Some things are baked into you. And like many native hoosiers, I was born into the tradition of the Indianapolis 500.
Every Memorial Day weekend, more than 300,000 people pour into the Indianapolis Motor Speedway (IMS) for the largest single-day sporting event in the world. A cannon is set off at sunrise to signal the start of race day as people pack their cars and begin the slow crawl through traffic to the speedway. Similar to basketball, it’s almost like a religion in Indiana — a yearly pilgrimage to the famed brickyard to get our ears blown off by engines roaring near 200 mph.
During the month of May, the phrase, “you going to the race?” is just an everyday question across the state, race fan or not. Actually a grand majority of the Indy 500 lovers I know don’t even follow the sport the rest of the season, it’s all about the one day and everything it holds.
Both my parents grew up around the 500, but my dad cemented it as a family tradition when my brother and I were young. Since my dad has always gotten just two tickets, my brother and I take turns going, but the seats got better almost every year, until we landed where we are now right next to the starting line, across from the iconic pagoda and thankfully, in the shade.
This year was my brother’s turn. So while the boys made their way to Indianapolis, I stayed behind to watch the dogs. Sunday was race day, so I woke up early to watch the pre-race coverage as I drank coffee. Usually I would be in front of the TV all afternoon watching each pass and crash with bated breath, but instead I ended up on a three hour hike around Alligator Hill in Glen Arbor.
There was a weird dissonance in how incredibly quiet and isolated I felt on the trail compared to the chaos and noise I’m used to on Memorial Day weekend. I was half present in two places at once.
I texted with my dad as he made his way into the track, getting updates as he went as if I were actually there with him. He parked in a new spot for the first time in years, but it was actually working out really well. Conor Daly (a driver with an old family connection to us) just passed in a golf cart. Finally made it to the seats and the Purdue Marching Band is about to play on the track.
I was so glad to still be included in the day from so far away.
Part of what makes the Indy 500 so powerful is not just the insane spectacle but the shared experience, both physical and emotional. Every single moment of the race from start to finish has some sort of tradition attached to it, from Jim Cornelison singing “Back Home Again in Indiana” to the winner wrapping themselves in a wreath and pouring milk on their head as they hoist the trophy. Those kinds of traditions bind people together.
Seriously, the camaraderie at the track is such a unique experience, because there aren’t teams in the traditional sense. While you might have a different favorite driver, in the end everyone there really just wants a good race.
And this year delivered just that with my dad describing it as one of the most exciting races he’s ever been at. After a rain delay the final laps built to the closest finish in Indy 500 history with Felix Rosenqvist edging out David Malukas for the win by just 0.0233 seconds.
I guess I should have stayed in and watched.
