THE INDIANAPOLIS 500 is called the greatest spectacle in the world, and what a spectacle it is. In 1989, I made my fifth trip to the Brickyard. I met up with a former colleague, Gary Miles, who was driving a '70s-era Chevy Malibu that was in a dangerous, dreadful condition. A couple of months earlier, his sister had driven the car over a curb, damaging the front end. The tires would actually wobble as it moved down the street. When the car hit 55 mph, the steering wheel would shake violently and make a loud knocking sound. Once the car hit 70 mph, the ride – and steering wheel – settled down. To make things worse, the tires were bald and the radiator was leaking. Still, the sheet metal on the car was so thick that four of us laid on the hood and watched the race. I don't know why I agreed to get in the car. Maybe it's because five months earlier, I rolled his pickup truck in South Jersey coming back from New York City – with him in it. Nikon FE, 28mm lens, Kodachrome 64.