INDIANAPOLIS -- Art Wells wasn't a photographer, at least not professionally. But at family cookouts and on special occasions and just about any other time he wasn't working, Wells always had two or three cameras around his neck with three rolls of film for each, snapping away, chronicling whatever magic came into his lens' view.
Wells was a car guy by trade who, through the years, owned Wright’s Automotive and worked at General Motors. Photography was his hobby, albeit a serious enough hobby that Wells once built a dark room in the storm cellar of his Indianapolis home so he could develop his own 35 mm film.
Cars. Photos. Garages. Dark rooms. Photos. Cars. Those were pretty much Wells' two passions. Until 1993 when he landed a gig at Indianapolis Motor Speedway and those two passions collided to create something even better.
Wells became the man behind tens of thousands of exhilarating, captivating photos of wicked speed, horrific crashes, desperate tragedy and glorious victory that chronicled the Indy 500 for three decades.
How he got there was one of those stories of beautiful luck.
Back in the early 1990s, one of Wells' co-workers at GM was leaving his gig as the IndyStar film runner at IMS. That co-worker knew Wells loved photography and introduced him to the newspaper's photo editor, who offered him the job.
Wells could hardly believe it. He had the chance to do something that would merge his two loves, running film as cars raced around the track and sometimes snapping his own photos.
As 30 years of Indy 500s played out, Wells would zip around the track on his scooter collecting film from photographers and then rush it back to IndyStar's photo office beneath the stands next to victory circle. Then he would race back out to give photographers new rolls of film or, in more recent years, memory cards.
Before the digital era, after the race was over, photographers would come into the office with envelopes full of film. Wells would stuff those envelopes inside his vest, jump on his scooter, cut through the golf course and maybe break a law or two to get to the IndyStar's newsroom downtown as fast as he could.
The trek from West 16th Street to North Pennsylvania Street was 4.8 miles, 13 minutes by car on an average day when there weren't race day traffic snarls. Wells always beat that time.
"It was unbelievable how fast he could get to the newsroom through the terrible traffic," said Greg Griffo, who for more than 40 years was an IndyStar photographer and then a photo editor. "Art took his job very, very seriously."
After one race, then IndyStar photographer Frank Espich, rode on the back of Wells' scooter to take film to the newsroom. There were some terrifying moments.
"After that ride, Frank said he would never ride on a motorcycle again," said Griffo. "It scared him to death. It was insane how fast Art was."
This month's Indy 500 will be the first in more than 30 years that the man known at the track as "Scooter Art" won't be running film or memory cards at IMS.
Wells died in January at the age of 86.
There will be a void beneath the stands at IMS where Wells would sit on his scooter waiting for his next call, to collect film from a crash in Turn 2 or run a memory card to a photographer.
As he waited for that call on his scooter, people would flock around Wells. "They were like his groupies," said Griffo. Wells was a charmer, a talker and a kind-hearted guy. It didn't matter if he had met a person 10 seconds before, they were now part of his circle.
"Art knew everybody and everybody knew Art," said Griffo. "He would give you the time of day, his arm, his leg or go get you a cup of coffee." Or what he loved to do best, give a photographer another roll of film.
'He had crossed finish line'
The night before Wells died in January, he wanted chicken tortilla soup from McAlister's Deli and a hot fudge sundae from Culver's. He hadn't had an appetite for months. He was tired, his body was thin and he was wasting away.
Wells' grandson, Todd Westerfield and his wife Amanda, were with him that night and they were thrilled he was asking to eat. They ran out, grabbed the soup and hot fudge sundae, brought it back to Wells and he ate every bite.
Todd and Amanda left at 9:30 p.m. with hugs and promises to be back the next day and with newfound hope that maybe their grandfather was doing better.
Less than five hours later, at 2 a.m., they received the call that Wells had died.
Todd and Amanda rushed back to their grandfather's side and they cried. But not all the tears were sad ones. There were happy ones, too, as they looked back on all those wonderful memories.
Wells was always so thrilled when they came out to the track. He loved showing off this incredible job he had. As the groupies flocked around Wells, he beamed, introducing Todd and Amanda and their two daughters, his great granddaughters, Shelby and Kennedy, to every single person who passed by.
"I bet he introduced us to thousands of people," said Todd. "It seemed like everyone knew him. And everyone definitely loved him."
On the night Wells died, Todd and Amanda thought back to how proud Wells was when a photo he shot in 1992 of driver Lyn St. James was published in the IndyStar. Not long after, he waited in line at a St. James autograph session with that newspaper and had her sign his photo.
For the next 31 years, Wells would talk to anyone who would listen to him about that St. James photo he had shot that made the IndyStar sports pages.
Wells loved the newspaper and was so honored to play a part in its racing coverage, said Amanda. But in his later years the price for a subscription was too steep, so Amanda bought him one.
"He was obsessed with getting that IndyStar every single day," she said. Wells would joke that he just wanted the paper to do the crosswords and read the obituaries.
"If I ever see my name," he would tell his grandson, Todd, "I'm going back to bed."
When Wells died, his family, friends and the racing community mourned the loss of Scooter Art, a man who was an unsung hero at the Indy 500.
At Wells' funeral, Griffo came with a checkered flag in hand. That flag, buried with Wells, was a tribute to his years of service at IMS. And to his final lap.
"He had crossed the finish line," said Griffo.
'He was all sugar'
Wells died from old age, said his daughter Dianna Woodman. "He got tired and went to sleep and woke up next to my mom. I just envision him waking up next to my mom in heaven and celebrating."
Linda Wells died in 2010 after battling diabetes. Five years before her death, Wells quit his job at GM to take care of his wife of 52 years. For the next five years, Wells would go with Linda to her dialysis treatments every other day and he captivated the nurses with all his stories.
"He was quite a character," said Woodman. "The nurses would flock around him and listen." Just like the people flocked around Wells on his scooter at IMS.
Wells was a mainstay, if not an icon, at the track. He was Scooter Art, the fearless and feisty film runner for IndyStar. "He would zip around on that scooter like a crazy man," Amanda said.
Wells was also a wonderful guy. "He was all sugar," said IndyStar photographer Michelle Pemberton. "Just the nicest man."
A man who loved photography, whether it was running film or being behind the camera. When Todd and Amanda were married 23 years ago, they didn't hire a professional photographer. "We just had grandpa take photos," said Todd. And they were perfect.
Photography was Wells' passion, but it was never his profession. And yet he found a way to become the man behind some of the most iconic photos the Indy 500 has ever seen.
"If his motorcycle broke down on the day before the race, he would tear it apart and fix it," said Griffo. "He would say, 'I can't let you down.
"Art never wanted to miss a race. It was a really big deal to him. It was really important," Griffo said. "Art never wanted to let you down. And he did it just because he loved it."
Follow IndyStar sports reporter Dana Benbow on Twitter:@DanaBenbow. Reach her via email:dbenbow@indystar.com.
