The weekly racing schedule kept me very busy but, once in a while, I was able to sell the bosses in New York Sports on a feature idea as a change of pace.

That happened in 1983 after I spent part of an afternoon with young Indy car star Al Unser Jr. I was doing a preview for that year's opening of practice for the Indy 500 and Al, son of four-time Indy winner Al Unser and nephew of three-time winner Bobby Unser, was one of the favorites to win the race for the first time.

We talked about his racing lineage and his love for the sport and, during the wide-ranging conversation, he mentioned that he was going to attempt to win the Pikes Peak Hill Climb that July.

Pikes Peak in Colorado, which soars over 14,000 feet into the sky, has been called "Unser Mountain" because the racing family from Albuquerque, NM has dominated it over the years. Louis Unser, another of Al Jr.'s uncles, won it nine times. Bobby also had won it nine times and Al Sr. twice.

"It's our family's heritage and I want to carry it on," Little Al told me that afternoon. "Besides, it's just a lot of fun."

I came away from that interview thinking what a fascinating story Little Al's attempt to conquer "the hill," as he called it, would be.

I was able to sell the idea to NY Sports, saying I would cover the event as a news story and then write it as a weekend feature. So I found myself driving into Colorado Springs that July without a clue on how to cover a hill climb.

What better way to get some insight into the event than ask the local sports reporters? My first stop was at the offices of the Colorado Springs Gazette. Not only did the two sports writers covering the hill climb welcome me, they offered me work space for the weekend in their office.

"So, how do I cover this thing?" I asked. They looked at each other, turned back to me and one of them said, "You get started early tomorrow. It's practice day."

When he said early, he meant it. Since the road up Pikes Peak is a public thoroughfare, it can be used for racing only for limited times. The one and only practice on Friday began at dawn and had to be completed by 10 a.m.

I drove to the base of the mountain in the dark, parked near a line of cars and got out. Then I stood there, unable to figure out what to do next. There seemed to be a lot going on, but I couldn't tell what it was.

It was dark, cold and the people I could see I didn't recognize or even recognize what they were doing.

Finally, the sun began to peek over the horizon and, just then, a familiar voice sounded from behind, "Son, what are you doing here?"

It was Bobby Unser, the latest king of the mountain, walking up to me with a big smile. I said, "It's my first time here, Uncle Bobby. Where's the media center?"

He laughed. "The media center is in Colorado Springs. There's no place for you to work here. You just go up the hill and talk to people."

At that point, I must have looked very confused. Bobby said, "C'mon, I'll drive you up the hill and show you where Bobby Junior nearly went over a cliff last year."

How could I turn down an invitation like that?

We got into Bobby's pickup truck and began our drive through the 156 turns to the top. I found out about "blue sky turns," meaning you couldn't see anything on the side of the road but blue sky. There are no fences or barriers on what was then mostly a dirt road, and Bobby, driving with one hand, was going up faster than was comfortable for me.

I've never been good with heights, but I kept thinking, "The guy's won here nine times. He know what he's doing."

Meanwhile, he began to mutter a bit about how the steering on the truck was a little loose. "Man, it just doesn't feel right today," he complained. Every few turns, he would swing the wheel from side-to-side and say, "This steering just ain't right."

All the while, he was pointing out all the spots where people had driven off the mountain or had come close to doing so.

He seemed to be speeding up and I was about to say something when Bobby uttered a loud expletive, swung the wheel to the left and we soared into space, flying off the mountain. I stopped breathing and the thought popped into my mind, "Judy will never forgive me!"

Suddenly, the wheels hit solid ground and we were on a little side road. I was hyperventilating and had tears in my eyes as we stopped a few feet short of a shack where they apparently kept winter snow-clearing materials.

Bobby braked to a halt and began to laugh. "Son, you did good. I've had some people faint dead away."

It turns out that the "king of the mountain" liked to introduce newcomers to the hill with this trick. The side road, marked only by a couple of tall sticks so the snow removal people can find it in the winter, is slanted away from the main road and impossible to see until you drive onto it.

The rest of the ride to the top was uneventful, although I don't really remember much of it. We parted ways when we got to the peak and I quickly found the two local writers, who apologized for not telling me about Bobby's traditional greeting for newcomers.

I recovered quickly, especially after I found out that there is a small building at the top of the mountain where there is hot coffee and freshly baked sugar doughnuts.

Walking around, I saw that one of the benefits of being on the top of the mountain was that the drivers who had completed their practice runs had no place to go. They had to wait until practice was over to head back down, so I had unlimited access to the competitors,,a fact which also gave me an idea how to cover the actual hill climb.

Eventually, Bobby, still grinning widely, walked over and asked if I needed a ride back down the hill. I thanked him and said I would hang with the local writers for the rest of the morning.

Many of the competitors rent garages in residential areas around Colorado Springs and the local guys offered to take me to several of them to meet with the drivers and car owners.

One of our stops was at a garage being rented by Roger Mears, another former hill climb winner and the older brother of Indy car star Rick Mears.

Roger laughed when I told him about my ride up the hill with Bobby.

"He did that to me, too," Roger said. "I fell for it and it scared the hell out of me."

That made me feel better. But then he added, "I tried the same trick on some of my buddies the next year. I was doing the whole loose steering thing and I saw the sticks by the side road and was going to speed up and fly in there. But something told me not to do it and I hit the brakes.

"As I drove onto that side road, there was a truck parked there with a couple of guys putting things in the shack. If I had come over that hill full speed I probably would have hit t he truck and killed us all."

That did not make me feel better at all.

On the day of the hill climb, I again went early. But this time I drove all the way to the top of the mountain - within the posted speed limit. I spent the rest of the day watching the competitors flying up the hill _ you could see many of the turns _ and talking with them once they got to the top.

There was no way to send a story, so I just took notes and decided I would go back to the Gazette to write after everything was done.

The peak area isn't huge, so it was like a party, with everyone walking around and talking.

And my idea paid off big when Little Al won the overall title in record time. He was elated and the scene and the quotes were great. Now all I had to do was get somewhere to write it up and send it.

The official word was that the competitors would go down the mountain first but, apparently, no one told the spectators. The road was suddenly a parking lot and I knew it was going to take a while to get down.

Worse, I hadn't drunk enough water during my time at 14,000 feet and I was starting to get a raging sinus headache. It was hard to even keep my eyes open as I sat in traffic for what seemed like hours.

Finally, though, I got to the Gazette, took a couple of headache pills and began to write. The race story, with Al Jr. winning, was used just about everywhere and my ensuing feature got a big enough play the next weekend that I got a nice "atta boy" letter from the boss.

Little Al went on to win the Indy 500 twice and he and I had a very friendly relationship for most of his long and successful career.

There was a while, though, when he didn't talk to me.

That was after one February in Daytona Beach, when he was participating in the IROC Series. He and cousin Bobby Jr. had rented souped up cars for the weekend and decided to race back to their hotel in nearby Port Orange. They darted in and out of traffic, even driving in the oncoming lanes of the Port Orange bridge.

Unfortunately for them, they caught the eye of a policeman and were stopped and ticketed, lucky not to be arrested.

I heard about it from one of my racing contacts and called and got the police report. Of course, I wrote the story for the wire.

Little Al was furious with me.

"I thought you were my friend," he said. I explained that it was my job to write news stories and that he and Bobby Jr. had made news.

Al avoided me until the week of the Indy 500 that year, looking at me coldly any time I tried to talk to him. Finally, though, in the lead-up to the 500, I was interviewing all the favorites and knocked on Al's motor home door with some trepidation.

His then wife, Shelley, who was a wonderful person, greeted me with a smile and said, "I told Al you were coming and he was okay with it."

Al then walked into the front of the motor home, grinning and said, "Hey, Michael!" and I knew we were were fine again, although to this day I don't know why. I wasn't going to question it, though.