Start Your Engines!
- OH, BOY, OH, BOY, OH, BOY! This Sunday is the Indianapolis 500 race! I’m not going. I don’t need to. I’m already surrounded by it.
Terre Haute (That’s French for, “Hit the gas and turn left!”) is just about 70 miles from Indianapolis and when several hundred thousand fans show up for the race they tend to spill over all the way to Terre Haute.
Indianapolis is a big city, but even it does not have sufficient hotel space to accommodate that many people coming into town at one time. So, they start looking around and end up in Terre Haute for the weekend, commuting up Interstate 70 for the race itself.
Too many of these race fans then slip into their fantasy world on that drive to Indy. They get into their Chevys and F-150 Pick-Up trucks and see themselves lining up on the pole at the Brickyard.
On a good day I-70 is a freaking death trap, but during Race Week even the stoned Semi drivers and assorted drug runners are nervous. They have to share the road with race aficionados who picture themselves coming in for the checkered flag at 200+ MPH. These three groups do not work and play well with each other. This week is a good time to hole up with Netflix and some chicken wings – and to stay off the Interstate.
As for the actual race itself – I’ll catch the highlights on the evening news. It’s not that I don’t like Motorsports – I do, but oval track racing is about as exciting to watch as bananas ripening. I’m sure that it is a hoot to participate in at 200 MPH, but I cannot get worked up enough to spend a bucketful of cash, sit outside all day with 500,000 other people, and watch 33 cars zoom past and then turn left again, and again, and again.
I have flown over the racetrack a number of times as our Boeing 737 comes in for a landing. The Raceway is an enormous facility. The racetrack itself is 2 ½ miles around and the infield area is big enough to comfortably hold more beer cans than I can count and still have room for a couple of politician’s egos and their defense lawyers.
With that many people there I shudder at the thought of the lines to get in to use the Men’s Room. All that beer has to go someplace.
Another aspect of actually going to the race is the question of “Handicapped Parking.” If I was to show up driving the Toyota I’m sure I would be directed to a very nice Gimp Spot up at the convenient front of the parking acreage. While that is great going in, at the end of the day I would now be at the back of the parking lot with about 62 million other people in line ahead of me heading for the exit and waiting for the traffic light to turn green so they can all be dumped onto the city streets outside of the racetrack. If I was there it would be Tuesday before I could get out of there alive (Another good reason to always keep a few Snickers bars and peanuts in the car at all times.)
So, this weekend we will stay home, toss something into the Crock Pot, sit back in our Rip van Winkle Memorial chairs, and binge watch something until our eyes glaze over like a Krispy Kreme Apple Fritter.