Every year on Memorial Day weekend, I wake up at 3:00 AM and pile into the car with my family for the two-hour drive to Indianapolis. We stumble bleary-eyed into McDonalds around 6:00, saying our hellos to my uncle and cousin over McMuffins and much-needed coffee. We drive on to the tiny suburb of Speedway, Indiana, then park in someone's front yard, and make our way to the track laden with coolers full of drinks and sandwiches, backpacks carrying binoculars, either sunscreen or ponchos, and the lanyards that hold our tickets. Along with hundreds of thousands of people from across the country, we file into the stands and await the coming festivities. This is the Greatest Spectacle in Racing. This is the Indianapolis 500.
The Indianapolis 500 is more than just a car race; it's an event with a rich history. The race has run one hundred times since the first "500-mile sweepstakes" in 1911. Other than brief breaks for World Wars I and II, the race has run continuously at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and the opening ceremonies reflect that long heritage. Nearly every sporting event in the country begins with the National Anthem and a bit of ceremony but the pre-race events at Indy are marked by a certain sense of solemnity.
The drivers and the fans are acutely conscious of the fact that this race is not simply a one-day event but a tradition handed down from generations before, a tradition that will continue to be handed down through the years. Every year, the Archbishop of Indianapolis prays for the safety of all. Everyone stands for the National Anthem and Taps, remembering those who make the day's celebrations possible. Jim Nabors (until very recently) sings "Back Home Again in Indiana" (and in his absence, the crowd fills in). More than any other sport, racing is about family. Whether it's the attendees or the racing teams themselves you will see multiple generations participating.
The Indy 500 is a tradition in my family and it is one very dear to my heart. My dad, an Indiana native, has been going to the race since the late '70s. I went to the race for the first time in 2004 and was chased out by a thunderstorm and an F2 tornado. Not discouraged by a bit of weather, I went back for seconds and I've been returning ever since. There is truly nothing like it. Excitement fills the air like electricity. Cars blast past like earthbound jets. In those stands, I have known equal parts of excitement and anticipation, boredom and fatigue, bitter disappointment and unbridled joy. To a casual observer, it may not look like much. But once a year those aluminum stands, 2.5 miles of asphalt, and a yard of bricks -- that's home.
