A Million Miles Away

It can be safely argued this is the biggest weekend in auto racing, what with Formula One running at Monte Carlo, the Indianapolis 500 and the Coca-Cola (remember when it was the World?) 600.  Given how I haven’t paid much attention to F1 since Jackie Stewart was an active driver I’ll gladly defer all blogging on same to Marc over at Full Throttle.  I also refer anyone interested in IRL to Jeff at My Name Is IRL, IM(NS)HO pound for pound the best racing blog out there bar none.  However, while I gladly steer all interested in the racing to Jeff, about the race itself I’ll chime in.

Given that I’ve been around the block a few decades, I remember when in the sports world the Indianapolis 500 was a Really Big Deal.  Even casual fans knew the names: Foyt, Mears, Sneva, Johncock, Unser and the rest.  The race held special meaning to me, being the offspring of parents either born and raised in Indiana or raised there.  When I was a young’un I listened to the race live on the radio (it wasn’t televised live — in fact, for years it wasn’t televised at all), dreaming like I imagine most boys and not a few girls do of being in it some day.  Never made it, obviously.  Still, the race forever holds a place in my heart.

Quoting myself from a post a few years back, there are two sounds from my childhood I remember more than any other.  One is the low rumble created by the bass pedals of the organ at the church my family faithfully attended every Sunday morning, sometimes Saturday evening should the Mass schedule conflict with what time the Raiders were playing.  The running joke in my house was while woe be unto thee should thou not attend Mass every Sunday throughout the year, come the fall two additional, equally inviolate commandments came to be: thou shalt watch Notre Dame football on Saturday; thou shalt watch the Raiders on Sunday.  Although my father was an active believer and an avid part-time theologian, complete with well-read massive library filled with literally hundreds of books on the subject, which one of the three weekend obligations was of greater importance was oft the subject of debate.  Whenever he wasn’t within earshot, of course.

The other sound I remember was the engine of whichever one of the assorted vehicles, usually a station wagon (how else were my parents going to haul around five kids in those pre-minivan and SUV days?), my father would work on during many a weekend, although not so often during football season.  His profession was nuclear engineer, but his avocation was cars.  As the years went on and our relationship moved from initial childhood awe through adolescence’s obligatory rebellion into adult contact as not only father but adviser/supporter/councilor/most inseparable of closest friends, he oft expressed his lament how finances had never permitted him to fulfill his dream of pursuing car collecting and restoration.  Not that he regretted the five kids, which considering I was the youngest was a relief, but had the opportunity presented itself to swap all of us for a Duesenberg in prime condition I have little doubt being bartering material could be added to my résumé.

My father, being a nearly native Indianapolis resident as his family moved there when he was two, had more than a few tales to tell regarding interaction with the automobiles so woven into the fabric of his home during the days of his 1930s-centered youth: a temporary job testing new Chryslers assembled at the plant there on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway back when it truly was the Brickyard; another spent cleaning out the old Stutz factory where for one hundred dollars he could have had a 1914 Stutz Bearcat still in its original crate — but of course in those Great Depression days didn’t have the money; how even though he never attended the Indianapolis 500 he and his family often entertained different drivers around race day including just before the 1939 race defending champion Floyd Roberts, who was killed in an accident during the event that year.  But of course, there were the jalopies to be patched together and souped up as much as the non-existent budget would allow, all designed to see who could not only outrun each other and the cops but also most impress the young ladies… although this detail was brought up only when mom wasn’t in the vicinity.

My father loved racing.  While he would occasionally watch NASCAR, he much preferred open wheel.  Back in the day when the Indianapolis 500 was a central feature of each year in American sports, the race wasn’t televised live, but rather on an edited tape delay that evening.  The only way to follow it live was on the radio.  Which we did, each and every year.  Around and sometimes seemingly through the announcer’s voice would be that sound.  Filtered and muted on the AM dial, but still there.  That sound… the sound of engines given full throttle and full voice.  In my youthful mind, how much like the sound absorbed as I’d watch from a don’t-get-in-my-way-son distance while my father would work on one of the family cars.

The first race track I visited was California Speedway in the early summer of 1997, the weekend of its first Cup race.  While I had been avidly following NASCAR since the latter ’80s, until then it had solely been via television.  Mrs. Dude and I didn’t have tickets for the race, but we were already on vacation in southern California that week, and out of curiosity said why not go see the track.  So we went there on the Friday morning before the race.

As we were getting out of our car after arriving, even though the track was some distance away I heard that sound.  No longer filtered, but live; the sound of an engine’s shout as it flew around the oval.  The closer we got, the more the sound grew.  We bought our cheap general admission tickets and went inside.

There, flashing in front of us, were the brightly colored cars that until then had been only pictures, maybe little toy replicas.  I was struck by how what on television would look like a dull paint job when actually seen fairly glowed, so much brighter and more vibrant.  And here they were being actually seen, the weekend heroes and villains live and in person.  The sheer excitement of what to most was nothing more than another practice session before qualifying that afternoon, but to me was magic and power come to life, was nearly overwhelming.  I was already hooked on racing.  Now I was a full-blown addict.

And that sound.  Oh, that beautiful sound.  Way louder than for some misguided reason I had thought it would be.  I remember my dad chuckling after Mrs. Dude and I had come home from vacation and I was on the phone to him excitedly relaying all I had seen, heard, and felt on that day.  To him it was old hat, but with true parental grace he declined to squelch my excitement as I savored everything I had experienced.

Being at California Speedway in the spring of 2004 when Jeff Gordon won, thus seeing my driver win in person, was of course a shining highlight of my NASCAR experience to date.  But that June day in 1997, the first time I heard and saw the cars live with the connection this made to my father who would pass away two years later, will always be my most cherished NASCAR memory.  Always.

Back to the present.  I watch the Indianapolis 500 now with a mixture of knowing at least a little something about what it is I’m observing and a bit of a faraway stare, thoughts a million miles away when before the race “Back Home Again In Indiana” is sung.  Memories of the brief time I lived there are ones I cling to tightly, memories of my beloved father and a place that while altogether different than the San Francisco Bay Area I’ve spent the overwhelming majority of my life was good to call home for a time.  No matter how much I dwell among concrete and steel, a bit of the country boy remains.

That all said, when “Taps” is played… yeah.  My father was career military, an Army man through and through.  Memorial Day will never be just another three day weekend to me.  The faraway stare has been known to gather mist more than once.

As to the race itself, Helio’s been the hot hand: fastest in practice, winner of the pole, winner of the pit crew competition even.  Granted, the only predictability about racing is its unpredictability, but he is certainly the favorite going in.  Other potential contenders are the usual IRL suspects: Dario Franchitti, Scott Dixon, Ryan Briscoe, Tony Kaanan who figures to win this race one of these years.  And Danica, although she’s been distressingly average all month.

As to NASCAR, while the truckers continue their nap the Cupsters and claims jumpers take their second straight turn at Lowe’s, i.e. Charlotte even though it’s actually in Concord.  Unlike last weekend this one counts in Cup, plus it’s six hundred miles.  Expect to see a lot less free-for-all than was the case during the All-Star race and hear a lot more “save me some fuel” comments from crew chiefs to drivers.  Some are already calculating mileage.  Ah well.  Hopefully it won’t come down to that and there will be some actual, oh, passing and lead battles and stuff.  Favorites are the names you’ve come to know and… uh, know: Jeff Gordon if his back holds up, Johnson, Stewart, Edwards although he was surprising mediocre in the All-Star race.  Kyle Busch provided he isn’t too preoccupied with beating himself.  As to Dale Earnhardt Jr., when I was watching him earlier this evening on QVC shuffling through selling stuff with the manner of someone whose head in permanently bent toward the ground, hand in pockets, I still want to know what’s eating him and when he’ll get over or through it.  Until then, expect nothing but more of the same miseries from the sputtering Rocket 88.

Enjoy the weekend, everyone.

P.S.  Speaking of a million miles away…

[video http://www.diecast-dude.com/gac/rory_gallagher_a_million_miles_away.flv nolink]