Why no one could fill the void left by Swede Savage

By Ron Kantowski

Thursday, Aug. 14, 2008 | 2 a.m.

If you get off the 215 freeway and head west on Highland Avenue in San Bernardino, Calif., you will eventually pass a classic carwash with giant pastel stanchions that twirl around in the wind. (Or maybe with the aid of electricity.) It looks just like the Car Wash they used in the 1976 movie, although, sad to say, George Carlin no longer is looking for the “tall black blonde” who skipped out on her taxi fare.

A couple of blocks beyond the carwash, on the left, is Mountain View Cemetery.

Randy Rhoads, Ozzy Osbourne’s guitar player, is buried there.

So is Swede Savage, the race car driver.

I wasn’t much of a Randy Rhoads fan, although I kinda dig those riffs he played on “Crazy Train.”

Swede Savage, on the other hand, was one of my heroes. Come to think of it, he was probably the last one.

I’m not really sure why I liked him, although I think his name had a lot to do with it. Swede Savage. With a name like that, he had to race cars for a living. It was preordained. Maybe he could have been a movie star. But he could never have been an accountant, or a dentist.

Swede Savage certainly had the look of a movie star. Tall. Blond. Handsome. I think that’s the other reason I liked him.

In the late 1960s, when I became infatuated with the Indianapolis 500 and the men who were drawn to it, a lot of the drivers still sported crew cuts. Or they were rednecks, like A.J. Foyt. They came from either Texas or small towns in the Midwest. They walked around with grease under their fingernails and a pack of Marlboros rolled up in their T-shirt sleeves.

Swede Savage was different. He had long hair and looked like Malibu Ken. He wasn’t from Clermont or Coal City or Lebanon or Tinley Park. He was from San Bernardino, Calif., (although they often listed his hometown as Santa Ana) like in the Route 66 song.

(I guess I should point out that at the time, I had been west of the Mississippi only in the family station wagon when we made it as far as New Mexico. And now that I’ve been to San Bernardino, it sort of reminds me of Fort Wayne, only with browner hills.)

My adulation of Swede Savage bordered on obsession. There was this older guy in our neighborhood, Joe Hovanec, who looked like Swede, and we sorta became friends. One day, I almost asked when he was leaving for the race in Milwaukee, before reality set in.

In 1972, when I was 15, Swede posted the ninth-fastest qualifying time at Indy. Third row, outside. Not a bad starting spot for a rookie. I was crushed when his car lasted only six laps. I don’t even remember the Gasoline Alley reporter interviewing him.

But the next year, 1973, was going to be his. He was driving for Pat Patrick’s STP team, one of the best in the business. His teammate, Gordy Johncock, may have been better-known, but Swede was the one on top of the speed charts most of the month. He briefly sat on the pole but would start the race fourth. A lot of guys who have won the 500 have started fourth.

We were out grilling in the back yard when Salt Walther had his big crash at the start and the rains hit and they postponed the race. But the next day was Tuesday, and a lot of the big shots at the Standard Oil refinery had to be back at work. And so my grandma, who worked there, wound up with free tickets. In the penthouse seats heading into Turn 1, no less.

Ohmigod! I was going to Indy. By the time they got to where we were sitting, Swede might even be in the lead. He would have to pass Johnny Rutherford in the bright orange Gulf car and Mark Donohue in the dark blue and yellow No. 66 -- and tough as nails Bobby Unser in the porcelain white Olsonite Eagle. But maybe Swede could pass Unser, too, because people in the racing business said Swede was a charger.

Well, they didn’t start the race until Wednesday, because it also rained Tuesday. Swede didn’t lead the first lap, but he led for 11 laps, before making a pit stop. Then, on Lap 58, there was an explosion up the track, coming out of Turn 4.

Thirty-three days later, Swede Savage died.

That was 35 years ago. On Sunday, we finally met. Under a big shade tree on Lawn S in Mountain View Cemetery.

SWEDE SAVAGE, it says on the simple granite marker. The United States Auto Club logo is etched in stone under his name, with No. 42, his car number during most of his career.

David Earl Savage, Jr. Our Champion. Our Daddy. My Sweder. Aug. 26, 1946-July 2, 1973.

Swede’s wife was expecting the couple’s second child when he died. Their daughter, Shelly, was 6.

Shelly is buried next to her father. She died of leukemia in 1995.

I took off my cap, which seemed like the thing to do, and although I’m not exactly what you’d call a religious person, I said a little prayer, because that also seemed like the thing to do.

And when we drove back by the carwash, I couldn’t decide whether the reason I don’t have heroes anymore is because I got old or because sometimes it hurts.