David has invited
me to join him for the race. He went last year with Bob, a follow-on to their
annual May Friday afternoon playing hookey from their professorial duties to
wander the team garages on Gasoline Alley and watch the drivers practice.
I have a new outfit
to wear—selected for the predicted 96 degree temperature, the hottest in Indy
500 history. It’s a cropped pants and jacket set, a linen blend in tomato red,
and a contrasting cotton shell. I dust myself with bath powder as I step out of
the shower, hoping it will do some good. Do I have everything I need? Earplugs,
check. Sun screen, check. Bandana in a baggie, check. Canister of water, check.
ID, check. Healthy veggie snacks, check. Lunch money for some diet-forbidden
treat from an Indianapolis Speedway vendor, check.
It’s decision time
on footwear: Do I wear the delicate flats that complement my outfit or the
white aerobic shoes with white cotton socks that guaratee happy feet? Comfort
wins out. I check out the look in the mirror—I look like a damn tomato with
white feet! Top off the ensemble with my trusty Tilly hat, and I look like a
complete geek. However, I will be only one spectator among 300,000 at the
Speedway, enough souls to populate a small city, so who cares what I look like.
David has
thoughtfully arranged for us to be transported in air-conditioned comfort from
a parking lot at his university to the Speedway. The shuttle bus drops us off
right by the track and we blend into the mass of cooler-bearing humanity
strolling in the direction of the stands. Our seats, when we locate them, prove
to be our worst nightmare—the second row (curiously named Row E), metal folding
chairs, right by the track, in full sun.
We have an hour and
a half before the start of the race, and no way are we going to wait all that
time in the sun. We climb up all the way to Row Z, which is under cover and
empty, and settle in to take in the scene.
There have been
activities on the track since at least 8:30 this morning: the march of high
school bands, the parade of Indy 500 queens, etc. We’re just in time for the
parade of former Indy 500 winners, sitting high in the back seats of open pace
cars and waving to their fans—the likes of Rick Mears, Johnny Rutherford, and AJ
Foyt. Too bad we can’t really see them from Row Z, but there’s a nice breeze up
here and it’s blessedly shady.
Still, it’s hot. I
take off my jacket. Dave attempts to tuck in the tag of my cotton shell, and
points out that I’m wearing it inside out! I consider pulling it off on the
spot and setting it to rights—we are in the very last row, after all, and only
a few race fans would notice—but I choose not to shame the family and just live
with the embarrassment of the fully exposed clothing tag.
Now it’s time for
the parade of classic Indy 500 cars from bygone eras. The ancient number 12 car
driven by Mario Andretti needs some encouragement from helpers running behind
and pushing, but finally coughs into action. Oops, the jig’s up! The ticket
holders for the entire Row Z have shown up, and we’re kicked out.
So it’s into the
sun for us. Don the Tilly hat, slather on the sunscreen, hydrate, hydrate. The announcer
tells us the temperature on the track is 120 degrees Fahrenheit (it later rises
to 133). We’re sitting about 25 feet from the track, it’s almost high noon, and
the sun is beating down mercilessly. Luckily the surrounding crowd provides
distractions: a row of beer-drinking young men directly in front of us. To
their left, a family with two kids, ages 6 and 9, I would guess. To their
right, a group of older men, two grey heads, well-kept golfer types. Further
distraction arrives with the singing of America the Beautiful and tributes to
our armed forces and their sacrifices for our country, punctuated with a
breath-arresting low flyover of four vintage Air Force planes in tight
formation.
Oh boy, time for
Florence Henderson to sing God Bless America. I’m hoping she sounds better in
person than on the radio, because I swear she sings more off key every year.
She’s an icon and a Speedway tradition, and has a powerful voice, God love her,
but I dread what’s ahead as she intones the introductory verse, her lusty vibrato
hanging dangerously below the intended melody line. I decide there’s nothing
for it but to join in and sing my own, hopefully on-key version. As Ms.
Henderson launches into the final thrilling notes of God Bless America, I
notice everybody else is singing along too. Maybe they’re doing the same as me,
providing their own on-key rendition to override the voice coming over the
loudspeaker.
The buildup to the
start of the race continues with the invocation, praying for the safety of the
drivers (Preacher: Can I have an Amen? Crowd: Amen!), and a
creditable rendering of the national anthem by country/western artist Martina
McBride. Jim Neighbors is not feeling well so cannot be with us, and we are
asked to send him our prayers as we hear a recording of his famous Back Home in
Indiana, an indispensible part of the pre-race fanfare. And finally, it’s the
moment we’ve all been waiting for, Mary Hulman George intoning over the
loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen (three females in today’s lineup), start
your engines!”
I listen for the
exhilarating thrum of motors starting and revving up—but I don’t hear a thing! A
distant hum at best, and I’m not that far away from them. How disappointing!
Must be the new race car technology, no more ear-splitting roar. Here they come
on their several parade laps, thirty-three colorfully decorated cars fairly
purring along the track, showing off their sponsors and engine makers with
logos galore emblazoned on their small frames. We’re seeing a new automobile
structure this year, a “skin” that protects the tires so that when somebody
runs up on them, the cars don’t launch skyward. Indeed that’s what happened to
last year’s winner, Dan Wheldon, at a race in Las Vegas late last year. He
was killed, and much of this day is devoted to honoring his memory. We fans don
our Dan Wheldon memorial sunglasses, cardboard replicas handed out as we came
in, recalling Wheldon’s flare with eyewear, so that ABC television cameras
capture a sea of faces so adorned.
A few laps later,
the pace car withdraws into the pit lane, the green flag is waved, and the race
is on!
NOW I can hear the roar. The entire field passes by en masse and my
insides jiggle with the vibration. I hastily insert my soft rubber earplugs.
They help dampen the assault to my ears but do nothing to abate the shock waves
that threaten to shake my liver loose. I thrill to the action, however. I am
amazed by their speed, and anticipate the approach of the group each time they
pass by. Here I am, enjoying the Greatest Spectacle in Racing!
Presently the field
spreads out somewhat, individual cars whizzing by in a blur. From Row E all I
can see of them is the tip, the top six inches. To the extent that I can spot
the full cars as they round turn one, I make it a point to figure out which car
holds which driver and is powered by which team; it’s a question of matching
the paint colors and sponsor logos to the photos on a cheat sheet we got with
the race program. The two bright green cars are easy to spot and identify: the
dayglow green Go Daddy car up front is James Hinchcliffe from Toronto; the one
dead last is rookie Bryan Clausen from nearby Noblesville. The bright yellow car
is easy; it’s driven by rookie Josef Newgarden from Tennessee, and sponsored by
Dollar General. The two Target logo cars are Chip Ganaci Racing Team cars
driven by Scott Dixon and Dario Franchitti (a Scot, would you believe?). This
matching game entertains me for about 20 minutes. A giant video screen across
the track scrolls through the list of drivers, updating their positions on
every lap. The cars continue to whiz by.
So now what?
I’m hot! I dampen
my trusty bandana (I never travel without it) and dab at my steaming temples.
It’s 92 degrees out and the sun is still beating down on us. The video screen
ahead says the leaders have begun lap 50. I start doing the math, difficult as
that is with my brain half fried. Let’s see. Each lap is 2.5 miles. It’s the
Indy 500, so it’s 500 miles, so it’s how many laps altogether? OMG, 200 laps!
150 laps to go. I’m dying here!
Time to take a walk,
or take a bathroom break anyway. And while I’m at it, I can turn my cotton
shell right side out so I can go jacketless. Long line at the Ladies, but it
moves fast and there’s toilet paper. Nowhere else to go, so it’s back to Row E,
seat 12, to bake in the sun. What’s Dave doing meanwhile? He hasn’t budged and
seems perfectly content. He spent most of last night programming a device that
enables him to scan the chatter between drivers and their teams. His giant headphones
are tuned into the inner workings of this race. I yearn for a good book to read,
and console myself with my baggie of snap peas and tiny carrots. The cars just
keep on whizzing by...
By lap 100, I can’t
stand it. I just can’t sit there any longer. Besides, my stomach is yearning
for real food—specifically, an Italian sausage with sauteed peppers and
onions—and I know right where to get them. The Ladies has run out of toilet
paper, but my tote is provisioned with a packet of Kleenex, no problem. Apparently
everybody has decided it’s time to have lunch; every vendor is doing a brisk
business. The line at the Italian Sausage stand is ten persons deep. No matter,
I’ll wait; I’m starved.
Clutching my
foil-wrapped prize, plus a lemon shakeup to banish the heat, I head back to my
seat. The sandwich, doused with hot sauce, is yummy, but I can’t persuade the
stoic David to take a bite. The beer-drinking youths in the row in front of us
have disappeared; I imagine they’ve passed out somewhere. The little boy to the
left is fast asleep in his mother’s arms. The grey hairs to the right still
look impeccable and are focused on the race. Most everybody else looks bored.
But there’s good news for those of us in Row E. Slowly, gradually, the sun is
creeping westward and, minute by minute, we’re mercifully falling into the
shadow of the stands above us. We’re still hot, but not baking in sun.
The cars continue
to whiz by, although a lot of them seem to be taking pit stops now to change
tires and refuel. Every so often, one of them spins out of control or hits the
wall and is out of the race. Mostly I don’t see what happens, it occurs so
quickly, maybe just a puff of smoke to alert us that somebody’s in trouble. Meanwhile,
the big video screen relentlessly scrolls through the list of which driver is
in what place. I’m beyond caring. Around lap 120, during a yellow flag
interlude because of some wreck somewhere, I fall fast asleep where I sit. Enough
with the Greatest Spectacle in Racing.
I wake up around
lap 150 to a roar—it’s everybody who’s left in the race starting off again to a
green flag. Progress. I have to tough it out for only 50 more laps. To my
surprise, this does not prove too difficult. The race falls under the yellow
caution flag several times during this final quarter, leading to excitement
every time they restart to a green flag. Under the yellow, the cars are
supposed to line up in the order they were when the crash, piece of debris on
the track, etc., occurred. When the flagman signals green again, it’s like
another start to the race. People who’ve been way behind sometimes catch up
under the yellow. Crowd favorite Tony Kanaan from Brazil sneaks up from behind
to an approving roar from the stands. Another time it’s four cars abreast on
the straightaway coming off the restart, lending a burst of excitement until
they sort themselves out on the first turn. Then the two lead cars, the Target
logo ones, play leapfrog on every lap, each taking the lead in turn, first
Franchitti, then Dixon, then Franchitti again. Wise guys.
Only a few laps to
go! The crowd is on its feet anticipating a dramatic conclusion, and in this we
are not disappointed. On the final lap, signalled by the white flag, Takuma Sato
goes wheel to wheel on the inside with Dario Franchitti, only to lose control
and spin across the track to crash into the wall. The race ends under the
yellow flag, Franchitti, Dixon, and Kanaan taking first, second, and third,
respectively.
I feel bad for Sato
and his brave last-ditch effort to take the lead. Dave says it’s Sato’s Formula
One moxie showing—he’s a crossover from the Grand Prix international racing
circuit, which David watches with rapt attention on TV most weekends. I also
feel bad for whoever will be cleaning up the enormous pile of beer cans,
napkins, and chicken bones left under the seats of the careless young
beer-drinkers in front of us. Their mothers would be horrified; I’m sure they
weren’t raised that way.
We don’t stick
around for the ritual drink of milk by the first place finisher, or the top
three drivers standing on pedestals to be shown off to the admiring crowd, or
the presentation of the enormous Borg Warner trophy, all the treasured
traditions of this Indy 500 that’s been running since 1909 and has made
Indianapolis a household word around the globe. Thank heavens for the
air-conditioned shuttle bus. I almost feel back to normal by the time we reach
our parked car. The thermometer registers 97 degrees on our way home. Dave’s
talking about purchasing tickets for next year, maybe upgrading to a shadier
spot, and wonders if I’d care to join him.
I may be a lousy
sports fan, but I’m a good sport. Today, the answer’s doubtful, but perhaps in
time a cooler head will prevail.
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