|
The month of May in Indianapolis means one thing: The Indianapolis 500. Approximately one half million people make the annual trek to witness this event, crowding the sleepy town of Speedway with their cars, minivans, recreational vehicles, campers, and tents.
It is not called "The Greatest Spectacle in Racing" for nothing.
I have a very special connection to The Indianapolis 500 and The Indianapolis Motor Speedway. My family owned farm land adjacent to Georgetown Road, a major street that runs parallel with the main straight-of-way of The Indianapolis Motor Speedway, or IMS. Though our farm land
pre-dates The Indianapolis Motor Speedway, its proximity to "The Track" made it prime real estate for parking many, many vehicles since the first official race of The Indianapolis 500 in 1911. Born out of this proximity was a family business of parking vehicles on our farm land,
passed down from my great grandparents to my grandparents to my parents. "Our" farm land is a bit of a misnomer since the property was divided up following the death of my great grandfather, with his children running individual parking businesses. In 1986 my grandfather, his
brothers and sisters, and their spouses sold their various tracts of land to the Hulman family, proprietors of The IMS. Had this farm land remained in our family, I would have inherited our business of parking vehicles. As it stands, I can only reflect on my memories of this
subdivision of land bearing my last name.
My parents feared I would be born during the hectic weekend of The Indianapolis 500. It would have been very difficult for them to get to the hospital amidst the congestion of this monumentous event. I managed to postpone my birth until the first week of
June -- terribly considerate of me, eh? Almost a "race" baby... almost.
Each spring, indy cars begin to practice over at "The Track," the tumult of their engines a precursor of things to come. Hearing this sound in my youth meant I would be spending some time with my parents on our old farm property as well as spending time with my aunt and an assortment
of cousins that lived nearby. I did what I could to help my parents out. Much of this included "gopher work," running paperwork, messages, and lunches from the old farmhouse to my father, uncles, and a cousin -- who loved parking the "big rigs," semi tractor-trailers -- at their various outposts.
On the two weekends for time trial qualifications, I stood with my father on Georgetown Road and waved a small white paddle with PARK in bright orange letters. Also, I sat on the hood of his faded blue Ford truck and kept watch over the back entrance to
our old farm property as my small legs dangled over the spare tire affixed to the front grill. My father did this sentry duty at night for real, often sleeping in his truck. On the second weekend of qualifications, the least busy weekend during the month of May, I would help park
vehicles -- cars for the most part -- on our old farm property. Parking cars meant walking into the field and pointing toward a row of vehicles where you wanted the car to park or starting a new row. Most people came for the first weekend of qualifications and the race
for the pole position, so it did not matter how "tight" the rows were for parking vehicles for the second weekend of qualifications. My father prided himself on his ability to park tight rows of vehicles and I did my best to emulate his abilities.
My junior high school classmates never believed me when I told them that I parked cars for The Indianapolis 500; they assumed I meant valet parking.
"Race Weekend" can be overwhelming, especially for a wide-eyed youth. Not much has changed since. Vehicles park everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, with people turning their small yards into parking areas. I remember running up and down the rows of cars on our old farm property, checking out the makes and models
and where they were from -- we had a DeLorean once in the early 1980s. Vendors and pedestrians roam the streets and blimps and planes with banners fill the skies. Women are somewhat free about showing off their upper bodies when asked to do so.
One year an entrepeneurial woman sat near Crawfordsville Road, the main road to "The Track," with a sign asking men to bear some flesh of their own. She had one taker, with the caveat of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He dropped his shorts twice before she pulled her tube top down. I stood fifteen feet away from this exchange.
Such things are pale in comparison to what goes on the night before "The Race," when the streets and fields around "The Track" become a massive social gathering and party all rolled into one. You cannot walk far before you are canvassed by the religious wishing to save your soul.
I did not have the opportunity to experience Saturday night until I was much older.
"Race Day" begins bright and early with a bomb -- literally -- announcing that the gates to The Indianapolis Motor Speedway are open for cars to park inside. More cars drive in that Sunday morning, compounding the amount of vehicles already here. Military jets scream across the sky; their house-shaking roar cannot be ignored.
After the invocation, the various songs, the releasing of the balloons, and the starting of the engines, the race begins. Speedway is eerily quiet during the race. Not quiet in terms of sound, because the indy cars going about the track at different intervals makes a loud and droning cacophony. Rather, quiet because everyone is inside "The Track" watching the
race, or passed out in their cars, or passed out in their seats within "The Track."
This lull lasts until the end of the race. It was a time for us to catch our breath and relax in the parking business. What was once an all day event when it first started, The Indianapolis 500 only lasts a few hours and it is due to the increased speed in which the cars now race around "The Track."
If you are in local traffic when "The Race" ends, you WILL be stuck in traffic for a long, long time. Gridlock is an understatement, with everyone trying to leave at the same time. "Race Weekend"
was complete for them, but we in the parking business had to deal with the aftermath of this event on Monday, Memorial Day.
Memorial Day is "Trash Day" in Speedway and my family spent a good part of it walking across our old farm property picking up trash and other remnants the day after The Indianapolis 500. Aluminum can collectors made our job more difficult by tearing apart garbage bags to find their precious metalloids. Sometimes people
left money or other items of interest behind: finders-keepers! Once my cousin found a silver cigarette container. There were no cigarettes inside of it, only marijuana joints. She presented her find to my father, who destroyed the joints -- he let her keep the cigarette case. Trash pick-up was the only job in
which I received a paycheck from my parents. The thought of seeing my name written in the "pay to the order of" entry on our business checks made my chore of picking up piles and piles of trash that much easier for me. Despite visions of spending this money on something grand, my paychecks went into my savings
account -- as my friend Jean would say, "Damn first-borns!"
Thirteen years have passed since I peered into the rain from the back porch door of the old farmhouse on our old farm property, rain that postponed The Indianapolis 500 that year -- our last year in the parking business. In 1994, NASCAR held its inaugural race at The IMS, only the second race to be held there.
Now Formula One will join the ranks of racing at "The Track," bringing the total to three races in one year. It is conjecture on my part as to how lucrative three races would have been had I inherited our family business. I know from my parent's experience with our family business that it was a lot of hard
work; they did what they could just to break even. I miss the parking business but I am now of the age that it would be actual work and not mere fun and games, so I have mixed feelings about how things have turned out.
It is part of my heritage that I shall never experience, though I am fortunate to have been involved as much as I was during my youth. I am fortunate that my memories of this incredible event remain strong.
I saw my first Indianapolis 500 in 1997 -- no kidding. I have seen countless indy car practices and a few time trial qualifications, second weekend of course, but I did not have a chance to see "The Race" itself, despite my practically growing up next to "The Track." Witnessing the start of "The Race," with the indy cars
screaming around "Turn One" into the short chute and on around "The Track" is something I shall never forget: the sheer velocity is awesome to behold, truly. I hope I have the opportunity to witness it again.
Someone once complained to me about the sound of indy cars as they raced around a local track. I believe I would be lost if I never experienced such tumult again, the tumult outside of The Indianapolis Motor Speedway as well as The Indianapolis 500. It is not called "The Greatest Spectacle in Racing" for nothing.
|