Ed.)
You can carry the car for a little bit, but it's going to bite you sooner or later. So it's learning how to do that. You have to believe your ass, is what it is. It never lies to you. If your ass is telling you something's not right, listen to it. 'Cause I've checked it a lot of times (laughs), and found out it wasn't lying. It's amazing. Sometimes guys have trouble believing it.
How's that translate into what they do in the car?
It's just a very fine feel. In a slower corner, you've got much more room for error. You can yank the car, you can over-brake. You give too much throttle, or get in too deep, it jumps out on you [sliding sideways], and you catch it, you keep going. And you wait until it happens, to catch it.
Here, the difference is, you've gotta catch [a slide] before it happens. Because of the speeds and the lateral load. So it's refining your feel down to the point where it's, "Oh, it's gonna go, and you better start doing this (mimes steering into a slide) before it starts going. It's feeling those [tire] footprints on the ground getting smaller, and then going away.
If you wait until that footprint actually slips, you're behind it. And that's when you get the tank-slapper.
Do the good guys always see the bad stuff coming here?
I've always been a firm believer in feel driving, not reflex driving. And some guys are reflex drivers. I'm a feel driver, because I don't like to scare myself. I want to catch it before it gets to that point.
Waiting for the car to slide at 220 mph, with a loss in aero grip when it happens, so suddenly …
You can't do it as much as you used to, [with modern cars]. You've gotta have very quick hands. But some guys have a better feel than others.
I've never understood a guy hitting the fence on the exit of a corner. Because if I get my entry and everything the way I want it, the exit's a no-brainer. If I get that wrong, I know I'm not gonna make it out the other side, and I know that by the time I get to the bottom of the track. So I might as well lift. So when I see a guy hit the fence off the exit, his entry should've told him that, in a sense.
But that comes with laps. And in qualifying, you may bounce it off the fence. I've had times where I'm in the middle of a corner and I'm saying, "This may not work out. It's gonna be very close." And I've braced myself a couple times thinking I'm gonna hit—and been fortunate it was right on.
After coming here for decades, what's still special about this place?
The competition. The history of the place. It's the Super Bowl. You spend so much time here, there's weather changing, there's always more happening. It's just everything on a bigger scale.
And at the end of the day, it all boils down to having that [points to a car]. And having the right ones. And having the right people. If it wasn't for [the Penske team], I wouldn't have those numbers. At the end of the day, that's the big thing.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
