Somewhere shortly after 6:00 AM on race day, depending on our place in line, we arrived in the Promised Land, the infield. Emerging from the tunnel, it was then another free-for-all, with vehicles going every which way to stake out yet another "spot". I never did know what became of the Winnebago people at that point, but that was their problem, and staying out of the way while on foot was a very good idea.
The infield rats would race to get a choice piece of turf, park the vehicles, and throw out a blanket close to the track. Some folks thought it was better to be in this turn or that turn, or maybe the back straightaway, but it really didn't matter. I'll come back to that.
Now it's 7:00 AM. Most people are either severely hung over or still carrying on, and nothing's going to happen for 3 hours. Naptime.
In those days the festivities started at about 10:00 AM. That was when the "parade" laps would begin. They involved a bunch of movie stars, athletes, and of course, those loveable politicians that never saw a publicity stunt they didn't like, riding around in convertibles smiling and waving at the masses. The rookies in the crowd would get excited and clap, while the vets glanced up, and then rolled over to catch a few more z's. It was gonna be a long day, and who cared about those twits anyway? We were there to see a race. Well, sort of.
The race started at 11 and was usually done by about 2. Back then, ABC's Wide World of Sports tape-delayed the telecast until 5 PM. (If you were a race fan at home waiting to see it on TV, it was probably also a good idea to stay away from radio newscasts, because those folks would announce the winner, which would definitely spoil the fun of watching a race that happened hours earlier,)
When some chaplain would give his blessing, we started paying attention. Jim Nabors of Gomer Pyle fame would sing, "Back Home In Indiana", which was kinda cool, somebody else would sing the national anthem, a few fighter jets would make a pass overhead, several thousand helium filled baloons would be released, and the immortal words would come over the PA system. Not counting Janet Guthrie, who's main job at that time was to get publicity but stay out of the way of the real racers on the track, they were, "Gentlemen, start your engines". Since then, seemingly everybody that runs a race of any kind, particularly NASCAR, has copied that. But it all started at Indy.
The "pace car" would lead the race cars on a few parade laps while they warmed up. Then the official "pace laps" started and things speeded up some as they went by. On the last pace lap, it got faster. Finally, the green flag would wave and off they'd go. It would take the cars almost a lap to get up to full speed, but if you were never there, and only saw it on TV, you can't begin to appreciate how fast those cars were when they went by the next time.
After the initial excitment of the first few laps, and depending on wrecks, blown engines, and anything else that would cause a yellow flag to come out to slow the field, drivers would come into the pits and get new tires, another load of fuel, minor adjustments, and go back out. After a while, this would get out of sequence, and it was hard to figure out who was leading the race. Besides, too much of anything eventually gets boring, so knowing the race would still be going on for a couple hours, we'd wander around and check things out.
And, oh my, did things happen in the infield. You have to remember that these people had been partying for 2 or 3 days, and either through alcohol, other substances, or lack of sleep, a lot of inhibitions were long gone.Vans came in handy for something else too. Others saw fit to do the same in the front of pick-up trucks, which was kind of comical. Let's just say some people weren't thinking about Al Unser at that particular moment in time. Or maybe they were. Hmmm. Hope it was the girl.
Needless to say, we had a good time in the infield and with maybe 20-30 laps to go, we'd get back to paying attention to the race.
I stilll wonder about those folks that paid big bucks to sit in the stands. Those were the same people that were staying in motels. Then they paid more big bucks to sit up on the hard seats at the race. We had shade, and could walk anywhere we wanted to. Could they see more of the race track than we could? That's a double-edged question. They could see more of it, but their view never changed. We could walk around and see just about any small part of it we wanted to. And when nature called, who had the advantage? We did. They had to hike down from their seats. We had other options. Blazing hot? They were stuck up there and had to cook in their pews. We had shade from vehicles, and any number of contraptions that were rigged up to keep the sun out. Worst-case scenario for us was getting back in the van and turning on the AC to cool down for a few minutes.
I suppose to each their own, but when I hear of someone saying how much they partied at the Indy 500 in those days, while staying in a motel before the race, and sitting in the yuppie seats during it, I just nod and smile.
I'd like to tell them Doris Day partied in her way and John Belushi partied in his, and there just might be a slight difference, but they wouldn't get it anyway.
They didn't have a clue then, or now.
And no, I never did wear a toga, but thinking back, it might not have been such a bad idea.
That was a long time ago, and I've mellowed out. These days, I have a garden, fish pond, a couple yorkies that I love, and the Heritage rarely goes faster than 80. That's only pace lap speed.
I must be getting old. Sigh.
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