Phill Casaus: With grease on his cheek and foot to the pedal, Bobby Unser was N.M.

May 8—When I was a kid, there were really only three ways to drive in New Mexico: Fast, faster and Bobby Unser.

If you weren't here during his prime as a world-class race car driver, or your only tie to high speeds is Cerrillos Road late at night, know this: Unser was a hero to a lot of people in New Mexico because he had a hell-for-leather way of driving and living that, for a time at least, seemed to symbolize the place he called home.

Get passed by a hot-rodding buddy on the freeway? Boy, you got Bobby Unsered. Speak with a high-pitched twang, backed by only a hint of proper grammar? You had a Bobby Unserly way about you.

Bobby Unser: Bigger 'n life and faster than you.

The Land of the Enchantment wasn't exactly the Wild West in the '60s, '70s and '80s (we had indoor plumbing; at least most of us), but Unser — genuine, unsanded, unvarnished — was New Mexico True before anyone had ever dreamed up the term. Like the state he grew up in, he was anything but contrived. And if you didn't like that, well, don't let the door hitcha ...

Unser died of natural causes last week at the age of 87. With him go his three Indianapolis 500 titles; the trophies that made him a household word from Santa Fe to Sarajevo to São Paulo. And while no one lasts forever, you sorta thought he might outlive us all — a survivor in flame-retardant coveralls, forever charging come hell or high water.

His younger brother Al would win more Indy titles, but it was Bobby's brass — and sometimes, crass — that took home the attention. Bobby's first Indy victory, in 1968, still may rank as the greatest one-day sporting achievement in New Mexico history, if only because it set in motion a three-decade streak of relevance that put the Unser family, and the state they were from, on the sporting map.

In an era when race car driving offered the longevity and job security of hand-grenade juggling, the Unsers somehow survived and kept winning. Al Unser — cool, reserved, calculating — took home four Indy checkered flags. Al's son and Bobby's nephew, Al Jr., got three himself. Together, they were the greatest marketing tool the Duke City has ever had. A steamfitter from Jersey City or legal assistant in Omaha might not be able to get within four letters of spelling Albuquerque correctly, but he or she knew that's where the Unsers were from.

The Department of Tourism ought to name its building after them.

It's hard to believe now, but there was a time when the Indy 500, the "Greatest Spectacle in Racing," wasn't televised live. For reasons that defy understanding, it was tape-delayed, meaning the only way to follow the race as it was happening was to listen to the radio.

I used to do that with my family. We'd spend a Sunday morning in May gathered around the stereo the size of a Subaru like the latter-day Waltons, waiting for the Voice of the 500, Sid Collins, to run down the starting grid. We'd nod with anticipation as he introduced Mario Andretti of Nazareth, Pa.; Roger McCluskey of Tucson, Ariz.; Tom Sneva of Spokane, Wash. It felt like a championship fight and a geography lesson all at once.

When Collins would get to the Unsers, Bobby and Al Sr. of Albuquerque, everyone in the room would go nuts. Those guys were our guys.

The day Unser won his final 500, in 1981, I was graduating from high school. Like everyone else in my class, I had several parties to attend and, perhaps for the first time in four years, maintained perfect attendance.

Of the many I bounced between that day, I only remember the final shindig. Late that evening, eyes glued to the tape-delayed telecast of the 500, maybe two-dozen teenagers are screaming at a TV set (also the size of a Subaru, but with a tiny screen). The announcers were jabbering something about race officials contemplating taking away Bobby Unser's victory because he'd illegally passed cars while leaving the pit area. May 24, 1981: On a milestone day, I spent precious time yelling at a TV set. Months later, Unser was declared the winner.

I don't exercise my vocal cords when the Indy 500 comes on television these days. Truth is, I barely pay attention to IndyCar racing. Part of that might be that auto racers are packaged like detergent — more brand than athlete. That's not unique to racing, of course, but it's distracting. It doesn't help that the cars have more computerization in the steering wheel than all the Apollo space missions put together.

But I think the other part, the real part, is that there are few people like Bobby Unser anymore. He was far from a perfect human being, but that's what made him so interesting. And I'll bet, so good at his job. He never acted like he was anything but a racer from New Mexico — a real-life John Wayne with grease on his cheek, not greasepaint.

Phill Casaus is editor of The New Mexican.