Pilgrimage to Brooklyn

I have been following auto racing since the second grade (the beginning of the CART era in 1979, to illustrate my youth) , and while I enjoy all forms of professional motorsports, IndyCar racing has always been my first love. But being stuck on Oahu meant I would not get to attend a legitimate race of any kind until 1990, and even by the time I graduated from college four years later, I still had not made it to a single IndyCar event. The closest I got was spending two hours at Indy during Spring Break of 1991, while all the CART teams were flying to Surfer's Paradise and nobody - not even Menard - was on hand for tire testing.

This year, with a steady job and a smattering of what some would call "discrectionary" income, I vowed that things would be different.

I'd always fantasized about making the Indy 500 my first race - of taking the full month of May off work and practically living at the Brickyard. Indy would be an entirely appropriate choice. But my vehement political stance against Tony George and his cronies made this a tragically unappetizing and unsuitable choice, so I turned to what I always considered, until this year, easily my second favorite race - the Michigan 500 (the name "Marlboro 500" means little to me).

The high speeds, dramatic finishes set up by high attrition, and drivers undaunted by spectacular crashes always held special appeal to me, and as the sole remaining 500 miler left on the schedule until the advent of the U.S. 500, it demanded particular skills and endurance from both man and machine not found elsewhere on the circuit. As a second choice, it lagged behind Indy only in history and ambience.

When I showed up at the track during practice on Friday morning, armed with some two dozen rolls of film for my three cameras and my hand-painted banner ripe for autographs, I could hardly believe my good fortune. Nearly a lifetime of waiting had suddenly ended, and now I stood within full eyeshot and earshot of the best cars and drivers in the world flying by at 230+ mph.

While this armchair racer appreciates the merits of television coverage (because cable TV is not a privilege, it's a right), what people always say is true, even for a simple practice session; there is NOTHING like watching a race in person. You cannot hear the engines at full song, smell the rubber and fuel, or rub shoulders with the very people who make it all happen - from the anonymous journeyman mechanic to the superstar champion racer.