Crocky Faces The Wall Of Death

Roy Caruthers leaned toward the gasoline-soaked wood panel with his torch, the flame flicking in the gentle night breeze. In moments, the main straightaway surface at Lincoln Park Speedway would be illuminated by the inferno. Crocky Wright, who has seen seventy-one years, was ready to face the wall of death.

It’s been a long time since Crocky tried the wall. Sure, he had the stunt mastered when he performed with Putt Mossman’s International Daredevils way back in 1951. But considerable sand has passed through the hourglass since then, and his last attempt in 1981 was not completely successful.

But this time would be different, Crocky vowed. When intermission finally arrived at Lincoln Park on Saturday night, he was ready. He wore an ancient checkered helmet, a remnant from his days racing midgets, big cars, and bikes all those years ago. He paced nervously, directing the crew of helpers as they placed the wall on the track, pouring a white line from the center of the wall down the track toward turn four. When a man faces the wall, we can assume, he wants to see where he’s going.

Finally, the old Honda was fired. In his jackboots and leather jacket, he looked like a cast member from an old Hollywood flick. He revved the engine and began a parade lap. The crowd stood and began to quiet. In the infield, racers and spectators stared and smiled.

As he twisted the throttle down the backstretch, maybe on this cool Indiana night it was like 1951 all over again. He was a young man, the wind in his face. He was the star. That’s how it once was, so long ago. What man, who has stood and faced the cheers, does not want to hear them again, just one more time?

While his life hasn’t gone exactly as planned, it isn’t far off course. Long ago, he wanted to go to Indy. While he enjoyed moderate success on motorcycles, and loved racing midgets and big cars, he was never successful enough to find the Brickyard.

There were chances at marriage, but women just didn’t understand why Crocky wouldn’t give up some of his racing. The jobs came and went through the years, because employers didn’t understand why Crocky needed so much time off. So the small kid born Ernie Schlausky seventy-one years ago has spent his entire life doing exactly whatever he wanted.

On this night, he wanted to beat the wall of death. As he brought the bike to a stop coming out of turn four, he looked toward the wooden structure in the middle of the track and thought of 1981 and the Indianapolis Speedrome. He tried the wall then, but things didn’t go according to plan. He made it through the blazing structure, but wiped out and nearly broke his ankle. At seventy-one, he probably doesn’t heal very quickly. He gunned the engine.

The signal was given to start the fire. An official poured gasoline on the structure, and stepped away. Caruthers, who came along as Crocky’s assistant, fumbled with a lighter. His hands trembled as he tried nervously to light the torch that had been prepared. Finally, it caught, and he stepped toward the wall.

He reached out with the torch. Ambulance attendants looked on. When the small flame licked toward the gasoline-soaked wall, it ignited, and for a moment Caruthers himself stood too close to the blaze, his feet surrounded by flames. He dashed away, and people nearby stepped back and shielded their faces from the heat.

Crocky lowered his head. He snapped the Honda in gear, and gassed it. As he approached the wall, his tires ran along the white line that had been poured moments before. He lowered his head, and the Honda begged to be shifted to a higher gear. Every eye watched, every breath was held.

The front wheel hit the mark dead center. For a split second, Crocky and the bike were consumed in the hot, orange mass of fire. The wood shattered, with sparks flying, and in another moment it was over. There was Crocky, unscathed, racing toward turn one. The water truck rolled forward and crew members began spraying the flames, transforming what was the wall of death into a docile pile of smoldering wood.

Crocky made his way around the track and back to the main straightaway. The helmet came off, and friends and onlookers embraced the hero. The crowd cheered, and as the announcer struggled with a wireless microphone, Crocky was interviewed. He stepped through the gate at the flag stand, into a crowd of excited young children, all reaching to shake his hand, to touch the man of the hour. Crocky smiled and thanked them.

The track crew climbed into their equipment, to work the water that had doused the fire into the track. Racers and crews walked toward the pits, to ready their cars for the features soon to follow. After all, wall of death or not, it was Saturday night at Lincoln Park, and there were races to run.

Minutes later, when the leather jacket, boots, and ancient helmet were replaced with a light brown jacket bearing his name, Crocky again waded through the crowd of admirers near the concession stand.

"What a neat old guy!" exclaimed a kid of about ten years old to his buddy as he examined the autographed card Crocky had just given him. On the card were pictures of long ago, pictures of a young man aboard the racing machines he hoped would propel him to stardom. Tonight, it seems, they did just that.

Crocky Wright, star of stars. Yeah. What a neat old guy.