Once again, yours truly won't be at the Indy 500 this year. It's been quite a while now, over two decades, since I last attended "the greatest spectacle in racing". But back in the day, this was an annual must go to event on my calendar.
Pre-purchase a handful of infield tickets.
Arrive on Thursday in a van with a couple buddies even crazier than I was.
Load up on beer, ice, munchies, and at least a six-pack of pop. I'll get back to that.
Find a parking lot to camp out in.
Party with the rest of the maniacs that had the same game plan.
Repeat on Friday.
Saturday morning was moving day.
Do whatever it took with your vehicle to make your way into the "back 40" when it opened up. This was basically a very big campground on Speedway property, but outside the track itself
.
The partying got even more intense. Tents were pitched, music blasting, dirt bikes running around, alcohol and other goodies everywhere to be shared. Strange as it may seem, there was even some conjugal interaction going on in tents, vans, Winnebagos, what have you.
By Saturday night, one could trade a single ice-cold Coke for a six-pack of beer, or perhaps something else. Lots of hot pipes by that time.
But then came Sunday, the holy day, and it came early. The Speedway people would open the tunnel to drive under the racetrack and into the infield at 6 AM. But you had to have tickets, of course. Some people in the back 40 didn't even have them. They were just there for the party. This was where those extra tickets could pay off, depending on how things had played out in the previous couple days.
Winnebagos, motorhomes and the like were shunted aside into a separate parking area because they were too tall to clear the tunnel. While they had lived the life of "luxury" for the last few days, they had to walk into the track and take their chances.
Once inside the infield, it was another mad vehicle dash in all directions to stake out a "claim". Find a spot to park (we always went to turn 4), then lay out your blankets and coolers as close to the track as you could get.
It was then approximately 7 AM. If not still under the influence, most were at least seriously hungover. And the race didn't start for another 4 hours. Also, for the hard cores that arrived on Thursday -- they now hadn't had a shower in 3 days. To the average person, things likely wouldn't have smelled so good on those blankets in turn 4 on race day, but hey, the average person didn't know what it was like to be an infield Indy maniac. Besides, we all stunk equally -- so who cared?
At any rate, it was time to crash for a few hours. Once the parade laps got started, even someone comatose would come back to life. This was Indy, dammit. We didn't come all this way just to brush our teeth with tequila, or even get lucky in the back 40 the day before with some Ohio State college girls in their own tent.
And the start of race itself was always magnificent. Those who have never been there cannot appreciate just how fast those cars really are. TV does not do it justice. When you see it up close and in person, the sheer speed of those racing machines is mind-boggling. It makes NASCAR, even at their "superspeedways", look like slow motion.
Thing is, unlike being at home watching on TV, when you're there, particularly in the infield, one can only see a small portion of the two and a half mile track.
After an hour or so, and a couple pit stops, or maybe wrecks/caution flags, which jumbles the field, it becomes hard to sort out the leaderboard as all those cars continue to go by.
This was the perfect time to abandon one's blanket and wander about the infield to check out what else was going on. And there was always stuff going on. Just when you think you've seen everything -- you would see something new, and maybe outrageous happening in the infield. Hey, they haven't had a shower or change or clothes in 3 days either. This can drive normally civilized people into doing crazy things they would never consider in their regular lives. Throw in a 72 o'clock shadow and gentlemen can become cavemen. Normally pristine women have three days worth of hair growth on their legs, armpits, and perhaps other places. They can become cougarish predators themselves on the prowl.
But towards the end of the race, most everybody gets back to their blankies, because they want to see the final exciting laps and who wins.
Yet after the checkered flag falls, they all quickly pack up, and try to get out of town as fast as they can. Like they say about Vegas -- whatever happened in the Indy infield -- stays in the Indy infield. It's like it was only a dream. And the thought of a long hot shower, change of clothes, and sleeping in one's own bed tends to speed up the massive getaway procession out of Indy for some reason.
After they tried to slow them down -- I hear the Indy cars are running over 230 MPH again. Amazing.
Though I'm older and not as crazy now, I think I need to go back just one more time to check this out. Perhaps next year. Forget the high-priced grandstands where you cook all day in the sun. Once an infield rat -- always an infield rat.
And who knows? Maybe those Ohio State girls remember the back 40 and are thinking the same thing at this very same time. Wouldn't that be something?
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