Wednesday, May 9, 2001 | 3:53 a.m.
Sam Schmidt used to sit behind the wheel of an Indy car, turning laps at more than 200 mph. These days, he scoots around the paddock in a wheelchair, barely keeping up with those who can still walk.
His arms and legs are rigid. Except for a turn of the head or a shrug of the shoulders, his body appears lifeless.
"I'd be lying if I didn't say there's a little bit of 'Why me?' going on with everybody in this situation," said Schmidt, a quadriplegic since his car slammed into a wall during testing 16 months ago.
But let's get one thing clear: Schmidt doesn't want sympathy. He understood the risks when he climbed into the race car and believes this plight was merely a way of steering him to his real purpose in life, providing hope to paralysis victims.
"I've sensed in the last three months why I'm here," the 36-year-old Schmidt said. "We're spreading the message that you need to stay in shape and keep working hard, because something is going to come. Frankly, I've come to the realization that I'm helping a lot more people now than I ever could as a driver."
Not that Schmidt has turned his back on the sport. He started his own Indy Racing League team this year, with Davey Hamilton as driver of the No. 99 car.
"I think it's healthy for him," Hamilton said. "He wants to be a Roger Penske, so to speak, or Chip Ganassi."
Schmidt parks his wheelchair in front of the computer screen behind pit wall, staring intently at Hamilton's speeds as he circles the track. The crew rigged up a radio headset for Schmidt that can be activated with a shrug of the shoulders.
The new team has struggled, ranking 15th in the point standings after three races, but Schmidt is concerned with more than just getting to Victory Lane. This is a platform for touting his other passion: the Sam Schmidt Paralysis Foundation.
"Let's face it, I'm selfish," he said. "If I'm going to be able to walk again, it's going to come through that foundation and through the funds we raise. That's a big motivating factor for me, too.
"If we can get the team to break even and spin off a couple of million dollars for the foundation," he added, "then I've accomplished my goal."
While his goal is noble, Schmidt hasn't been able to line up a primary sponsor. The sidepod of his car is adorned with a logo for his Web site, but he needs real dollars for the team to survive an entire 13-race schedule.
"Unfortunately, right now, he's doing it all on his own, and that can't happen for too much longer," Hamilton said.
After announcing the formation of his team, Schmidt was contacted by Ray Parsons, who was paralyzed from the chest down in a car accident.
They struck up a friendship, and Parsons now spends his days working the phones, trying to convince companies that this race team is a worthy cause.
"What we're trying to is find some partners, some people with a little social conscience," Schmidt said.
At every stop along the racing circuit, he makes a point to chat with people struck down by the same sort of injuries. Before the last IRL race in Atlanta, he got up early one morning to tour the Shepherd Center, a nationally recognized hospital for paralysis victims.
Like so many low-budget teams in the IRL, Schmidt knows it will likely take a good showing in the Indianapolis 500 to keep his dream alive.
"If I can't win Indy as a driver, maybe I can as an owner," he said. "It would mean everything to do well at Indy, that's for sure."
In 1999, Schmidt won his first IRL race, cheered on by his hometown fans in Las Vegas. He already was one of the more recognized drivers on the circuit with his long, Elvis-like sideburns.
But a few months after the most triumphant moment of his career, Schmidt's car slammed backward into a wall at 160 mph during a testing session at Walt Disney World Speedway.
He wasn't breathing when paramedics arrived, but they were able to save his life. Unfortunately, they couldn't do anything about two damaged vertebrae, which left him paralyzed from the shoulders down.
After rehabbing at a hospital in St. Louis, Schmidt returned home to Vegas eight months ago. He still goes through four to six hours of physical therapy each day, which has improved his stamina and allows him to keep up with a hectic schedule for his Indianapolis-based racing team.
"This is motivation," he said. "It does take a lot of effort to get up in the morning, go through the program I go through and travel."
In St. Louis, Schmidt met recreational therapist Kate Buehler, who now works as his assistant. At the track, she is never far from his side: putting on his sunglasses, adjusting his headset, helping him sip water from a straw.
"I'm kind of a jack of all trades," Buehler said. "I'm his secretary, chauffeur, chef, whatever he needs."
She believes that racing has been a valuable part of Schmidt's rehab, even though it may occasionally spark a tinge of nostalgia for his former life.
"It keeps his mind busy," Buehler said. "He was one of those people who was always on the go. He likes to be involved. This was a great way to get back doing things."
Schmidt and his wife, Sheila, have two children: 3 1/2 -year-old Savannah and 1 1/2 -year-old Spencer.
"They are so cool," Buehler said. "They don't know any difference. He's still daddy to them. They run and jump on the bed with him every morning."
Schmidt's family is his primary motivation for leaving the wheelchair behind someday. He wants to hold his kids, hug them, get down on the floor and play with them.
Deep down inside, there's still a racer inside his motionless body.
"Heck, if I can make a miraculous recovery and drive the car again, it would probably be hard to turn it down," Schmidt said. "Just don't tell my wife."
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