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1967 THERMO-KING Pacific Racing 1969 IN THE BLOOD 
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Photo courtesy of Mike Pollard
Art Pollard Eulogies Special Thanks to David Linden.
I am in the land of happy,
May 5, 1927 - May 12, 1973
Indianapolis Star - Sunday, May 13,
1973.
When a race driver is killed on the
track the first thing
everybody says is,"That's too bad, he was a hell
of a guy."
In the obituary the next day, his
past performances are
listed and any other worthy achievements are
mentioned.
Yesterday Art Pollard left us.
Not Art Pollard the race driver,
but Art Pollard the human
being.
This is a personal eulogy.
I'm 23 years old. Art was 46 just
last Saturday. But we had
as much in common as any two people I know. We
had a lot of good times
together and in the three years I knew him, he
showed me why he was
different from most. At 46, he was just hitting
fourth gear.
For one, he was a grandfather but
as youthful as any when it
came to standing on a gas pedal.
His other uncommon feature was that
Art Pollard actually
cared, gave a damn if you please, about a bunch
of people in this world.
Whether you raced against him,
dined with him,laughed with
him or barely knew him, Art Pollard came across
as more than an autograph,
handshake or wave.
In the pressurized world of
professional auto racing, most
drivers, understandably have too much on their
minds to stop and chat with
everyone who calls their names.
But Pollard made time for nearly
anybody.
Whether you were a Boy Scout, a
crippled child, a pushy
mother demanding an autograph or a drunk wanting
to talk to "that old
guy," Art Pollard tried to tried to become a part
of your world at least
for a couple of minutes.
He spent hours and his own money on
the retarded children at
La Rue Carter hospital here in Indianapolis. He
saw to it they spent one
day in May with him at the Speedway each year.
And if you don't think that means a
lot to people, you are
mistaken.
Art enjoyed talking as much as he
did driving and he was a
master of the after-dinner speech.
He was also a master at
organization.
Race drivers are as a group, almost
impossible to
organize-at or away from the track. But Pollard
possessed a knack for
getting on the phone and making things happen.
Last winter he was at his best.
He began a weekly Thursday night
poker game at his apartment
that saw Johnny Parsons, John Mahler, Cy
Fairchild, Billy Vukovich, Art's
friends and neighbors, lose money and enjoy
themselves.
Then on each Tuesday and Thursday
morning, Pollard would get
up and begin rousing Parsons, Mahler, Merle
Bettenhausen and me to go down
to the Athletic Club and work out.
It was a pleasure to watch Pollard
muscle his way around the
basketball court for two straight hours, knock a
volley ball back and
forth for another 90 minutes and finish it up
with a weight-lifting
exibition that usually sent the steady customers
away shaking their heads.
Just this past month, the
competition had turned to golf and
Art, though not the golfer Vuky or Mahler is,
played every hole like it
was Agusta.
But as competetive as he was, he
was always vibrant,
even-tempered and hardly ever moody.
After he helped me get started
racing last summer he told me
never to burn any bridges in dealing with
people. "You've got to keep the
right attitude all the time. When somebody spins
and causes you to wreck,
don't fly off the handle and try to get back at
them, 'cause sooner or
later you're going to make a mistake too," he
used to say.
Most of all, though, Art Pollard
never seemed to age.
Last summer we went to a concert to
hear the Carpenters and
he knew almost every song they sang. He always
dressed with style too.
But his mental frame of mind was
truly a wonder.
A year ago, he suffered a broken
leg in a crash after
qualifying for the race. That crash probably
would have made a lot of guys
35 quit.
But Pollard was a tough cuss. Two
hours after they put the
cast on, he was scheming on how to get it off in
time for the Pocono
500. He finally succeeded and ran strong at
Ontario.
This May had all the signs of being
his best since he drove
Andy Granatelli's turbine in 1968. He had a '73
Eagle, two good mechanics
and a new sponsor.
All during practice he'd been one
of the fastest. He kept
telling me," Man, when things start out smooth
and organized like this
operation, you know you're going to do well."
He was running 191-plus when he
crashed. The burns and
broken bones he could have survived but it was a
spinal cord injury that
took his life.
So now he's just another name in
the Speedway record book,
with an asterisk for being dead.
They say, "well that's too bad but
you got to keep on
living."
But I can't help feel a part of me
and a lot of other people
went away yesterday.
Art Pollard Tribute Site established April 2, 2002 
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