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Trucks Of The Month
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BY Will
Wills
what
is it about people and their love of machines? I went to the Indy 500
for the first time last week. My wife told me I had to go, because it
was a work-related social event, so I did. But I wasn't that excited
about it.
We
got there smoothly because the police escorted our bus in (I thought I
was special, didn't know why at the time) and we found our seat. Or I
should say suite. Open bar, great food, right over the pits on the front
straight-away. I could have poured beer on the pit crew for car #24.
Glad I didn't have to pay for my ticket. I told my wife they should have
just given us the money so I could have bought a big-screen and watched
it at home. But still, I felt no particular thrill and I spent my time
looking at my watch and looking at the rain clouds. Filling up the
stands were 400,000 people--picture the entire population of Wyoming
packed into about 3 miles of 60' high bleachers--who all came to watch
33 cars make 200+ mph circles.
Marching
bands are making agonizing walks down that mile of road. Then a parade
of 66 Corvettes, then a bunch of these ugly Chevy pick-ups with no beds
carrying a bunch of celebrities I had never heard of before. Helicopters
are beating around the place making it hard to talk. Yawn. Then it
rains. A guy tells me it takes 2 hours to dry the track after the rain
stops. Damn.
Then
the rain stops and dizzy blonde barbies sing a few songs. And a guy
talks for a while. And Jim Nabors, who I thought was long dead, sings
another song about how sweet it is in Indiana--I think. Then another
barbie sings the Star-Spangled Banner and I am annoyed at the creative
inflections people add to our national anthem--give me a straight,
old-school round of Star Spangled Banner anyday--and that everyone seems
to have forgotten the hand on the heart.
After
that, the pit crews begin to push the cars to the starting line and it
is far away and slow going. The whole time the clouds sag above us,
loaded with another rain. It doesn't look good. I look at my watch
praying for the Enterprise to beam me home. Then, it's "Gentleman,
and woman, start your engines!" And a huge roar comes up from the
crowd, and from the cars. It's loud, but I don't see why I need these
earplugs they gave me. Heck, I'm an old artilleryman.
Finally,
they drive away. The starting line is off to the left of me so they make
a little roar and then are gone. Big deal. I look to the right,
whistling, looking at my watch. Looking at the clouds. I can hear the
cars somewhere behind us over the huge cement grandstands. Then,
suddenly, a lesson in why 400,000 people will come from all over the
world to see a couple dozen cars make circles.
Buddy
Rice's #15 car suddenly flings itself around the turn, inches from the
outside wall, and screams down the straight-a-way, the 650hp 3.5 liter
V8's shriek is buzz-sawing the massive concrete grandstands under my
feet at 10,300rpm, the 5,000# of downforce rips the tires in a low
squall and then it is gone and I am trying to figure out how to get the
damn little earplug pouch open as the other 32 cars savage the crowd.
Now I am standing up. And then they are back. And then they are back.
And then they are back. Two and a half mile circuits in about 40
seconds. It isn't about favorite teams or whose winning, it is about the
physical rush.
It's
a sensation similar to watching a tornado or an airstrike. You just lay
there with your mouth open, awestruck--no thought for personal safety,
like a deer in the headlights, as the noise and visuals beat up on your
senses. Maybe that is why people like their machines. You can unleash a
little chaos for a couple of hours and satisfy some inner need for
mayhem. Keep those adrenal glands functioning. No skydiving, bungy
jumping or big-wave surfing required. Just sit there with your mouth
hanging open and let those little Indy cars circle you.
Will
I be back? Only if my wife makes me. It was cool, but it still ain't my
scene. And why the police escort? Turns out, we had a US Congressman in
the group. I wish I would have known so I could have thanked him for the
quick ride the wrong way up a four-lane with two motorcycle cops parting
oncoming traffic like the Red Sea. Saved about three hours on either end
I should think. Maybe I will go again if he comes along.
Have
a rant? E-mail me at wwills@iquest.net,
or contact me via PM, and I might just let you put it here!
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