[Reprinted from "The Silent Pagoda" on IndyCar.com]
I moved to Indianapolis from New York City last July, when my wife started a job at the art museum here. It must be said that I wasn't terribly keen on Indianapolis. I grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, but my dad is from Indianapolis, and he invariably described it as "the Birmingham of the North." It was never my ambition to live in Birmingham, and I certainly did not wish to live in a colder version of it. So I made the move with some trepidation — sure, my living space quintupled and my expenses halved, but even so. Indianapolis. The Birmingham of the North.
Well, it turns out that I quite like Indianapolis. But in the year I've lived here, I've never felt entirely apart of the place. I bought a lawnmower. I watched some IU basketball games. I became employed by a highly reputable IndyCar.com blog. I even joined an IndyCar fantasy league this season in the hopes that I might connect to Indianapolis, but even so, it never felt quite like home.
Well, it turns out that I quite like Indianapolis. But in the year I've lived here, I've never felt entirely apart of the place. I bought a lawnmower. I watched some IU basketball games. I became employed by a highly reputable IndyCar.com blog. I even joined an IndyCar fantasy league this season in the hopes that I might connect to Indianapolis, but even so, it never felt quite like home.
Until, that is, I was standing in Turn 2, baseball cap in hand, oversize radio earphones around my neck, listening to Gomer Pyle sing "Back Home Again in Indiana." What was this odd feeling bursting forth from my breast? Was this ... pride? My God! A moonbeam o'er the water is casting a spell on me! Maybe it was the seven Bud Selects that had whet my whistle on the one-hour, four-mile bus trip to the parking lot, but there I was singing along, in love with the river Wabash and the smell of fresh-mown hay.
And it only got better from there. Because I grew up in Alabama, I'm a NASCAR fan, much to my Hoosier dad's chagrin. But when 11 perfectly formed rows of three roared past on that first lap, I realized what IndyCars have that NASCAR never can: gittyup. I couldn't catch my breath. And for the first laps, even after we sat down, I would half-jump out of my seat and point excitedly. Thank God everyone had their ear plugs in and radios turned up so no one heard me as I kept shouting, "They're passing! Passing!" It didn't matter if it was Kanaan winding his way toward the lead or the anchor-of-my-fantasy-team AJ Foyt IV passing Milka. The mere act of passing on this race track, in those cars, at that speed, struck me as miraculous — I had never imagined the complexity and courage required for passing while watching on television.
Also miraculous: They let you bring in coolers? Really? Full of beer? And sandwiches? And you can just sit there and watch Jaime Camera hit the wall three separate times in a single turn while peanut butter and/or jelly drips down your chin? Frankly, dear Pagoda dweller, the cooler was too much for me to handle. I stuffed mine full of beer and then felt compelled to drink all of them. There are men in this world who are capable of drinking right through a fine May afternoon, but I am not among them. During one of the many mid-race cautions, I found myself standing in a very long line so that I might eventually have the privilege of urinating into a trough alongside 30 other guys. So I called my wife.
"How's it going?" she asked.
"Amazing," I said. "They're passing! Every lap, someone passes someone else! It's amazing!"
"Are you drunk?" she asked.
"Yes, definitely," I answered. "I mean, this isn't the drunkest I've ever been. But it's the drunkest I've ever been at 2 PM."
And so it went. My fantasy team certainly did not perform well — Foyt caught fire; Briscoe made Danica stomp; and Wheldon faded at the end. I would have loved to see an Andretti win (an Andretti dressed like Indiana Jones, no less), or to see the scrappy Vitor Meira pull out a victory. It would have been great to see Sheckter there at the end, or one of the Champ Car guys. I like an underdog story, and neither Dixon nor his car was ever an underdog at this year's 500. But none of that mattered. As far as I'm concerned, it was the best 500 in history.
"Yes, definitely," I answered. "I mean, this isn't the drunkest I've ever been. But it's the drunkest I've ever been at 2 PM."
And so it went. My fantasy team certainly did not perform well — Foyt caught fire; Briscoe made Danica stomp; and Wheldon faded at the end. I would have loved to see an Andretti win (an Andretti dressed like Indiana Jones, no less), or to see the scrappy Vitor Meira pull out a victory. It would have been great to see Sheckter there at the end, or one of the Champ Car guys. I like an underdog story, and neither Dixon nor his car was ever an underdog at this year's 500. But none of that mattered. As far as I'm concerned, it was the best 500 in history.
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