"I don't care who you're from, you still have to pay," said the attendant.
"I'll pay," shouted someone from one of the rear station wagons. Haydon, eying the disappearing runner, started to move the car.
"Wait a minute. Nobody goes through until everybody pays." Meanwhile the runner disappeared from sight.
I switched to O'Shea's less-odorous car and we sped ahead to the Indiana state line. We drove down a ramp off the Skyway onto Indianapolis Boulevard. Gathered at a street corner were motorcycles, state police cars and more people than we had seen all the way from city hall. A half dozen runners from George Rogers Clark High School, the next torchbearers, huddled in the dawn around their coach.
"The torch will be here in 10 minutes," announced O'Shea.
"I brought some extra runners along," said the coach. "I wonder if it would be all right to let them run too?"
"Anything you want to do. It's your baby now," said O'Shea. He had followed the torch's progress through Illinois for 38 hours and at that point wouldn't have cared if they had dunked it in Lake Michigan—just as long as they kept it moving. With the announcement that they would all be allowed to run, the eyes of the high school runners lit up with excitement. I could visualize them 40 years from now telling their grandchildren about this night—except by now it was morning.
Suddenly the last Illinois runner appeared down the ramp off the Skyway and handed the torch to the first Indiana runner. Motorcycles, state police cars and station wagons whirled past us one by one. "Don't forget," shouted Paul after the Clark track coach. "You're supposed to hand the torch to Joie Ray in front of the Gary YMCA at 7!"
The last vehicle in the caravan was the bus. General Grant leaned his head out the window and said in a hoarse voice: "See you later, sometime."
Not, alas, in 1968.