Memorial Day Weekend is Race Weekend in my family. The Indianapolis 500 is a fixture in our story, one of the only annual events marked in permanent ink on the calendar. But this year will be different: there will be no race. Or rather, no live race. This year’s competition has been postponed until August due to the global pandemic. Instead, a previous year’s race will be broadcast on television to appease those who will feel its absence most acutely, like my dad.
My dad is an avid fan. He’s held four tickets in the same section of the bleachers, mid-way up the stack on the stretch between turns one and two, for more years that I can remember. Certainly since the days when I was too young to attend. Back then, my mom didn’t want me to be exposed to the atmosphere created by overzealous fans. She warned me of the noise and the discomfort caused by the relentless sun (some years) or damp cold (other years). She claimed the race was too long for kids: crashes and rain delays have been known to stretch it out all day, or even make it bleed into the next day. My mom’s own experiences there brought back memories of shirtless, drunk, sunburned spectators whose enthusiasm for the race made their language too colorful for children, and so I was spared.
I never expressed an interest in attending. So I didn’t, even when I could have convinced my mom I was old enough. My younger brother, on the other hand, joined the men in the family as soon as he was out of elementary school. That was fine by me. The day split our family along gender lines for years, and everyone was happy.
My dad honed his race day protocol until it was perfect. By now, it runs like a well-oiled machine. His crew (my brother, my uncle, and a friend) used to leave for the track at dawn’s first light. Finally, when my parents moved to Indianapolis, they graduated to the more respectable hour of 9 a.m. He follows the same route and parks on the same side street every year. Sandwiches, chips, and homemade cookies are packed in trash bags and slung over my dad’s shoulder for the walk to the track. This allows them to toss the whole bag into the garbage after the contents have been consumed. He delights in having his hands free, with nothing to carry, for the walk back to the car at the end of the day. He ensures everyone has a portable radio, earbuds, and protective ear coverings so that they can hear the announcers and keep up with what’s happening on the track. Without the radio commentary, the cars whizzing by them in a blur would be impossible to identify. And of course, each year he purchases a thick, glossy program to read during any breaks in the action.
When I was in my early twenties, I became curious and finally asked to go. I invited my then-friend, now husband, Bill, and we went with my brother and his friend. My dad graciously gave us the tickets, thrilled to see my spark of interest. The four of us sat in the stands for hours, but the rain won out. My dad ended up getting to go after all because neither Bill nor I felt like trying again when they ran the race the following day.
I finally made it back to the race in 2006. My dad knew this might be my only visit to the track. He sensed that this time, I was going to be with him, to see him in his element. The weather was sunny and muggy, with temperatures rising into the 90s. I was in the first trimester of my pregnancy with my daughter. My dad packed padded seat cushions (a luxury he’d never brought before) and bought me countless lemonades from the vendors in the stands to try and keep me cool. As the pre-race festivities began, I looked around at the thousands of people crammed into the stands and the infield. All those heads tilted back to watch the official flyover of military planes. Hats and hands rested on hearts during the national anthem. But the best part was when the crowd sang along to “Back Home Again in Indiana.” I caught my dad’s eye and we both belted out the lyrics he’d made sure to teach me as a child. Overwhelmed with the pageantry of it all, I was surprised to find my eyes fill with tears. The next thing I knew, the announcer said the words everyone was waiting for: Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines!
During the race, I tried to pay attention, but the combination of the roar of the speeding tires and the thick, hot air made me woozy and faint. Most of the day was a blur. In order to avoid overheating, I climbed down the metal stairs to the bathroom to splash water on my face every half hour. Each time, I waited in the shade beneath the bleachers with parents, their young children, and people old enough to be my grandparents as I gathered the strength to return to my seat. I don’t remember who won or whose cars crashed, but I’m sure my dad does. I do remember how excited he was, how he never complained, and how he tried to make it a good experience for me. I hope he remembers that I made the effort and showed up to experience – at least once – this sport he’s loved all his life.
Whenever the subject comes up, I joke that I’ve done my time. I did my family duty and went to the race. Box checked. I don’t plan to go back. But this year, in the absence of the traditions, I know it will feel strange.
This year, we’ll be at home, social distancing in an effort to prevent the spread of the COVID-19 virus. Even though I’m not a race fan myself, I wonder if I’ll be tempted to turn on the TV. Maybe I’ll just let it play in the background, where it has been my whole life.
In the parting,
birdseed and breadcrumbs 