by Kent Sterling

Another Indy 500, another reminder that many of the people at the race are drunken tools, and that the boobs who funnel traffic out of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway are morons – not the police who wave people around, but the knuckleheads who plan the routes.

The was the hottest Indy 500 in the history of the event, with temperatures hitting 95 degrees.  There was a breeze though, and if I had been asked, I would have guessed that it was 86 or 87.  No one asked me, so now that I went through it, it felt like a sauna and can’t believe I survived.

What so many people who don’t go to the race don’t understand is that the Indy 500 is really a Memorial Day celebration, with a series of honors for those who have died defending America, and the whole thing has a solemn overtone that is quite appropriate and moving.  It’s hard to misinterpret the playing of “Taps” and the patriotic music, flyover, and parade of cars filled with members of the military, but I’m not sure that many of the people in the stands get it.  That’s cool though.  I totally missed the point until my son reached the age that he could serve.  Then it occurred to me that I owe all the troops who volunteer so my son can pursue his dreams in college.

The race is always amazing.  Again and again, the plot changes.  Today, Dario Franchitti had the best car by far, but it was impossible to tell whether he would have enough fuel to get home, and Tony Kanaan lurked.  Could Helio make his last pit stop last 45 laps?  When was the last time Justin Wilson pitted.  How the hell did Alex Lloyd get to the front?  I didn’t even know he was in the field.

The question about Franchitti’s fuel was rendered moot by the wreck coming out of turn four that broke Mike Conway’s leg.  And just how in the world did that wreck only break a leg? The car was completely destroyed as it flipped and careened along the catch fence.  Those must be the safest damn cars in the world.  Dan Wheldon laid back hoping he would run dry, but no such luck.

When the race ends, people stream out of the Speedway like it’s burning.  By the time Franchitti and the uber annoying Ashley Judd hopped in the convertible to take a victory lap, and grandstands were nearly empty.  Judd might be the most annoying female sports fan in history.  They way she cavorts about the pit area at the IMS and in Rupp Arena, you would think that she has some role on either the Target/Chip Ganassi Racing Team or with Kentucky Basketball.  I thought of throwing a sandwich at her as the convertible passed, but my wife worked hard making those sandwiches, and it deserved a better fate than to disintegrate against her signature giant hat.

I’ve done the race in every turn and in experienced it as a boob in the infield, a race fan in turn four, and a radio guy in turn one.  I have been with a group in a giant van driving past

Mike Conway's car, or what was left of it was hauled into the infield in two piece. By the grace of God, Conway stayed in one piece.

shrieking yellow shirts, running to and from Mike’s Bar on 16th Street, and with a small grill in the North 40.  The past two years have been with absolute pros with big hearts at the corner of Camp and Brew on Georgetown, just north of 25th Street.  They have four or five RVs, couches, and the best part is that they do it all for charity.  Okay, the best part is that they are nice enough to include me in their fun and air-conditioning, but they raise money for Brian’s Wish which is dedicated to finding a cure for ALS.  They have a webcam running throughout the weekend, and are truly very welcoming people.  Did I mention the air conditioning today?

After the race, we sit on the couches in front of the RVs to watch the drunken idiots bounce all over each other.  Going too far seems to be an Indy 500 tradition every bit as hallowed as the delicious swig of hormone enriched white fluid that looks conspicuously like the kind of milk cows used to give.  There are angry drunks, happy drunks, drunk drunks, wobbly drunks, and drunks easily talked into showing men part of their bodies best left covered.  Here a good tip as to whether you should show men your breasts.  Look at them, and answer these two questions – are my breasts round, and are my nipples close to the middle?  If the answer is no, keep them encased in whatever outerwear you chose as your race attire.  For most of the women I saw, that’s a halter top, and the answer to the two questions are no and no.

The guys are all morons.  The only positive result for the end of the day is not being herded
into a police wagon for a trip to the Marion County jail.

For me, the day was great.  Taking my son to the Indianapolis 500 is a treat that was long overdue.  We had a great time, and his correct decision not to drink to excess was reinforced in spades.  Cars went fast.  People fell down.  And big girls stuck their cameras into their bikini tops.  If cameras could scream…