The big race was scheduled to start at 10 a.m., but as usual supercharged crowds, festive and hungry for thrills, began gathering outside Indianapolis Speedway at dawn. By race time, some 150,000 had crammed their way into the stands and infield to watch 33 underslung, overpowered little cars roar around the 2½-mile brick and asphalt track in the annual 500-mile grind.
Mechanics and drivers were up early too, fussing and tuning up the streamlined little racers, looking for flaws, profanely praying that hidden parts would function smoothly. At Driver Johnnie Parsons' station in the pits the mechanic could hardly believe his eyes. Parsons' bright yellow Wynn's Special (representing an investment of $35,000) looked sleek and fit, but under the unstrapped hood the mechanic had found a telltale trickle of water seeping out of a crack in a spanking-new cylinder block. There was no time to change engines, so the mechanic did the next best thing: he filled the crack with metal sealer, slapped a coat of paint over it, then gave Californian Johnnie Parsons the bad news.
Benzol & Alcohol. It was about the worst news an Indianapolis driver could hear. Handsome, 31-year-old Driver Parsons had placed second in the big race last year, and his Wynn's Special, with its new high-compression (13 to 1) Meyer-Drake Offenhauser engine, had performed beautifully during the tryouts. Now the threadlike slit in the engine block threatened to crack his hopes wide-open. But heavy-footed Johnnie Parsons had no thought of withdrawing on that account.
Johnnie's mechanic assured him that if his engine could hold up for the first 50 miles everything would probably be all right; the heat should seal it tight for the rest of the race. Johnnie Parsons felt that he could not afford to nurse his car along for all of those 50 miles. On the ninth lap, he rammed the foot throttle down and skittered into the lead, past Veteran Mauri Rose, three-time winner of the race, who pounded along doggedly in Johnnie's exhaust trail—a nauseous compound of burned benzol, alcohol and 100-octane aircraft gasoline. Said Parsons later: "I saw my chance and I wanted some of that lap money"—$100 for the leader of each 2½-mile circuit.
Rose took the lead back at the 33rd lap, but Johnnie Parsons figured that his little four-cylinder engine was hot and solid enough now to take all he could give it. Two laps later he had the lead again. By this time, hitting a roaring 165 m.p.h. in the straightaways, skidding and spinning into the turns, the 33-car field was thoroughly scrambled.
Parsons' pace was shattering records at every 25-mile mark; it was also taking its toll of cars and drivers. Physical and mechanical fatigue, burned-out bearings, fouled-up fuel lines and twisted supercharger shafts were bringing an end to expensive dreams.