The thought of covering a major sporting event like the Indianapolis 500 was both thrilling and daunting.

I would have been primed and ready if it was a stick and ball sport. But, auto racing? I was definitely heading into the unknown.

The morning after I heard I was going to the Indy 500, Judy was taking the car to work, leaving me to take the bus and subway. I asked her to stop at a bookstore and see what she could find about the 500. When I got home that night, she had two books for me.

The first, "They Call Me Mr. 500" by Andy Granatelli, who owned the car in which Mario Andretti won the 1969 race, I quickly read it cover to cover. It told the story of the Granatelli family's long involvement in auto racing and, in particular, the Indy race. Lots of good background, although I found out later that you had to take anything Andy said with some questions.

The name of the other book Judy found was a bit misleading. It was titled: "My First 500," and it detailed the life of a very colorful prostitute. Skimming it, I found nothing in it about Indy.

Early in the week of the 1970 race, Judy and I drove the 3 1/2 hours to Indianapolis. It was a very exciting time as we speculated on how this assignment could help me get back into sports somewhere down the line _ maybe even get me to AP's New York Sports department and a national beat.

As we neared Indy on Interstate 65, we saw the skyline of Indianapolis and the city's one and only skyscraper at the time - the Indiana Bank Building. This definitely was not Chicago.

Chicago bureau chief, Al Orton, had instructed me to get to Indy on the Tuesday before the Sunday race and report immediately to Indianapolis bureau chief Tom Dygard to get my marching orders for the week.

We drove to downtown Indy, where the AP office was located in the Indianapolis Star-News Building. Suddenly, there was an unexpected traffic jam. It turns out the Indiana Pacers had won their first American Basketball Association championship and were taking part in a victory parade through downtown. That made it impossible to drive to the office since the parade was going right in front of the building.

Welcome to Indianapolis, Judy and Mike.

I found a parking place on the street a few blocks from the parade route and we walked the rest of the way, darting between parade vehicles and drawing a glare from a nearby traffic cop as we ducked into the building.

We walked into the AP office, which was buzzing with activity. Mr. Dygard's secretary finally noticed us and asked who we were. She went into Mr. Dygard's glassed-in office, told him we were there and he beckoned us in.

Before I could introduce myself, Mr. Dygard, smiling brightly, said, "So nice to see you. Have you two done any apartment-hunting yet?"

I stared at him blankly and said something brilliant, like "Huh?"

"We're really happy to have you here,'' he said. "Our previous sports editor, Eric Prewitt, is already in San Francisco and we need you to start as soon as possible."

That's how I found out I was the new Indiana sports editor. Now it made sense what Mr. Orton had said about not letting him down.

At that point, I was 26 years old, had been with the AP for 15 months and been in the journalism business full-time for just under three years. And now I was about to become AP's youngest ever regional sports editor to that time.

We set a date for me to start in my new job two weeks after the 500 and Mr. Dygard told me to call Bloys Britt, AP's Motorsports Writer, to get my orders for the rest of the week. Judy and I left the office in a happy daze.

It was the first time I had ever traveled for business, other than going home to Madison and my parents' house when I covered the Wisconsin high school basketball tournament for the Rockford papers.

I was obviously a last-minute addition to the Indy crew and the hotel they put us in was a dilapidated Howard Johnson in a grungy neighborhood near downtown, next to a Burger King restaurant that reeked of old cooking oil. But it seemed glamorous to us. We were on a business trip and, like the song says, movin' on up.

I didn't want to do anything stupid and wasn't sure that bringing Judy along was going to be okay with the AP. But we were also short on cash, so knowing that AP was paying my way, we only ate fast food for supper and shared one meal each time we ate. That got pretty old pretty quick, so I finally decided it was okay to buy two burgers. But we still shared one order of fries and a large drink.

I called Mr. Britt at the track that afternoon. In a southern accent so thick you could cut it with a knife, he suggested both Judy and I meet him and his wife for breakfast the next day at 7 a.m. They were staying. at the Holiday Inn on the far west side of Indy, near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

Not knowing what to expect, we walked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn at the stroke of 7. There was no one there. We checked out the dining room and it too was nearly empty. I tried calling Mr. Britt's room and got no answer.

Thinking we had been stood up, I wasn't sure what to do. Mr. Dygard had given me my track credentials, so I could just drop Judy off back at the motel and go on to work. But  we decided to hang around a bit longer.

Finally, around 20 minutes after 7, a very large man - about 6-2 and maybe 300 pounds - with bushy white hair sauntered into the lobby, looked us over with a grin and said, "Y'all the Harrises? I'm so sorry. We forgot y'all were coming this morning. We already ate, but we'll join you for coffee."

He introduced us to his wife, Moselle, who greeted us warmly. We sat and talked for a while, getting to know each other before Moselle asked Judy if she's like to accompany her to the ladies room. Off they went, leaving me to talk about Indy with Mr. Britt.

When the women came back, I could see it was all Judy could do to contain herself. After a few minutes, the Britts excused themselves and Bloys said, "See you at the track. You'll find the press room right behind the garages."

It was all jibberish to me, since I had never been to the speedway. But I was excited to get there.

After they left, Judy said, "I could hardly believe it. When we got to the bathroom, Moselle said, `We were so happy to see y'all. With the name Harris and being from Chicago, we was afraid y'all would be black.' "

Now we knew why they didn't wait to eat with us.

Since auto racing was and is almost an entirely white sport, there were rarely any problems about race or color. But, from that day on, I was always aware of the underlying bias, particularly when I was covering NASCAR.

After dropping Judy off at the motel, I found my way to the speedway. Driving in the main gate on 16th Street was an eye-opening experience. The race track is a 2 1/2-mile oval which, at the time, had a nine-hole golf course inside it. The grounds are massive and huge grandstands stood alongside much of the track.

It took me a while to find the right parking area and a while longer to locate the press center, a one-story clapboard building backing up to the garage area. Bloys, who rarely left the building during the work day, except for lunch, was hunkered down in one cozy corner.

He greeted me pleasantly enough and said, "You want to get to work?"

My first assignment - which I later realized was a hazing, like a new construction worker told to find a left-handed monkey wrench - was to get an interview with A.J. Foyt, the biggest star in the Indy Car series and the biggest name at Indy.

I took my notebook and walked to the entrance of the historic garage area, unsure where to go. The old garages were mostly closed up tight, their massive wooden doors pulled down to ensure privacy. There were no signs identifying which team was in which garage, but I finally found a track office that had a diagram of the garage with car numbers and team names.

I found Foyt's garage and knocked on the door. A short, surly man opened it a few inches and said, "Yeah, what do you want?"

"I'm Mike Harris from AP and I'd like to talk with Mr. Foyt."

With no reply, he slammed the door shut.

I was standing there, feeling forlorn, thinking about what I'd say to Bloys and trying to work up the nerve to knock again, when an older man drove up in a golf cart. He was wearing a cowboy hat, an enormous belt buckle, cowboy boots and a big smile.

"You all right, son?'' he asked. "I'm JC Agajanian. Who are you?"

I introduced myself and told him my sad story. I soon found out "Aggie," as he insisted I call him, was a longtime car owner and race promoter from California and an influential man who made a fortune in pig farming and garbage collection.

"Let's see what I can do for you,'' Aggie said, knocking on the door to Foyt's garage. The little man again opened it. But his glare turned to a smile as he saw who was knocking.

"Hi Aggie. What can I do for you?,'' he said.

"Can I talk to the boss? I want to introduce him to somebody,'' Mr. Agajanian said.

I trailed them into the garage, feeling like a real interloper. We walked up to a handsome, powerful-looking man, who turned out to be A.J. Foyt. He was fussing over what appeared to be a transmission and his hands were full of grease.

Mr. Agajanian said, "Tex, I want you to meet Mike Harris. He's new to the AP and wants to talk to you. I think you should help him get started in our sport."

Foyt chuckled and shook my hand, giving me a handful of grease. "What do you want to know, kid?"

It was one of the best interviews I had with the irrepressible and unpredictable Foyt in the more than 40 years that I wound up covering auto racing and having my ups and downs with A.J.

I went back to the media center, sat down at a typewriter across the room from Bloys and wrote a story. When I handed him the copy 30 minutes later, he looked at me like I had just slapped him in the face.

"How did you get these quotes?" he asked.

"I talked to Mr. Foyt," I answered.

I had no more problems with Bloys, who treated me like a pro from that point on.

The rest of the week was a blur, as was the first of my 47 Indy 500 race days. But I do remember getting up at 4:30 in the morning to make sure my car was in line for the AP's police escort to the track from downtown. It felt amazing to be zooming past hundreds of other cars on the way to the speedway and driving through the main tunnel into the track.

On race weekend, some of the big names from AP Sports joined us at Indy. There was General Sports Editor Bob Johnson, columnist Will Grimsley and Jerry Liska, the Midwest Sports Editor from Chicago. It was all very exciting and scary to be in that elite company. I mostly listened to the conversation in the press center.

Mr. Johnson, who I had not met before, made it a point to welcome me to sports and tell me he was going to keep an eye on my progress.

In those days, more than 300,000 people showed up on race day and the air was crackling with a feeling of electricity. The Indy pre-race festivities go on for hours and are like no other event. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end almost from the time I got to the track until the 33-car field roared through the first lap of the race at 11:35 a.m. following a 25-minute rain delay and another short delay when Jim Malloy's car crashed on the pace lap.

That first year I was mostly an afterthought. My assignment was as an observer in the south end of the pits, watching to see if there were any incidents in my area during pit stops. The long pit lane was divided into three sections by the AP and my section never had an issue that day.

I knew the speeds that the cars reached on the track, but seeing them go by one after another in a blur of color and noise was a sensational feeling. When they came down the pit lane and pulled into their stalls, the crews got busy and it was like watching a mini ballet. The movements were precise and done quickly. Four fresh tires and a full tank of fuel in about 20 seconds.
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Other than watching the action unfold in front of me, my only job was to use a phone located behind the pits to call in after caution periods to report on anything that I might have seen. I had nothing to report and could barely hear the person on the other end because of the engine noise.

The checkered flag flew in just over three hours, with Al Unser earning the first of his four Indy 500 wins. With three caution periods in the race, Unser's average speed was just under 156 mph.

After the race, I waited in the chaotic press center until Bloys finally called me over and said, "Write a story about the best finishing rookie."

It took me about five minutes to figure out that the top rookie was Donnie Allison, a NASCAR regular and the older brother of stock car star Bobby Allison. Then I had to track him down. But I got lucky, catching Donnie just as he was about to leave the track. And I got a bonus when Bobby walked up to congratulate his brother and gave me the opportunity to interview both of them.

They could not have been nicer or easier to deal with and that was definitely a precursor of times to come.

It was over and I still knew next to nothing about auto racing. But I did know, as Indiana sports editor, the 500 was going to be a big part of my life the next May and for the foreseeable future.




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