Editor's note:What follows is an editorial by an Indiana Guard member who had a close professional relationship with Dan Wheldon as he covered the Indy car driver during the years in which he drove for the National Guard in the Indy 500. Our thoughts go out to the Wheldon family in their time of need.
When I first heard that the National Guard was going to sponsor an Indy Racing League car, I had my doubts. I'm a noncommissioned officer. I'm noncommissioned officer from Indianapolis, Indiana. I'm a noncommissioned officer from Indianapolis, Indiana who has been following the Indianapolis 500 for nearly fifty years.
It's not that I thought Indy Car wasn't good enough - I was just having a hard time making a connection between motor sports and soldiering.
It all seemed fairly good enough, and then along comes this little wisp of a Brit. About half man and the other half smile. I could have packed him in my duffle bag and still had room for body amour and Kevlar. And I watched as he charmed his way into the hearts of the Indiana National Guard. I watched him saddle up to some of the most rough-and-tumble Citizen-Soldiers the nation has to offer.
He made himself at home, and for a Hoosier, that is the most endearing, humbling quality any man can boast.
I'm fortunate because I'm a photographer for the Indiana National Guard. I had a front row seat, pole position. Dan Wheldon was a master at stroking the brass because he could talk their favorite subject - Soldiers. It was difficult to get a shot, because he was so often surrounded by eagles and stars.
When he could get away, he headed straight for the troops. He told them his stories and he listened to theirs. I watched for it, and I saw it over and over again.
Maybe the only ones that commanded more respect were cadets of the National Guard Youth ChalleNGe Program. Dan would wade into dozens of the cadets and let them know how proud he was to have their logo on his car.
The first win I remember is A.J. in 1967. And as the years passed I thought the golden age was long gone, even until this afternoon. Yeah.
In 2010, Dan and I were talking in Panther Racing's hospitality tent during practice laps. We shared the sickening, heart-breaking screech and shatter of a car hitting the wall in turn one. Dan uttered just one word before he scrambled from the tent and raced to the track: "Tony!"
That's how it is with them. They are tracking everything and Dan knew exactly who was on the track and who was in turn one without even watching.
Sure enough, Tony Kanaan's car was in a heap between turn one and two. Dan stopped and raised his arms above his head then swung them in desperate waves repeating a prayer, "Not Tony, Not Tony."
My heart broke. It broke the same way it broke in Bosnia and Iraq and Afghanistan when I knew someone who knew someone who wasn't going to make it home. "I'm sorry man, but I got nothing for you. I know it hurts."
Kanaan crawled out of the tangled mess with the help of safety crews moments later and Dan went back to all smiles. I was still frazzled. We returned to the tent and we talked a while longer, but I think he knew I was spent for the day. I assume he went to practice.
But I remembered thinking this young man had taken the time, yet again, to teach someone about racing - to me who had been at the Brickyard long before he was born. It's a risk, but it's good risk, and it's worth it.
He connected my two worlds, soldiering and racing.
I can't even begin to imagine the heartbreak in Bryan Herta and Panther Racing camps. Although I've been so very close to very similar situations, I can't begin to know what it's like for his family.
But for the first time in all my years and wars I've lost a battle buddy. Heavy tears and heavy heart Brit. I'll regroup, but it takes time.