The Champion Spark Plug hospitality room under the main straight grandstand at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was an oasis of calm amid the uproar at the track during most of the month of May.

When I was first fortunate enough to be invited to the Champion Room, as it was called by everyone, it was run by former race driver and broadcaster Freddie Agabashion.

Freddie was a wonderful person and told some of the most colorful and fascinating stories about his years of racing at the Brickyard.

He started from the pole in 1952, but dropped out after 71 laps because of an engine problem. His best finish was fourth the next year. But that was also his best story.

"I was running so good that year I thought I had a real chance of winning the race," he told me during one of the many lunch hours in the Champion Room. "Then, with the extreme heat that day, I started to feel like I was melting.

"It got so I couldn't take it any more and I had to get out of that car. Paul Russo relieved me and I was in the (track) hospital cooling off when he finished the race in fourth. It was a tough day, but I was proud of the effort."

After Freddie retired, the stewardship of the Champion Room was taken over by another former driver, Jerry Grant.

Jerry was also a personable guy, but he was far different from the quiet, conservative Freddie. Jerry was a joker who loved nothing more than to shake things up.

He was first of several former drivers who thought it was fun to throw a car's gearshift lever into park while riding down the road with someone else at the wheel.

That devilish streak did not keep us from becoming fast friends. And Jerry's wonderful wife, Sandy, hit it off with Judy, too. The four of us often got together for dinner during the month of May.

There was also the time when Jerry almost got a group of us arrested for gun running.

We were in Detroit for the Grand Prix when Jerry invited me and several other writers out for dinner. He decided to take us to Pearls, a great Chinese restaurant across the river in Windsor, Ontario, Canada.

When we got to the Immigration booth at the downtown tunnel between the US and Canada, the officer asked Jerry if he had anything to declare. It was a routine question in those days, with people going back and forth between the two countries on a regular basis.

But wise guy Jerry said, "Yeah, I've got a trunk full of guns."

He started to laugh, but the officer didn't think it was amusing. The next thing we knew, the car was directed to a parking area and we were asked to get out of the car and stand with our hands on the roof while the trunk was searched. It was empty, of course, but we were all _ not just Jerry _ told we were lucky not to be in a jail cell and to think twice about saying something like that again.

We went on to eat in Windsor and, instead of being sheepish or apologetic, it was all Jerry could do to contain himself, laughing and giggling throughout the meal.

During the years when NASCAR held its awards banquet at the Waldorf in New York City, Sandy and Jerry usually attended. It became an annual thing that they invited Judy and me out to a fancy dinner a couple of nights before the banquet.

We loved the company but, after a few years of being treated, Judy and I both felt it was our turn to pick up the tab.

I called Jerry at his California home and said I would not take no for an answer. It was our turn to take them out for dinner.

I made a reservation at the Four Seasons in midtown Manhattan, one of the finest restaurants in the world, for eight people, including longtime buddy Lewis and several other local friends. And I specifically asked to be seated in the Fountain Room, an iconic, beautifully appointed dining area with, as you would suspect from the name, a fancy fountain in the center.

A few days before the dinner, I got a call at home confirming the reservation.

On the appointed night, Judy and I showed up early for the 8 p.m. reservation. I walked up to the dais to let them know we had arrived and would be in the bar. Sandy and Jerry arrived moments later.

I was standing in the loud, crowded bar talking with Jerry when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the manager of the restaurant, who asked me to come with him.

"We can't find your reservation, Mr. Harris. Are you sure it was for tonight?" he asked.

I was adamant, saying, "I even got a call confirming the reservation earlier this week."

"Well, we're fully booked, but we'll see what we can do to help you out," he said. "Just wait in the bar and I'll let you know what we can do."

I went back to the bar and told Judy what was going on. She shrugged and said, "This is New York City. I'm sure we can find some place to eat if they can't take care of us."

I couldn't believe how cool and calm she was. I was not cool and calm.

About 20 agonizing minutes went by before the manager came back and again pulled me to side.

"Mr. Harris, we found your reservation. It's for next Saturday night," he said. He was grinning and I wondered if he was taking pleasure in my discomfort.

"But, don't worry," he added quickly. "We're going to accommodate you."

I took a deep breath and asked, "How soon. We're all very hungry."

"We can't seat you in the Fountain Room because it's completely booked. But, if it's okay with you, we'll set up a table in the bar area and we'll seat your right away. I promise we'll take good care of you."

What choice did I have. I thanked him and said, "That will be fine."

As promised, a table was seat up in the bar area, which was actually very nice. The manager furnished two waiters and a bus boy to serve our table and sent over a bottle of wine, on the house. It could hardly have been a nicer meal - and none of us missed the fountain.

Another memorable dinner took place during one of my years covering the Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach.

I was in the pit lane prior to the opening practice, talking with old friend Shav Glick, the highly respected auto racing writer for the Los Angeles Times and one of the nicest people I ever knew, when we were approached by Paul Newman, 

It was unusual for Paul to initiate a conversation with members of the press, so we were both surprised and delighted.

"Listen guys, we're having a dinner party tonight at Spago in Hollywood to raise money for a children's charity," Newman said earnestly. "Any chance you two could come and give us a little publicity, maybe write something in the next day or two?"

I drove, and knowing the traffic between Long Beach and Hollywood, we left the track as soon as our stories were filed. Amazingly, especially for a Friday night, the traffic was generally light and we made the 30-mile drive in record time.

In fact, we arrived about an hour before the scheduled start of the party.

We parked in the almost empty lot behind the iconic Wolfgang Puck restaurant and decided to wait in the car until we saw other people arriving. Finally, cars began filling up the lot and we decided it was time to go in.

That's when we noticed a gaggle of paparazzi, cameras at the ready, near the front door of the restaurant. Shav got an impish look on his face and said, "Let's have some fun. Keep your sunglasses on and follow my lead."

I had no idea what he had in mind, but I said, "Sure."

As we neared the front door, Shav, in a rather loud voice, looked over at me and said, "I'am  not giving Newman more than one point on this project. I don't care what his agent says."

I got the gist and said, "But we need Newman and Woodward for this project. Do you think we can get him for one point?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several of the paparazzi taking pictures of us and several other looking frantically through some file photographs, trying to figure out who the hell we were.

Once inside the door, we broke down laughing. When we told Newman what we had done, he laughed out loud.

"Serves them right," he said. "They'll be trying to figure it out for the rest of the night."

The party was exactly what you might expect, great finger foods, an open bar and lots of celebrities. Shav and I both had a great time and both of us wound up writing a story about the party the next day. We even got written thank yous from Newman.