The drive from downtown to the Indianapolis
Motor Speedway took no time thanks to the
chartered bus and police escort. In a matter of
thirty minutes, I was flashing my media
credentials and walking on to the track. It was
then that I understood the magnitude of the
moment.
of the cars could be felt in my feet. Men in
matching jumpsuits scurried about making lastminute adjustments. Team owners milled about
glad-handing well wishers. I was in the eye of
the racing storm. And with the madness
surrounding me, I got on my knees and kissed
the fabled bricks along the start/finish line.
Brightly colored cars with massive amounts of
stickers lined the pits. Tires were taken off and
put back on just as quickly. Engines roared so
loudly I reached for my ears. The reverberation
As race time neared, the gold-clad team of
security ushered non-race personnel into the
spectator area. I was able to avoid their sweep
and kept myself firmly planted on the track.
This experience was thirty years in the making,
and I was not ready for the moment to end.
There I stood, shoulder to shoulder with team
owners and drivers’ wives. I could sense their
nervous energy.
Three by three, the drivers were introduced to
the hundreds of thousands adoring fans.
Indiana native, Jim Nabors of Gomer Pyle fame,
belted out “Back Home Again in Indiana.” The
military of past and present was honored with
a flyover and thousands of balloons were
released. I’d seen this all before on television,
but now the pomp and circumstance took on a
different meaning. I was part of something
bigger than myself—I was part of history, at
least in my mind.
I couldn’t escape the ever-watching eye of
security any longer and was all but dragged off
the track.
Determined to not miss the start of the race, I
powered through the crowd who were deftly
balancing beers and hot dogs in their hands.
Again I flashed my badge, and barged my way
into the full elevator. Once the doors opened, I
hustled to my assigned suite just in time to
hear the starter utter the most famous words
in the motorsports world.
“Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines.”
And with the roar of the IndyCars on the track
below, I was taken back to my ’66 Mustang and
that same euphoric feeling. The Indianapolis
500 is the pinnacle of racing, and I experienced
it like few others.
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