Cheever

OK, so it happened again. Another wreck, another six-figure bill, another exhausting week of work for an already exhausted crew.

That's the bad news. The good news? Anthony Lazzaro has been released from the hospital and -- while not yet cleared to race -- appears to be healthy and will eventually resume racing.

Every time I climb out of the car after one of these pileups, I smile to myself. Sometimes I even laugh, giddy at the simple reality I just made it through intact and in one piece. The very first thing that concerns me -- and everyone in the Indy Racing League, for that matter -- is the health of the drivers involved in the wreck. Parts can be replaced. Human beings cannot.

Once I know everyone is OK, I check the damage, assess the incident, evaluate it, sometimes assess blame -- sometimes on myself -- talk to the other drivers involved, and begin the process of rebuilding or replacing the damaged car. Scott Sharp and I spoke after the wreck -- politely, I might add -- going over what we saw when Lazzaro's car began to spin in front of me.

Every time we go into a corner two abreast at Phoenix International Raceway, I expect an accident. I'm not even looking to pass somebody; I'm just trying to avoid the accident. The wreck happened at about 160 mph, which, in a race car, feels like a stroll on the sidewalk. You feel like you just went to the store for a bottle of milk and you're walking home. You don't realize how fast you're going until you hit something -- or get hit by something -- solid, straight on.

Scott didn't cause the accident. It was caused by what happened at the bottom of the track and our different reactions to it. Once a car spins in front of you, there is no time to react. I slowed, Scott didn't. Had we both done the same thing -- had I not lifted and Scott followed or had we both slowed together -- we both might have gotten through. But that's all hindsight. We had opposite reactions that resulted in a wreck. Nobody's fault.

Accidents happen so fast. It's probably less than half a second from when it begins to the point at which you hit something. In a race car, that half a second feels like a lifetime. You have options as to what you can do, but you run out of them very, very quickly. Time passes astonishingly fast in a wreck, yet in your mind it seems to stand still.

Wrecks in motorsports are somewhat similar to fights in hockey. In spite of what outsiders might think, race fans don't want to see accidents, just like NHL fans don't go to hockey games to see fights. However, wrecks -- like hockey fights -- are going to happen. They can't be stopped or prevented or legislated out of the sport. Nobody likes them, but they are inevitable.

I've always said that racing wrecks are like snowflakes -- no two are alike. Each wreck has its own characteristics. Angle. Force of impact. Cause. Origin of the hit or spin or loss of control. Number of cars involved. The way the energy dissipates. You could write a physics textbook based on motorsports wrecks alone.

The wreck every race car driver fears the most is the one caused by mechanical failure. A suspension part breaks, a tire blows, a wheel flies off. From that point, you have no control. You can be flying down the straightaway and all of a sudden the car turns sharply to the left. There is absolutely nothing you can do. You are just a passenger.

Next on the list of ugly accidents is the high-speed loss of control, spinning out at full bore at a large track like Indianapolis or California or Texas. The worst wreck I ever had came at Indy when I spun going into Turn 1 at 240 mph in 1996. It's the only accident I've ever had where I shut my eyes before I hit the wall. It was that terrifying. Your brain is so awake, so alert, and you don't know if you're going to come out the other side intact. You have about as much time to think as it took to read this sentence. Perhaps less. The power of the hit is so severe, it feels like an elephant stomping on your chest. That's how much the Gs affect you. It can take your breath away for several minutes. The violence is incredible. I can't describe it in words.

Every time I go through one like that, I catch my breath, stop, shake my head and laugh. My only thought is this: I made it.

I've always been told two driving techniques about wrecks, and they're contradictory. First, you're supposed to take your hands off the wheel to keep from breaking fingers and wrists when the wheel jerks on impact. Second, you're supposed to turn left. I don't know about you, but I've never been able to turn left without having my hands on the wheel, so the first rule -- at least for me -- is out the window. I have never, ever taken my hands off the wheel before a crash. Up until the last nanosecond before impact, I'm trying to control the car, lessen the severity of the angle, trying anything to make the wreck less serious and less dangerous.

Turning left when the car begins to skid is an old wives' tale at Indy. Pull the car down into the infield when you feel it beginning to spin, they say. I understand the principle, but I just can't put it to use. Once the car starts to spin, you have little control over the angle at which you hit the wall, but you don't stop trying.

In a race last year at Texas, I was caught up in a wreck at over 210 mph and full throttle. Robby McGehee was clipped by Greg Ray and shot toward the wall at a 90-degree angle. I hit him so hard that I dislocated the tendons in my shoulders. On the radio they were asking, "Are you all right?" I couldn't answer them. I couldn't breathe.

	“	Every time I go through (a wreck) like that, I catch my breath, stop, shake my head and laugh. My only thought is this: I made it. ”
		— Cheever

The positive thing about that wreck -- if there can be a positive thing -- is that my car adjusted the angle of his hit and dissipated enough kinetic energy from Robby's car that it saved him from what could have been a horrific wreck. He suffered serious injuries, but he was talking about racing again a week later. Nobody wants to see crashes, but, if you look at them the right way, most crashes contain some small positives.

And, if you look at wrecks another way, you can find the humor. In my first CART race in 1986, I was bounced out of the annual street race in Miami by Arie Luyendyk. Being young and foolish and fresh from F1, I had no idea who Luyendyk was. I walked into the pits with smoke coming from my ears. I stomped over to Luyendyk's pit and the only person I could find on the timing stand was this beautiful woman taking Arie's times.

For some unexplainable reason I felt compelled to tell her in no uncertain terms what I thought about "her driver" hitting me from behind and how he couldn't drive a bread truck through city streets on a rainy day. I was fuming. And I was on a roll. She didn't say one word. I finished screaming and stomped off, wondering about the identity of the beautiful woman I had just insulted.

A few years later, Arie said to me, "Did you have any idea you were yelling at my wife after that wreck in Miami?" I still apologize to Mieke to this day. They think it's funny, but I will never get over the embarrassment.

Seriously, Mieke, I take it all back. He really can drive a bread truck. I swear.

IRL driver Eddie Cheever Jr. owns and drives the No. 51 Red Bull Cheever Racing Infiniti car. He will be providing a diary to ESPN.com throughout the season.