Bobby Unser: the truth-telling Indy 500 champion

Everybody loves a winner. But particular segments of the racing community have a special affinity for certain types of drivers.

Owners prize guys who don’t wreck cars. Mechanics appreciate racers who are easy on equipment. Engineers prefer drivers who provide useful feedback. Fans root for stand-on-the-gas types who are spectacular on the track. And the media? We dream of drivers who are (a) available, (b) willing to talk, and (c) have something to say.

In America, at least, Mario Andretti has always stood on the top step above the media scrum. But three-time Indy 500 winner Bobby Unser, who died earlier this month at the age of 87, belongs on the podium next to him. In an era when celebrities are shrouded behind elaborate public-relations machines and curated social media feeds, Unser listed his phone number and email address on his website, and he never resorted to white lies or toothless cliches.

“His philosophy was ‘If I don’t have a five-percent advantage, I’m 10 percent behind'”

Nearly ten years ago, I wrote a story about Langhorne Speedway, a notoriously fearsome one-mile oval that claimed the lives of nearly two dozen drivers, along with another dozen or so motorcyclists, flaggers and spectators. The ’Horne was so dangerous that several drivers, most notably two-time Indy 500 champ Rodger Ward, flat out refused to race there.

With the exception of A.J. Foyt – who insisted that he enjoyed careening around in Langhorne in one long controlled slide – all of the drivers I interviewed spoke about the track with a mixture of respect and trepidation. But only Unser was honest enough to say what I suspect most of the others were thinking. “I raced all over the world, and that was the most dangerous, most treacherous, most murderous track there ever was,” he said. “Nobody liked it, and the ones who said they did were lying.”

Unser never sugarcoated his observations. He described Foyt as “a bully.” Despite his long and mutually profitable relationship with All American Racers, Unser told me he “never forgave” Dan Gurney for denying him the glory of breaking the 200-mile-per-hour barrier in the 1972 Eagle that he’d helped develop. (The honour went instead to Jerry Grant.) He said Rick Mears was “lazy” during their years together at Penske Racing.

Mears, the most affable of men and least confrontational of teammates, chalked up Unser’s comment to mind games. “Bobby wanted to beat you on the track, but he also wanted to get you in here,” he said, grinning as he pointed to his head. “His philosophy was ‘If I don’t have a five-percent advantage, I’m 10 percent behind.’”