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2016 Indy 500 Turn 3 Diary

5:10 AM

As we roll out into the darkness, the family is restive¹.  There are murmurs of discontent from the younger element about arising at 4:00 AM.  My explanation about heeding IMS president J. Douglas Boles warnings about traffic and long lines at the gates fall on increasingly militant ears regarding my tenure as high potentate of our annual pilgrimage.  I will keep an eye on the more vocal of the group.  My anxiety increases as we are already 10 minutes behind the scheduled time of departure.

5:37 AM

We arrive at our first rendezvous in the Meridian-Kessler neighborhood of Indianapolis.  After the perfunctory comfort stops, we pose for pre-dawn pictures.  I stay in the shadows, worried once again about lines, parking, and recalcitrant Yellow Shirts waiting at IMS.  Our caravan grows to three vehicles, again increasing my anxiety as images of stop lights and blissfully unaware family members causes digestive discomfort.

6:05 AM

We arrive on 30th Street via Moller Road and move briskly past the Coke Lot towards our parking in the North 40.  Parking tagless drivers are denied entry to the Coke Lot, resulting in hooting and jeering from the line of cars waiting to park.  Schadenfreude is strong in a race day crowd.  Better you than us, bub.  The traffic stops.  We wait moodily.

6:29 AM

We enter the North 40 parking lot, our lead car deftly maneuvering past a slow line and cutting in at the gate, both perplexing and irritating a yellow shirted whistle blower standing guard.  Score one for the proletariat.  We arrive at our parking spot.

6:56 AM

The mood darkens.  It seems that the celery salt for early morning Bloody Marys has been left behind.  Like true pioneers, we persevere.

7:00-9:00 AM

Breakfast, camaraderie, lies, and insults follow in succession.  A small contingent breaks from the alcohol induced early morning lethargy and enters the track for the 100th Running of the Indianapolis 500 presented by PennGrade Motor Oil.  I go along, acting as our all-knowing leader.  I imagine myself as Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans and mention this to the group.  My nephew says, “Last of the pains in the asses, more like it.” I take it as a compliment.

9:30-11:30 AM

I enter the NE Vista alone as my “family” eats tenderloins and ascend to Row NN Seat 1 in Section 27.  This is always a soothing moment.  I watch the parade of dignitaries and was truly impressed by the 33 museum cars that rolled by in review.  I imagined what the track looked like when it was full of those cars.  Pretty cool.

Pre-Race

One issue with the NE Vista is the disconnect with the action on the main straight.  While most fans see what is getting ready to happen, we mostly guess.  The upgrade in the sound system was noticed and appreciated.  The absence of the Florence Henderson’s warble was much appreciated.  Darrius Rucker’s version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” was completely acceptable and the fast movers in the flyover were on point.   “Back Home Again in Indiana” by Josh Kaufman and The Indianapolis Children’s Choir was as good as Jim Nabor’s ever was.  There, I said it.  Let that Indiana boy do it forever.  The Hulman family’s multi-generational “Start your engines!” command was a nice touch, covering up an increasingly awkward moment.  And balloons!

Race

As expected, the Hondas were wicked fast and passing was nonstop.  If we have to have spec racing, this is the spec racing to have.  A radio or scanner was needed to help keep the leaders straight.  The beautiful video screen is wonderful, as long as the information presented there is big enough to be seen.  It’s not.  The scroll at the top of the screen is impossible to see without binoculars.  Either increase the size of the scroll or find a new style.  This was very frustrating to everyone in our section without exception.  I suggest the leadership sit in my seat and try to see the screen.  If they do, they will make changes.  The win by a fuel-saving Alexander Rossi was met by a collective shrug of the shoulders, not because he was a rookie without IndyCar pedigree, but because his ascension to the top spot caught everyone by surprise, announcers and fans alike.  I memory serves, fan favorite Dario Franchitti won in similar fashion.  This was expert strategy, plain and simple.  If an earlier pit road incident had not taken out Andretti Autosport teammates Ryan Hunter-Reay and Townsend Bell, things may have been different.  Rossi is an American driver in an American series who won the crown jewel as a rookie.  That’s a good story.  He never put a wheel wrong all month. An 82 year old Florence Henderson, denied an opportunity to sing, found her way into Victory Lane to kiss the winner.  This is a rather dubious new tradition, but I can guarantee no other race has it.

Potpourri  

It seems the denizens of the NE Vista were remembered by their overlords this year.  Food tents and trucks were everywhere.  Potent potables were all around, including a very tasty Fuzzy’s lemonade.  It felt good to be part of the race again.  Of course, the NE Vista was denied its opportunity  to toast the winner with commemorative plastic bottles of milk.  So we cheered, milkless, but not altogether bereft like past races.  The Yellow Shirts were not in evidence as much as in the past.  In fact, there were very few along the walkway in the Vista, which allowed a veritable throng to stand next to the fence and revel in the speed, noise, and proximity of the cars.  Our exit down the back stairs, closed for the duration of the race, was fine until we stumbled across the carcasses of quite possibly two or three pigeons that were left on the landings of the stairs by a nameless predator.  Ugh.

5:23 Post Race

I once again lost the race pool to a mocking relative.  After food and more alcohol induced frivolity, we packed up our empty coolers and our sunburns and headed home.  Many kudos to the soul who somehow managed to part the cable that kept the inhabitants of the North 40 from cutting unassisted onto Hulman Boulevard.  It saved us at least an hour in line.  Muchos gracias, my unknown hermano borracho.

7:38

Arrived home, spent but happy, and settled onto the back porch to begin planning next year’s foray.  Maybe an earlier start is in order.

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¹ restive – unable to keep still or silent and becoming increasingly difficult to control, especially because of impatience, dissatisfaction, or boredom.

 

 

 

 

 

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2015 Indy 500: postcards from the NE Vista

Another Indianapolis 500 has come and gone, and besides torched Port-O-Lets and the general detritus left by a sunburned and slightly inebriated humanity, the race was what we all have come to expect.  In other words, the inexplicable combined with the sublime.  I took the time to pen a few thoughts on post cards that have just arrived from the NE Vista.  They tell a story.

  • Greetings from the North 40, the parking lot that last year had no rules.  I know I gigged IMS last year regarding the total lack of parking acumen and the inability to honor a paid parking pass.  All is forgiven.  We rolled from the corner of Moller and 30th to our parking spot in the North 40 in less than five minutes, and that included taking a few moments to gawk at the sights of the Coke Lot on our way past.  It was reassuring to see all the Yellow Shirts in their natural habitat, performing their May rites of being petty tyrants and martinets.  They scowled and whistled and pointed and screamed.  I was home.  I might suggest that the planners in their cubicles not route traffic directly past the doors of the Port-O-Lets. You are supposed to use the lavatory when you go in, not on your way out as a car hurtles past, missing you by inches.

 

  • Hello again.  I have entered the track alone, unaccompanied by friends or family.  For some reason, they prefer to stand in a grassy parking lot with others, drinking Bloody Marys and slurping Jell-O shots while listening to loud music.  The radio should be tuned to a station reporting on the goings-on inside the track.  I am bereft and rent a chair back to make myself feel better.  I sit moodily in the early morning sun, watching celebrities and 500 Princesses drive past on the track, pretending they are waving at me.  I long for new family and friends.

 

  • Aloha from sunny Indianapolis.  The pace quickens as the pre-race activities roll on.  Terrifying skydivers buzz the Snake Pit and land on the golf course.  The PA announcer tells us to look to the sky minutes after their landing.  The new video boards work as advertised.  Florence Henderson warbles “God Bless America.”  Judging by the looks of all those under 50, The Brady Bunch has been forgotten.  Two A-10 Warthogs do the flyover.  I hope they strafe my family and friends with their depleted uranium cannons.  They deserve it for abandoning me.  Straight No Chaser sings “Back Home Again in Indiana.”  I weep and shake my fist in the direction of Kentucky.  Our song is better, even when sung acapella by someone other than Jim Nabors.  The balloons are released as an awkward struggle ensues on the video screen during “Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines.”  The inexplicable has arrived.

 

  • Salutations from the top of the NE Vista.  The race starts, stops, almost starts, and continues under yellow.  Finally, the race begins.  Passing is constant.  It soon becomes apparent that the winning car will be owned by a man named either Penske or Ganassi.  All is right with the world of the top dogs.  The small teams scramble for a top ten finish as God intended.  Parity is no more.  At the next yellow, I hurry to grab a tenderloin, but the lines are enormous.  The reason is simple: two remodeled concessions stands are closed.  We are outliers in the NE Vista, forgotten and despised by our political masters.  I do not get a tenderloin.  Scenes from Lord of the Flies run through my brain.  We are a true Turn 3 dystopia.

 

  • Howdy friends.  All is saved by the tremendous passing we see lap after lap entering Turn 3.  Plus we have craft beer in addition to salt and vinegar potato chips.  The Verizon IndyCar 15 app not only works, but works well.  I have phone, text, and Twitter for the whole race.  Maybe the NE Vista is not completely forgotten.  Hope springs eternal in the human breast.  We stand the last 30 laps, grabbing strangers, pointing at cars, adding our own body English to help these steely-eyed missile men at the front of the pack maneuver through the turn.  Juan Pablo Montoya wins, proving once again that he is a wheelman extraordinaire.  We are sated and slowly exit the NE Vista.  As we leave, we see Rick Mears as he leaves his Turn 3 spotters’ platform.  He waves a greeting, and we do likewise.  A smile curls my lips.  He is one of us.

 

 

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