Saguaro Wanderings: Seeing 2011 (#154)

For your consideration: earlier today (Sunday, October 16, as I write) the sporting world was shocked and aggrieved by the horrible death of Dan Wheldon on the 12th lap of the Las Vegas Indy 300 race.

I may be one of the (relatively) few Americans who still puts the annual Indy 500 race on the calendar well in advance. My father got me interested in it when I was quite young (sadly, the only sport we share as a passion); we listened to it on AM radio before it began to be aired via tape delay on television. It was a bit of nirvana for me when the broadcasts went live, despite the fact that this required an adjustment of getting up before 8:00am to begin a 3 or 4 hour lock on the family television, rather than the evening, post-dinner airing of those video tapes. (My family was grudgingly, graciously accommodating and, truth be known, even mom "got into it" as the cars screamed down the track as the race progressed.)

Countless so-called sports fans have dismissed the event as a boring series of 800 left-hand turns. Superficially, yes, but at 220 MPH with traffic determined to get ahead you sans turning indicators, and millions of dollars and great fame on the line, I hardly deem such dismissals informed. I've driven 145 MPH, briefly, and even that comparatively pedestrian pace seemed to bend and blur the normal lines of sight as far I was concerned (brain: "take your foot slowly off the accelerator, and don't make any sudden movements of the steering wheel until you're under 90 . . . "). My long-cherished fantasy of someday turning laps at the Brickyard have been dimmed by the notion of the of insanity of actually strapping my butt into a seat barely a foot off the racetrack pavement and voluntarily subjecting myself to unimaginably blinding speeds as the professionals master.

And yet at events throughout the year that is exactly what race car drivers do (on closed circuit, scrupulously maintained and medically-supervised and supported tracks, not public streets and highways). They do it well, they're paid well to do so, and everyone involved is acutely aware of not only the risks but also the vital, essential need to rigidly adhere to the very narrow parameters of prescribed behavior during the competition. Failing to do so kills any chance of a checkered flag . . . Still, Death in racing, as was the tragic case today, is blessedly far less frequent than it once was due to advances in engineering safety in the cars. Of course, its specter lingers nonetheless.

These reflections bring me back to this: while this country shed 58,000 lives over the course of fourteen years of military combat in Vietnam — deaths which caused massive upheaval and continue to echo in our national political consciousness — every year upwards of 38,000 men, women and children die driving in the United States. Every year. More than 100 a day.

It doesn't take much deep thought to posit that the vast majority of these fatalities — and the pain, suffering and irreplaceable loss they bring to an untold sea of affected family members — are needless, pointless, and the result of reckless, inane, inexcusable driving. And yes, most by teens who play A. J. Foyt pretenders even while undoubtedly oblivious even of the name, if not some notion of the thrill and distorted perception of coolness to be bestowed by revving engines, sheer velocity and demonstrating a pathetically macho sense of being faster than the car in the next lane.

Thirty-eight thousand.

Sobering? One might hope, but I fear it is a myopic wish on my part.

In my youth Arizona's highways seemed dotted with roadside memorials (in the days before the Highway authorities began frowning upon and banning such important talismans). During a visit to my home state a few years back I spotted four such altars along a road which was long, straight, and free from obstruction. That brought back those childhood memories of the crosses and flowers laid in places for reasons I did not yet have the capacity to truly understand; since then I keep an eye out for them when traveling.

I've been slowly assembling a series, Roadkill, (for that is what it is), and plan to publish the imagery in a book eventually. Meanwhile, I'll hold out some optimism that these public, raw markers might serve to moderate the carelessness of at least a few.

I recently spotted the scene below while returning to civilization from my annual October men's retreat. The roses adhered to the massive eucalyptus trunk wrapped in fading, ever more opaque plastic only magnified the grimness of the spot.

The homemade marker:

RUIZ 22
YEARS