The Official Blog of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway

Every Memorial Day a flood of memories comes back to me.

I grew up on the west side of Indianapolis. In high school we would skip school and go to Carb Day and have a blast. We really didn’t watch much of the track action to be honest. There was too much to watch in the infield!

I remember walking through the infield and seeing Mario Andretti’s transporter and watching them load it.   We started talking towards the guy standing by the transporter and realized it was Michael Andretti himself!  This was before he raced at Indy and he was working for his dad. He was a very nice guy, he answered all our questions. You would have never guessed he was racing royalty. It was just like talking to my neighbor. This was back when the Coca Cola field was filled to capacity days before the race.  In the mid to late 80′s.

Balloons on Indianapolis 500 Race Day

A few years after high school I met my girlfriend,  her grandfather was a car owner. Most of her family was involved with the team. Her brother and dad were members of the pit crew.  It was also interesting to hear the gossip going on behind the scenes. They would always chat about what they were struggling with to get the car setup and ready to compete. The guys basically lived at the track the whole month, sometimes working around the clock. It was pretty intense. A few times when I was at the shop I was asked to help them load the transporter before they headed out to a race. I remember bracing myself to pick up a rear wheel as if I was picking up something heavy and the wheel practically flew up in the air. I was amazed something that big could be so light.

The whole month of May was special. Lots of energy in the city, tons of nightlife, race parties etc.  Nonstop fun.  It wasn’t uncommon to see celebrities out on the town during the month of May.

Years later I was forced to move from Indianapolis after being laid-off from my job. Since then I have traveled all over the country as a computer consultant for the last 12 years. I try to make it back to the 500 every chance I get. It always reminds me of all the great times I had when I was younger. When the balloons fly and the fighters fly over – there is no way you can resist being proud to be American. To this day, the spectacle of the Indianapolis 500 is one of the most electric things I have ever witnessed.

I’ve been to the 500 several times since I left Indy. I always park in the same complex that I lived in back in the day and walk the same path I did back then. I love taking in the sights and sounds of the race. Of course I have to pick up some White Castles and some King Ribs to make my trip complete. I can’t explain it, but my eyes always tear up during the invocation. I will always miss it. Sitting in the stands, getting burnt to a crisp. And having not a care in the world.

When I am unable to make it back to Indy for the 500, Memorial Day is filled with mixed emotions.   It’s just not the same watching it from 1000 miles away. I remember when I was a little kid we would sit out in the back yard listening to the cars engines roar in the distance (probably 10 miles away) and listening to the race on the radio.

It was a great time to grow up in Indianapolis. Thank you for the memories and giving me one more thing to be proud to be a Hoosier and most of all, an American.

- Chris

Although I grew up in Alabama, my father was a Hoosier.  In fact, you could say that he was a Hoosier’s Hoosier.  My great uncle once told me that the definition of a Hoosier was a guy dribbling a basketball around the Brickyard looking for mushrooms.  Could have easily been my Dad!  Anyhow, when he and my Uncle returned from WWII, they started attending the Indy 500.  For many years they watched from the infield, because they could not afford bleacher seats.  I remember vividly hearing of one race where they moved around the infield and everywhere they stopped to watch, a wreck happened!  They definitely felt like “The Flying Dutchmen” that day!

1967 Indianapolis 500

For some years they worked on the safety crew because, by this time, my uncle was the fire chief of Bainbridge, IN.  When they finally achieved some affluence they started getting reserved seats.  They basically saw every race between 1946 and 1970, and missed in 1971 only because my sister graduated from high school in Alabama during race week.  They were back again in 1972 but missed again in 1973, when I graduated.  The two of them had practically photographic memories from races and could describe details of individual races with such precision that you’d swear you had been there yourself.

As I was growing up, attending the 500 with my dad and uncle was a rite of passage for all of us kids, and 15 was the magic number.  On May 29, 1967, however, the night before the race, my dad told me that I was going to get to go the next day.  I was only 12!  I didn’t sleep a wink that night and watched the race get called for rain with Parnelli Jones beginning to dominate the field in the #40 STP Turbocar from Sec 20, Row LL, seat 5 in the Paddock.  We were back the next day to watch the race resume and I’ve been hooked ever since.  While I was in college, several times we would leave Chattanooga, Tennessee, drive all night, drive into the line to park, watch the race and then drive back to Chattanooga to go back to school!  For many years, I watched from the infield and even took my new wife to the race on our honeymoon.

For the most part, the only races that I’ve missed since then were because I was stationed overseas with the army, from 1981-84, 1991-1994 and 2000-2003.  I can vividly remember being on duty in Germany and listening to Rick Mears winning his second race on the Armed Forces Radio Network in 1984.  When we returned from Germany in 2003 I took my son to his first race in 2004: Paddock, Box 63, Row H, Seat 1.  I’m now 57, and I hope to see every Indy 500 until I die and when I’m buried, there will be two tickets to the race in my breast pocket.  It runs in my family and it’s in my blood.

-E.J.

My personal journey to the Indianapolis 500 began before I could even realize it.

It was way back in the early 1960s when I was too young to remember most things growing up in the Northern Indiana community of Koontz Lake. The youngest of five kids, I was the last of the line for a hardworking ironworker named Homer Martin. At that time in America, it wasn’t unusual for a family to have five kids, although today it would probably be scrutinized for one reason or another. But it was a great time to be a kid because my mother, Dorothy, was a full-time mom and housewife, so I had the traditional “Leave it to Beaver” type of upbringing.

My father taught me several things that I take with me today, among them how to be a sports fan and the other was to hate the Chicago Cubs, which I continue to do to this day. Going to a baseball game in Chicago meant the South Side – Comiskey Park – home of the Chicago White Sox.

Dad wasn’t much of a gearhead, which may seem strange since I would be interested in high-speed racing machinery. The 1959 Ford served as the family car until the 1964 Ford made its way into the driveway for a brief time. He kept it for about a year but noticed the aqua-colored paint scheme was two-toned upon closer inspection of the front fender and the rest of the car. So it wasn’t long before a gold-colored Ford Custom 500 became the new family ride.

When I was just over 1 year old, my oldest sister, Nancy, began her freshman year at Indiana University in 1960. She would soon meet a boy who graduated from Warren Central High School in Indianapolis named Jim, and that is how my interest in the Indianapolis 500 began.

Jim had been attending the Indianapolis 500 for years with his father, and whenever my sister and her boyfriend would come to visit, I would hear him talk about the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and that year’s race. He also talked about his favorite driver when he was growing up, although I thought the name sounded a bit odd.

Bill Vukovich.

Remember, I was quite young at the time, so the memories are like old black-and-white snapshots that have faded over time, but that is when my curiosity began about the Indianapolis 500.

As Nancy and Jim became more serious, they decided to marry in 1963. She attended her first Indianapolis 500 with Jim in 1962 to witness the second of Rodger Ward’s two Indy 500 wins. I remember the name Parnelli Jones being mentioned as a mere youngster, and I wondered what this big event they talked about was all about.

As a 5-year-old in 1964, I experienced the danger that existed at the Indianapolis 500 at that time. I’ll never forget the front-page headline in the May 31 edition of The South Bend Tribune that said “Sachs, MacDonald Die at Indianapolis 500.” Underneath the headline was a picture of this huge fireball on the frontstretch of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway with spectators just behind the flames.

Remember, this was the 1960s. It was a different era where the working man of that time had fought in World War II and returned home to build the United States into an economic power. These brave men had seen death face-to-face in their battles in Europe and the South Pacific. It was also during the Cold War where a youngster’s toys were tanks and planes and warships and toy guns – something far different than today’s society. We even played cowboys and indians – something that would likely get us kicked out of public school today.

The point is I was fascinated at both the headline and the photo. The element of danger at the Indianapolis 500 was part of its lure; that brave men would willingly strap themselves into fuel-filled bombs that raced around the track at over 150 mph. This was also a time of the Space Race, and I made sure I was in front of the television set every time a Project Gemini launch was about to happen from the newly-renamed Cape Kennedy.

Race drivers in the Indianapolis 500 were in the same category of bravery as John Glenn, Alan Shepherd, Gordon Cooper, Gus Grissom, Frank Borman, John White, Wally Schirra, Jim Lovell or any of the other astronauts of that era who displayed “The Right Stuff.”

Even though I lived in the same state as the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, it may as well have been as far away as the moon. My father had little interest in ever attending the race and would have probably found the entire experience to be more or an expensive, day-long headache than anything else.

The closest I was ever going to get to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway as a kid was when we traveled from Northern Indiana to Bloomington to visit my sister and her husband. It was always a highlight of the four-hour car ride to be on I-465 and see the Speedway exit for Crawfordsville Road as I looked out the window from the back seat of the old Gold ’65 Ford Custom 500 drove on by in what was literally a “so close, yet so far away” moment for me.

I would also notice something unique that happened in the spring when a bright orange temporary road sign would be placed on I-465 that said “500 Track Next Two Exits.”

Somewhere around the mid-1960s, however, I remember my brother David would turn on a radio every Memorial Day, and I could actually hear the race. It was Sid Collins’ voice on the “World’s Largest Radio Network” telling the world about what was going on in the Indianapolis 500 with the roaring sounds of engines in the background. To me, it had all the drama of a Titan II rocket with a Gemini capsule and two astronauts on board. To hear this event on the radio was a bigger-than-life experience as we fired up the old charcoal grill for a Memorial Day cookout.

David was the next-closest to me in age but was 6 years older than me. He was lucky enough to go to Indianapolis 500 “Time Trials” as it was known back then in 1966 and 1967 with Jim. I was considered too young at the time to go on such a journey – perhaps my parents were wise enough to have heard about the “Snake Pit” and didn’t think that an 8-year-old should see such things. And this was back in the days when “anything goes” in the Snake Pit.

More than likely, it was just a case that I was too young to attend an all-day and all-weekend event such as this.

I remember when the Channel 2 News in Chicago had as the lead story the start of the Indianapolis 500 and this massive crash in 1966. I was fascinated at the pictures of wheels flying in the air and the sight of A.J. Foyt climbing over the fence. Despite the massive crash at the start, Foyt suffered the only injury – a cut on his thumb from climbing the fence.

Way back then, there were only three ways to see the Indianapolis 500. The first was to be part of the massive throng of 300,000 fans that filled the grandstands and the infield. The other was to go to a theater that had a closed-circuit telecast from MCA of the race. And the third option was to wait about four weeks after the race when ABC finally showed it on “Wide World of Sports.”

Every Saturday after the race, I would make sure to have the TV on “Wide World of Sports” only to be disappointed that it wasn’t on that weekend’s show. I got my fill of track and field, lumberjack competitions and the demolition derby from Islip Speedway in Islip, N.Y., featuring Chris Economaki before the right weekend came around with the Indianapolis 500. Little did I know that decades later I would actually work for Economaki at National Speed Sport News, and he would become a journalistic mentor.

But this is how I saw the STP Turbine and Parnelli Jones coming four laps short of winning the 1967 race before an engine bearing failed leaving his car stranded at the north end of the track. I remember a few weeks earlier that was who my brother David wanted to win the race. Instead, it was Foyt who claimed his third Indy 500 win. I also remember Foyt on the cover of Sports Illustrated after that third victory.

It was also how I knew about Bobby Unser’s 1968 win when another turbine-powered car driven by Joe Leonard conked out near the end of the race.

I had another sister named Linda who had married a bright, young engineer for General Electric in Fort Wayne, Ind., named Ron Krol in 1967. They, too, had attended the Indianapolis 500, and I remember his favorite driver was Mario Andretti.

There was tremendous glamour attached to Mario Andretti. He looked like a movie star and had all the allure of James Bond.

Linda and Ron came up to Koontz Lake for Memorial Day in 1969, and I remember as a 10-year-old that Ron had the Indy 500 on the radio in his car when Mario Andretti won the race for his only triumph at Indy. Ron was excited that his favorite driver had finally won the Indianapolis 500.

By 1970, I used to anxiously await the delivery of the afternoon paper to the house – The South Bend Tribune – so I could read about what had happened at the Indianapolis 500 in practice and qualifications. An ambitious kid, I got to know the sports editor of the Plymouth Pilot News named Harold Lowe, who was a huge Indy 500 supporter and covered the race despite the small size of the Pilot News. He even had a Firestone tire from the rear wheel of an Indy car with glass on top to make it a coffee table.

Something grand happened in 1971 when ABC decided to show same-day coverage of the Indianapolis 500. Again, Linda and Ron were up to visit, and I got to hear the race live on the radio when we made a trip to South Bend on a Saturday afternoon. Then that night we got to watch the race on ABC.

No more waiting for weeks to actually see it – we only had to wait until that night.

And it was a fascinating experience filled with some spectacular crashes and daring racing as Al Unser won his second straight Indianapolis 500.

The next night, believe it or not, my father along with Ron and I went to Plymouth Speedway for a Sunday night Memorial Day Weekend race. It’s the first time I ever recall my dad being interested in something like that.

When Richard Nixon was president, Memorial Day was moved from May 30 to the last Monday of the month of May. From 1970-72, the Indianapolis 500 was contested on a Saturday. Tony Hulman, the owner of the Speedway, did not want to run it on a Sunday out of respect to the local churches in Indianapolis. So it was a Saturday afternoon when Mark Donohue gave team owner Roger Penske his first victory in the Indianapolis 500. Gary Bettenhausen could have won the race before his engine blew up while leading on Lap 176. That put Jerry Grant into the lead, but he was penalized for his final pit stop when the crew refueled Grant’s car out of teammate Bobby Unser’s fuel tank. Grant finished second on the track, but the penalty dropped him to 12th place for his ill-fated pit stop on Lap 188, as all laps after that pit stop were not credited to Grant.

In 1973, IMS officials decided to schedule the Indianapolis 500 on the actual Memorial Day Monday, and it proved to be a grim experience because of rain and a horrifying crash at the start of the race on a Monday before it rained again that day. It rained on Tuesday, and the race was finally held on Wednesday. Sadly, it was another grim day when Swede Savage crashed in the fourth turn and a crew member was killed when he was hit by a safety vehicle. Gordon Johncock was in the lead when the race was finally stopped for more rain and was declared the winner in a race that nobody celebrated. ABC was on the air all three nights, and I made sure to watch every night.

By now, I was 14 and more than old enough to experience the Indy 500 for myself. But few of my friends were interested or had the means to go to the Indy 500, and my father simply wasn’t going to go, even if he could get tickets.

By 1974, the Indianapolis 500 was scheduled for Sunday after Hulman got the blessing of local churches in Indianapolis. I remember rushing out of church at 11 a.m. to make sure I could hear the start of the race on the radio.

The year 1977 was special for me because I graduated from Oregon-Davis High School on May 22, and the following week A.J. Foyt won his fourth Indianapolis 500 on May 29. It was a historic moment that had been highly anticipated since Foyt won his third Indy 500 in 1967.

I would attend Indiana University beginning in 1977 and begin my path to a journalism degree. As a liberal arts school, the Indy 500 wasn’t something that was at the forefront of many students minds although many of the 500 Festival Queens and Princesses were IU students. The school year ended in early May at IU, and with the race at the end of the month, many of us were already scattered across the country to return home for the summer.

Over the next few years, though, I was determined that I would one day make it to the Indianapolis 500. To me, it was Indy 500 or bust.

I came close in 1980, nearly talking some of my friends in Plymouth, Ind., to leaving town on a Saturday night to party all night outside the Speedway gates and go into the infield before they changed their mind.

Finally, in 1981, I made sure that one way or another I was going to the Indianapolis 500. I had a few college buddies of mine from South Bend that were already going to the race, so I joined in. We met on the northside of Indianapolis where we attended a house party before making the trek to 38th Street and Lafayette Road. I was amazed that traffic had come to a complete stop at Lafayette and 30th Street. We were still several miles from the “North 40” as it was called back then. It was midnight, and the gates would not open until 5 a.m.

The atmosphere was like Woodstock must have been, with tens of thousands of people all with the same goal – getting into the infield at 5 a.m. and staking out a spot for the Indy 500.

There would be no sleep this night, just the raucous atmosphere as the line of traffic crept along before the aerial bomb exploded at 5 a.m. signaling the opening of the gates. It would be another 1 1/2 hours before we made it through the tunnel, and it was still like the Oklahoma Land Rush as cars sped through the infield grass to find a location to park.

I got as close to the fence inside of the fourth turn and threw down the blanket at 7 a.m. The race was still four hours away, and that is when the all-nighter began to hit. But the sights and sounds were amazing as fans continued to drink and fire up the grill. Nothing like seeing pork chops, ribs and burgers being cooked and consumed at 7 a.m.

There was plenty happening in the infield to keep us entertained as the Cavalcade of Bands marched around the track and the booming voice of Tom Carnegie was on the public address system. As 11 a.m. neared, the traditional ceremonies began, although from our vantage point you couldn’t see them.

Finally, the command was given to start engines and the sound of 33 engines could be heard off in the distance.

It wasn’t until the first parade lap that 22 years of waiting became a reality as the Pace Cars drove by with the field of 33 cars from behind. The sight, the sounds and the color were incredible. It sounded like a beehive that had been amplified 10,000 times with a few stock-block Chevrolets thrown in. And this was just the parade lap.

The pace quickened on the Pace Lap until finally, the race was about to begin.

The first time by the cars were so fast and so loud it was hard to imagine there were actually men strapped inside of each one. It was an adrenalin rush I had waited a lifetime to experience. It was when the Indianapolis 500 became an addiction to me.

I would pay close attention for the entire race although I could only see the inside of Turn 4. Bobby Unser would go on to win in controversy for his third Indy 500 victory. I jumped in the car after the race and drove back to Koontz Lake hoping to get home in time to see the race again on ABC. This way, I would find out what had happened on the other parts of the racetrack – something those of us in the infield only knew about by listening on the radio.

I had finally made it to my first Indianapolis 500 although I knew at the time it would not be my last. The next year, I went to Pole Day for the first time. I would return to the same spot in the infield for the 1982 race and vividly remember seeing Rick Mears cut into Gordon Johncock’s lead each lap over the final 10 trips about the oval. I’ll never forget the crowd reaction to that race which turned out to be the closest Indy 500 finish at that time.

I thought I would be attending the Indy 500 every year but after getting my degree in journalism from Indiana University in 1982, my career path took me to North Carolina where instead, I would be covering NASCAR. Every Memorial Day weekend, I was covering a race, but it was the World 600 at Charlotte Motor Speedway. I remember getting smart-ass cracks from the old-school NASCAR media at the time for listening to the Indy 500 on the radio from the CMS Press Box.

I consider those years my time in auto racing purgatory. I would finally get my release when a new NBA franchise came to Charlotte known as the Hornets. I became the beat writer, and when I cut my deal with the sports editor, I would be allowed to cover the Indianapolis 500. He reluctantly agreed, and I returned to cover the Indianapolis 500 for the first time in 1989 from one of the best views in all of racing – the old press box that hung below the Penthouse seats on the frontstretch of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

I haven’t missed an Indianapolis 500 since, covering every race from 1989 until today for such outlets as United Press International, ESPN SportsTicker, National Speed Sport News, SportsIllustrated.com and in my current role on Race Day on ESPN Radio and for Indianapolis Motor Speedway.com, among others. Since 2010, I have assisted Fox59 Indianapolis in its coverage of the Month of May. From a sporting perspective, Race Day at the Indianapolis 500 is as big as Christmas when I was a kid.

After all, my Indy 500 or Bust moment began when I was just a kid, too young to even realize what it was all about.

The memory that stands out to me most, is meeting Dan Wheldon at Bump Day on Sunday May 23rd 2011.

I had to miss the Indy 500 to attend an out of town wedding. It was the first race I’d missed in about 10 years. Luckily, I had the privilege of obtaining hospitality and suite passes for qualification weekend. I immediately agreed on going since I knew I couldn’t make it to the race that year.

This was the first time I had ever had pit passes for an IndyCar race so it was the first time I got the chance to walk up and down the pits. It was the most incredible experience. I even got to meet drivers Charlie Kimble, J.R. Hillderbrand, and legend Arie Luyendyk that day as well.

A photo in the 2012 Indy 500 program of Andrea hugging Dan Wheldon

But my favorite moment of the day, and of all my time at the IMS, was about to come.

I was sitting on the wall by Helio Castroneves’s pit looking down pit row, and I saw a silhouette of a man standing near the scoring pylon dressed in white. I immediately jumped off the wall and ran down pit lane while yelling to my friends “Oh my god there’s Dan Wheldon!”.  I took off like a bullet leaving my two friends behind me saying “What is going on?”.

I, like so many others, have been a Wheldon fan since his first Indy 500 win in 2005.  It didn’t hurt that he was English and gorgeous as well.  My girl friends and I stood at the entrance of Gasoline Alley trying to say hello to Dan and get his attention.  He smiled and waved. We waited patiently to see if we could get an autograph.

It began to rain and all the drivers and crews started heading for cover, Dan started to walk away, and then stopped, turned, smiled, and headed directly our way. I asked if I could give him a hug, and he said “of course” and he gave me a big hug! It’s sort of fuzzy after that because I believe I briefly lost consciousness for a moment.  My friends and I got our picture with him, wished him luck at the race, and then I proposed marriage to him and he said “you have to talk to my wife about that” and laughed.  He was the nicest, sincerest person.

I listened to the race on the radio and watched the finish on TV, and when Dan won I cried and ran outside screaming that he had won the race!  My favorite driver won the anniversary of the Indy 500!  AND I got to meet him for the first time ever the weekend before!!!

His untimely death broke my heart and many others in the racing community, but I was very fortunate to have met him.  Last year, in the 2012 Indianapolis 500 program was the picture of me hugging Dan. That moment will live forever in my memory and will always resonate within the walls of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

- Andrea

When I was a boy of about 13, my father took us to IMS for the first time. He worked for Colonial bakery in Indianapolis and the bakery sponsored a car in the 500. We went to time trials. I remember not only the speeds of the cars, but the smells and sounds. You could literally feel the cars as they flew down the front straight.  IMS is a literal attack on your senses. Hearing the engines rev and speed down the front straight was like nothing I had ever heard. The smell of the fuel expelled from these rockets on wheels seemed to burn your nostrils. The taste of the bologna sandwich my father brought that day may have been the best bologna sandwich I ever had. Not only the taste of the sandwich, but the promise of a slushy offered on good behavior. At the age of the 13, I discovered what it was like to FEEL the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Every sense of the IMS, coming together to converge, would be permanently inside my heart my whole life. That day set the tone for a passion I would carry with me into adulthood. My father passed away when I was 15 years old. I wasn’t incredibly close to my father. However, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway would connect me and my dad forever.

James Proudfoot and his daughter at IMS

In college, I was enrolled in the Photojournalism program at Ball State. Part of the curriculum was to take an internship. My photography professor, Bob Heintzelman, introduced our class to an internship shooting for Reuters International News Service. I immediately showed interest and signed up.  It was in this month of May and 5 more years after that would bring all those childhood dreams back to life. I never imagined I would have ever had this opportunity in life. I was there every day the track was open. Most of the days, it rained. It never washed away my passion for this place. IMS brought me closer to my dad. It reminded me of the time he brought me and my brother to the track, to show us what IMS is all about and why he loved it. What isn’t to love about IMS? It attacks your senses. IMS isn’t just pavement, or bricks, or buildings or even cars. It is a “feeling.” And I never wanted it to go away. I was overwhelmed in the excitement of the history, the rules and the drama that is IMS. I had the opportunity of a lifetime and am forever grateful.  I was able to rub elbows with some of the drivers and mechanics. I was permitted to get so close, one day I inhaled some of the fuel as one of the teams started the car. I nearly passed out. I did not care, although I would not do it again. Being in the pits was a dangerous place to be. Paying attention was not an option. I loved it. I loved every single minute of it. I was sold for life.

In my lifetime, I have had the opportunity to see 15 races with my best friends, my brothers and colleagues. I remember every single race. I remember how I felt. I never had the opportunity to see a race with my dad, but I would like to think he was there with me for every one of them. I imagined him looking down on me with a smile on his face.

A couple years ago, I took my daughter who was 11 at the time, to Pole Day. I was excited. She was excited. For the first time in my life, I was able to pass on what my dad shared with me so many years ago. I had the opportunity to share with her the “feeling” of IMS. The day did not disappoint. She came within inches of meeting Danica Patrick; her hero. We had the best of days together. She was interested in the qualification process, what everything in the pits was. Watching her stand at the fence gazing at the pits, my heart felt happy. My daughter was as amazed as I was when my dad brought me there for the first time. She had the “feeling.” Her senses were attacking her all at once. Everything had come full circle. Like an oval. Like the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. For that, I am forever grateful. Once you have the feeling of IMS in your blood, heart and bones, it can never be taken away. Ever. Someday we are going to go see the race together. My hope, is one day, she will take her kids.

– Jim & Autumn

If you happen to get a hold of a copy of the 1988 Carlmont High School yearbook from Belmont, Calif., turn to the section for seniors and look me up.

You’ll find an entry in my hand-written senior will that reads “Look for me at Indy in 10yrs,” which, despite its nerdy undertones,  proved to be rather prophetic.

16 year old Marshall Pruett at the SCCA Regionals.

I grew up at my father’s shop “Pruett’s Olde English Garage” in the San Francisco Bay Area, and with his background as an amateur racer and race car mechanic, it wasn’t long before I was filled with visions of driving and turning wrenches.

I’d grown up with a passion for motor racing, and the Indy 500 in particular. With my father and grandfather constantly regaling me with tales of Jim Clark, Jackie Stewart, Dan Gurney and Mario Andretti at the Speedway, they became instant heroes.

We’d listen to the “500” on the radio in the late 1970s—wish I could say why it wasn’t televised where we were—and to be honest, it added to my reverie for the race. Hearing the announcers describe the races was a far better experience than seeing it live. My imagination took over and conjured my own version of the races. What a blessing.

A few years earlier, one of my earliest memories involves being dragged to races with my dad in 1973—sitting in the unpaved upper paddock section at Sears Point (about where the first two or three pit boxes are now located near Turn 1)—and helping him pick rocks from his racing tires. I loved helping him, enjoyed being useful, got a thrill from being around racing cars and that experience, even at such a young age, crystalized something inside of me.

I was soon promoted to using Windex and paper towels to clean things, and by my teens, my cleaning talents were being shopped to a local pro racing team.

By the time I turned 16, I’d become a “gofer” for an SCCA Pro Super Vee team, which involved my first stint on the road attending races. I was underage; you had to be 18 to get into the pits, but that wasn’t a limiting factor—not with Super Vees serving as a regular support series for the CART Indy car organization… I wanted to be there and found a way to skirt the rules.

While I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else, I would not have changed a thing.

Having started out in an open-wheel training series, I worked my way up the ladder as a mechanic from Super Vee, adding stops in F2000, Formula Atlantic and Indy Lights through the 1996 season. Met a couple of Brazilians guys who came to America to race Lights that year…some Castro-Neves dude and his pal Antoine Kanaan. Not sure where they ended up…

It took the Genoa Racing Atlantic and Lights team to partner with one of its former drivers, Greg Ray, to put together a program to compete in the first season of the new-look Indy Racing League for me to get my shot at the Indy 500 in 1997.

The team, which was based in the Bay Area, bought a Dallara IR07 chassis from A.J. Foyt (he bought Dallaras, then decided he liked G-Forces a bit better and ditched the Italian-made cars), acquired Oldsmobile engines built by NAC out of Chicago, and, as simple as it sounds, a new IRL team was up and running.

Forget struggling to get an engine lease, spare parts prices or any of the other concerns that face IndyCar Series steams today. Bought a car. Bought two engines. Did a deal with our old friends Al Speyer and Joe Barbieri from Firestone—folks we’d known from Indy Lights, and out little Lights team was now an IRL program headed for its series debut…at the ’97 Indy 500!

Ray was brimming with confidence, our team manager/engineer Thomas Knapp was also never short on confidence, and with an exceptional (but small) team of mechanics and crew, we were fast right out of the box. Dallara, with help from Andrea Toso and Sam Garrett, were incredibly helpful with setup suggestions and data.

As our assistant team manager and data engineer, I multitasked just like everyone else and shared in the collective disbelief that a little band of Lights veterans could rock up to 16th & Georgetown and play with the big boys.

It was, by no means, the most beloved era of racing at IMS, but it helped launch a lot of careers like my own and a lot of teams that otherwise would never have been allowed onto the premises.

We broke a water pump and didn’t last long during the race, then came back in 1998 and made a name for ourselves by qualifying on the middle of the front row in a sponsor-less car.

Our sponsor, who’d promised to deliver a check for $250,000 before the start of practice, failed to deliver, and with the team loaded into the garages, our only hope was to run hard and try to attract attention.

We’d continued to use NAC engines…which failed on a regular basis and made minimal horsepower, but it ended up being just what we needed during the first few days of on-track activity.

Knowing we had limited laps available with our engines, we worked hard at perfecting the Dallara’s handling. Our lap speeds were abysmal, and whatever we did in the corners, the car did down the straights.

With the reality of packing up and going home becoming a very real proposition, I flagged down Indianapolis Star reporter Curt Cavin, who kindly did a story for the next day on our team being broke and close to heading home.

The next morning, a Yellow Shirt came by and handed me a $20 bill. “It isn’t much, but buy the boys some sandwiches with it” was his instruction. He also gave me his business card.

I had a dumb idea that I hoped would stretch his $20 bill a lot farther. Knowing that most photographers walk along the outside of each pit box at Indy—the right side of the car, I took his card and the cash and used clear tape to affix it to the top of the sidepod.

My hope was that the shooters passing by would see the strange combo of an Indy car and cash on display, take a photo and hopefully ask what it was all about. By chance, it worked. More stories ran—from the Associated Press to local TV stations – and the dollars started to flow in.

We were able to upgrade to Brayton Engineering-built Oldsmobiles which, after all of our setup work, transformed the car into a rocket. It was a beast in the corners and shot like a rocket down the straights.

Ray held onto the car for four laps of qualifying that were well over the limit—a desperation act of the highest order—and placed the car second on the grid.

I spent the next few days fielding calls from sponsors from coast to coast, and come Race Day, the black No. 97 didn’t have a lot of real estate left to sell.

Ray led before a gearbox issue halted our march. It was the high-water mark for me at Indy—a year where everything went wrong before it went right. I’d return for three more “500s,” my last coming in 2001 as part of Sam Schmidt first year as an entrant with driver Davey Hamilton.

I’d retire from a solid 15 years on the road (and I use that term loosely) at the end of 2001, went to college, met and married by wife, tried working a normal job but could not resist the allure of racing. My last act at Indy from a team perspective was engineering a Lights car at the 2005 Firestone Freedom 100, and since then, my annual visits to the Brickyard have been as a writer, reporter and photographer.

That 1998 Indy 500 was amazing—almost surreal, but if I’m honest, I’m enjoying myself more today as a member of the media than I ever did as a crew member.

I’d have never guessed it at the time, but being able to work with the entire paddock—drivers, mechanics, owners and officials—rather than the small field of responsibility that comes from working on a team is simply invigorating.

Oh, and remember the part where I predicted I’d make it to Indy in 10 years? I was wrong—I did it in nine.

We’ve seen an incredible response to our super cool #Indy500orBust sweepstakes on Instagram.  Folks have been uploading photos all the time and there have certainly been some creative submissions.

We wanted to take some time and highlight our favorite fan submissions:

While this post isn’t from a fan, it’s still one of our favorites.  We recently put together our very own Harlem Shake video.  Josef Newgarden was kind enough to join us and the post video shoot photo is proof of just how much fun we had.  If you haven’t seen our Harlem Shake video yet you’re missing out on some pure comedy.  Head here to watch it now!

If you’ve kept up with INDYCAR’s #TheOffSeason on youtube you know there’s one thing that Josef Newgarden is on the look out for… Gnomes.  Coincidentally, a pair of gnomes uploaded some photos of themselves to Instagram.  Even though these two appear to be bitter in-state rivals they’ve united in their love for the Indy 500 and Josef Newgarden.

Ok, so this one isn’t a fan submission either BUT it’s Mike Tyson.  I mean come on, it’s Iron Mike!  What’s not to like about this one?

Here we have another VERY creative fan submission.  Love the bricks and the usage of the race car clock.  It’s been very fun to see all the ideas fans are coming up with.

Who doesn’t love a good race car pic?  This person was smart enough to roll out there Formula Vee and slap an #Indy500orBust sticker on the front.  They’ve made it clear what their intentions are while they’re on track!

Our last pic comes from our writer John Oreovicz.  John was lucky enough to be a part of a group of media members who were invited to the Dallara Factory in Italy.  John snagged this photo of Gian Paolo Dallara, the found of Dallara Motorsports who constructs the INDYCAR DW12 chassis.

We’re looking forward to receiving more creative submissions from the fans.  We’ll write a couple more of these as we approach May so you can see what your fellow fans are doing!

Wondering how you can participate? Well, you’re in luck!  Here’s Sarah Fisher Hartman Racing’s driver, Josef Newgarden with a video on how you can join in on the fun:

Other people have more interesting stories about what goes on at Indianapolis Motor Speedway than mine. Other people have a more extensive history of the doings behind the scenes than I do.

But I’d wager that none of them are connected to the Brickyard in quite the same way I am.

Just after the party had died down from Al Unser’s victory in that gorgeous Johnny Lightning car, after the Snake Pit had emptied for another year, when the grounds crew was starting the laborious task of cleaning up after another year’s edition of “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing,” when David Letterman was closing the book on his day as a roving reporter for ABC during the race, I figured it was time to make my appearance on this tiny, unremarkable little planet upon which we live. I took my first bow on the grand stage not far from the Speedway in a small room at Methodist Hospital.

My mother says that I cried pretty loudly when I was born – most likely because I was upset at having missed the race by a couple of days.

I spent the first few years of my life in an apartment only a few blocks away from IMS. My memory has never been as good as other people’s – I can’t tell you everything that happened to me when I was a toddler. As a child, I apparently attended several Indianapolis 500-Mile Races, but precious few souvenirs from those days still exist in my family coffers. My dad remembers being there when Gordon Smiley tragically perished, and he was in Turn 1 with a front-row seat to Salt Walther’s terrifying accident. I don’t remember much of it, at least not with any clarity.

Some things, though, do still stand in sharp relief in the dulling, fractious shards of my early childhood recollections. I remember the first time I ever walked down the frontstretch at Indianapolis. My dad held my hand as we walked next to the catch fence during practice. In the distance, an Indy car barreled out of Turn 4 and careened toward me. I was facing north, so I saw it coming. It was going so fast that all I really saw was the huge cow-catcher front wing, the enormous rear wing and four black spots representing the tires.

I still remember the echoing, howling whine of that car’s engine as it rushed at me down the front straight. The car was past me before I could tell which one it was. But that sound… warped by the Doppler effect, louder than anything I’d ever heard before, so penetrating that it rattled my teeth… it hit me in the solar plexus like a hard right from Muhammad Ali. I remember standing still, feeling the pull of my dad’s hand as he kept walking briefly, still smelling the sweet scent of methanol washing through the air in the turbulent wake of that amazing machine.

I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

On another occasion, we were returning to our car after some session or another. We were parked in the infield, and I was young and short enough to be spooked by how many legs there were to push through in the crowd. Once again, I had hold of my dad’s hand and was hoping not to get lost in the crush. He suddenly steered me out of the crowd and stopped in front of another pair of legs. I looked up, followed the legs up the torso until my eyes rested on the face of my favorite driver, Tom Sneva – grinning from beneath a huge blue Goodyear hat.

“Hey, kid,” my hero said.

That meeting was stuck in my brain in 2005 when I boarded my flight home from the 500 and discovered that the guy sitting next to me was none other than Sneva. It turns out that he had been coaching Pancho Carter’s son Cole during the Firestone Indy Lights event at the Speedway that weekend. Coincidentally, I had donated some professional services to Cole’s American Revolution Racing team for the same race, so thankfully I had something more profound to discuss with my childhood idol besides, “Hey, do you remember about 30 years ago in the Speedway parking lot…?”

Though I’ve worked in many media centers at many tracks in my professional career, I only got to cover the Indianapolis 500 from Gasoline Alley once. I sometimes think that that has been a blessing for me. In the 15-odd years I have spent in one job or another in motorsports, my ability to be a fan of racing has steadily diminished in direct proportion to how close I have come to understanding the sport’s business. That is not to say I have had bad experiences working in racing – in fact, the overwhelming majority of my involvement has been very positive. But there is something lost when you become familiar with something or someone you once revered at a distance. Maybe it’s a result of seeing through image to see substance … perhaps, even if the substance is still positive, the ability to see it dispels a bit of that magical aura that is so instrumental in establishing the pedestals from which our heroes regard us.

That never happened with Indianapolis. At least not for me. I wonder if it is because it was such an integral part of my childhood. Like Tony Stewart, I spent hours with toy Indy cars racing around a thickly woven oval-shaped rug in our living room. Most of my clothes had checkered flags on them. I’d spend most of my Mays singing, “The Five Hundred, the Five Hundred, the greatest race of them all!” while listening to WIBC radio. That childlike enthusiasm for the race has never waned, not even during the dark, depressing days during the civil war between the IRL and CART. I have always been giddy for the month of May and sad when it turns to June.

For me, Indianapolis is more than just a race or a “bucket list” event. The 500 is as near and dear to me as a family member, and even in the years when I can’t be there in person, I still consume the traditions and pageantry as greedily as I ever did the tenderloin sandwiches I bought at the Mug ‘n’ Bun or the Tin Star Jail. My year still revolves around the end of May, and even the best birthday party still feels like a bit of a letdown after the party I celebrate the week before.

“Indy 500 or Bust” is a call to action, an invitation to congregate in the Circle City for an annual pilgrimage. But in reality, I have never really completely left Indianapolis or the Speedway. Part of me lives there, only truly happy when the Indy cars are turning laps in anger and singing a hymn of speed in full, glorious chorus.

This story is the first in a series of posts from motorsports insiders who were kind enough to share their journey.  Head to Indy500orBust.com today and share your journey!

I’m told one of Indianapolis Motor Speedway’s creative campaigns for 2013 is called #Indy500orBust. Shoot, “Indy 500 or bust” is the story of three-quarters of my life.

John on Race Day – 2004

I discovered cars when I was growing up in central Pennsylvania. Every autumn, my Grandpa Zechman would take me to Becker Volkswagen in Selinsgrove to see the new Beetles as a treat if I was a good boy during back-to-school shopping.

My parents noticed my fascination with cars, so they got me a subscription to Road & Track magazine when I was 9. At about the same time, our family moved to West Lafayette, Ind., and soon enough, in the spring of 1975, I made my first visit to IMS as part of a fifth-grade field trip. In 1977, at age 12, I finally got to see and hear race cars on the track for the first time. There have been many historically significant days in the 100-plus year history of the Speedway, and this was one of them … but not because of my presence. No, on my first day at IMS, Janet Guthrie became the first woman to qualify for the Indianapolis 500 – quite a milestone day, indeed!

My parents had no interest in cars or racing, but I’m thankful that they recognized and encouraged mine. Any time they heard one of their friends was going to Indianapolis, they tried to arrange for me to go along. My first 500 came in 1978, and my main memory is how much cooler the Cosworth-powered cars (like those driven by winner Al Unser and Penske team members Tom Sneva, Rick Mears and Mario Andretti) sounded compared to the ancient, tractor-like Offenhausers.

Mears quickly became my favorite driver, and I remember being disappointed in 1979 as I listened to the race while playing Frisbee on the lawn of the Purdue Memorial Union that I was not at the Speedway when Rick won his first 500. I wasn’t able to return to the 500 until I got my driver’s license a few years later, but I began to follow Indy car racing through the Indianapolis Star and News and whatever magazines I could find. And, of course, I listened to the race every year on the IMS Radio Network; I recall experiencing the classic finish of the 1982 race on the radio while frying chicken in the kitchen of the MCL Cafeteria in West Lafayette.

The most fun era of my lifetime of Indianapolis 500 experiences came between 1983 and 1992 – the “party years.” We would drive down from Lafayette to Indianapolis on Saturday afternoon to hang out with friends, then head out to the west side in the evening, hoping to be parked in a good position on 16^th Street when they stopped traffic for the night.

In those days, they’d fire off the cannon at 5 or 6 in the morning and allow cars to fill the infield. The golf course back then was a $13 muni instead of today’s perfectly manicured Pete Dye showcase, so there was much more ample parking and a great atmosphere for setting up to grill out and drink beer.

John at Indy in 2000

In 1992 – the last year I attended the 500 as a fan – my friends TJ and Debbie Rodeghier lived in a house on 14^th Street, about three blocks from Turn 1, so we hung out there to ward off the cold. We watched the race from the inside of the short chute between Turns 3 and 4, exactly where Michael Andretti rolled to a stop with barely 10 laps to go after dominating the race. I remember nearly getting into a fistfight with my friend Andy Renie because he was heckling Michael.

Nearly 20 years later, I moved to a home in Speedway, just nine houses down the street from the Rodeghiers. You could argue that I didn’t make it very far, but in many ways, the move to Speedway was a comfortable homecoming for me. I celebrated my 20^th season of working in the sport this year, and it’s a little-known fact that my lucky break came from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway when it hired me as a Media Staff intern for the month of May 1993.

And what a month of May to break in! Media attention in 1993 was much greater than normal due to the presence of Nigel Mansell, the reigning Formula One World Champion. As a lifelong F1 fan, I really liked the way the PPG IndyCar World Series developed in the 1980s and early 90s into a series that combined the best of both worlds. You had oval tracks like Indianapolis and American stars like Mears, the Andrettis, Rahal, Foyt and the Unsers, and also an international flavor, with road and street courses, high-tech cars and worldwide stars like Mansell and Emerson Fittipaldi. Crowned, of course, by the Indianapolis 500.

The unexpected twist to my own story is that once I “made” it to Indy and gained access to the inner sanctum – the garage area, the media center etc. – the enjoyment I derived from going to the Speedway diminished. Some of the letdown was natural – after all, I was now going to the track to work, rather than purely for my own amusement. But some was colored by the politics of the era.

I covered the first Indianapolis 500 run under the Indy Racing League banner for Autosport magazine in 1996, but I didn’t attend the race for the next three years. I’ve been back every year since 2000, meaning that the 2013 race will be my 30^th Indianapolis 500. That might qualify me for the old-timers club!

John and his son Patrick in 2008 and again in 2011.

In fact, when you add up all the practice and qualifying days, Race Days and media events I’ve attended – not to mention the number of times I’ve just walked through the Hall of Fame Museum with family or friends – I’ve spent at least a year of my life on the grounds of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

Indy car racing unified into one series in 2008, and I’m happy the Indy 500 is now once again the indisputable No. 1 race at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Attendance has swelled on Race Day, spurred on by a rejigged “Snake Pit” party zone. And if Pole Day doesn’t produce the track-record speeds and massive crowds of decades gone by, Carb Day has grown into the second-biggest day of the month of May and established itself as a key part of the 21^st century Indianapolis 500 experience.

My first experiences at Indianapolis Motor Speedway nearly four decades ago sparked a lifelong passion for Indy car racing. I spent the last 20 years of my life chasing the Indy car circus around the world, but the place I choose to call home is Speedway, Ind.

After all, “Indy 500 or Bust” is a lot easier when the journey to Turn 1 is only three blocks long.

This story is the first in a series of posts from motorsports insiders who were kind enough to share their journey.  Head to Indy500orBust.com today and share your journey!

My Indianapolis 500 journey didn’t start with tales of great drivers and races from my father or grandfather. It didn’t start with watching or listening to “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing” every Memorial Day weekend. It didn’t start with a magical, sun-baked Race Day in the Paddock Penthouse.

My Indianapolis 500 journey started inside a cardboard turkey box.

Johnny Rutherford earned his first Indianapolis 500 victory May 26, 1974 – four days before my ninth birthday. I remember watching highlights of the race on ABC and reading about Lone Star JR’s victory in both the Syracuse Post-Standard and my father’s copy of Sports Illustrated.

I was infatuated with JR. With his McLaren Offy. With the great race in the Midwest, which seemed tens of thousands of miles away from my childhood home in suburban Syracuse, N.Y.

But in 1974, there was no easy way to convert a boy’s fantasy into reality. There were no Xboxes. No iRacing. No karting facilities in cities or shopping centers.

So instead I acted as JR in the theater of my young mind, with a box from Plainville Turkey Farms as my prop.

My family would order 20-plus-pound turkeys from a local turkey farm for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those big birds were delivered in large cardboard boxes, which my mother stacked under the ping-pong table in the basement of our house.

I grabbed one of those boxes, a magic marker and turned that box into JR’s No. 3 McLaren. I drew the number 3 on both sides of the box. I drew tires and various sponsor decals on the side of the box and instruments and gauges on the inside of the box.

Then I squeezed my small frame into the “box car,” and my journey to Indianapolis began.

I did not grow up in Indiana. I did not grow up in a racing family. But I watched and paid attention to the “500” ever since I turned that cardboard turkey box into a McLaren in 1974. It was THE auto race to me, the only one I really knew and to which I felt any connection.

Through the next decade, I went to high school and college in my native New York and never got a chance to go to Indianapolis to see the “500” in person. That changed in 1990, when I was a sports reporter at the Binghamton Press & Sun-Bulletin in New York. Motorsports was my main beat at the time.

Two-time Indianapolis 500 starter Davy Jones hailed from McGraw, on the edge of the circulation area of the paper. I proposed to my editor that I drive to Indy to cover the race and write a sidebar on Jones, providing a local angle for the paper that the wire services wouldn’t cover.

My editor bit on my pitch. I received notification of my credentials and two complimentary media tickets in an envelope from IMS.

Then there was a hitch in my plan. Jones lost his ride – for reasons I can’t remember 22 years later. I thought my chance to cover the Indianapolis 500 was gone.

But then I tried another pitch. My editor already allocated the days on the schedule for me to cover the race. I had credentials. So why don’t I still attend the race – but as a fan using the complimentary tickets – and write a column or sidebar about the circus-like fan experience at the world’s largest single-day spectator sporting event? I reinforced my pitch by telling my editor this column could be moved on the Gannett wire service to compliment Gannett’s national coverage.

My editor bit on this pitch, too.

So my wife and I jumped into my 1989 Ford Explorer XLT pickup truck and headed west on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. We had race tickets, but we didn’t have a hotel room. So like many race fans, we slept in the bed of my truck, parked in the neighborhoods just west of Georgetown Road, serenaded all night by AC/DC tunes, Q95 and the crackle of fireworks coming from campers in the Coke Lot.

Race Day was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. A cacophony of sounds, sights and smells. Complete sensory overload. My face hurt from smiling so much.

But nothing compared to the electric shocks pulsing up and down the spines of my wife and me as we stood in the First Turn Terrace bleachers inside Turn 1 and saw the front row of pole sitter Emerson Fittipaldi, Rick Mears and Arie Luyendyk pass by on the first pace lap.

And when the green flag flew and Emmo skimmed past us like a cruise missile, hearing 33 turbo-charged rockets for the first time? We were blown away. The impression was indelible. I still have goose bumps, almost 23 years later, while writing about it.

I was hooked. But that was the last time I attended the race as a fan.

In 1993, I left the newspaper business to take a public relations job with the National Hot Rod Association. It was a fun job, with a pit area and media center filled with unique characters. I immersed myself in the straight-line world but still paid attention to happenings at Indy during the Month of May.

I was amazed by the domination of the Penske Panzers in 1994. I wondered whether Scott Goodyear really jumped the Pace Car in 1995. I mourned the passing of Scotty Brayton from the media center at the dragstrip in Englishtown, N.J., in 1996.

Then, in November 1997, I received one of those fateful calls that hopefully happen to everyone at least once in their life.

I was working on NHRA media materials when the phone rang. It was the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, inquiring whether I was interested in an open position in public relations. One of those incredible “you don’t know us, but we know you” phone calls, as I briefly had met members of the IMS Public Relations staff while giving them a tour of the NHRA media center operation during the U.S. Nationals earlier that year at Indianapolis Raceway Park.

Was I dreaming? Was that really Indy on the line? It was. And when Indy calls, you listen.

I accepted the job as communications manager for the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and INDYCAR and started in January 1998. My next journey to Indy came in May 1998, my first year as an employee of the media staff for the Indianapolis 500.

I’ve been there ever since. But unlike every other IMS employee, I’m not really there all the time.

I have worked as a telecommuter for IMS since I started with the company, working from my home office in suburban Syracuse. I had the same setup with NHRA from 1993-97, and the Speedway graciously granted me the same privilege.

Central New York is my home. Generations of our family are here. Our three kids were born here. But I like to joke that I have two homes: Central New York for 11 months per year and Indianapolis in May.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be than at 4790 W. 16th St. during the Month of May. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and since I’m only at the track for a few weeks per year to work the races, my affection for every part of the facility never wanes.

The Speedway crackles with an explosive energy on big event days, such as Race Day, Carb Day and Pole Day. I anticipate just how much that power makes me feel so damn alive every time I experience it.

I have a personal Race Morning tradition – started my very first year as an IMS employee, in 1998 – as I drive through the tunnel to the infield between Turns 3 and 4 before sunrise. I play loud rock music on the radio and wait for my hands to instinctively start banging the top of the steering wheel in eager anticipation for the marvels and unique work challenges of the Race Day ahead.

I’ve always said to myself and friends that if my hands don’t start playing drums on the wheel in the tunnel while a grin rips my face in half, then it’s time for me to find another job. Thankfully, my hands have pounded the steering wheel of my car every year since.

But perhaps my favorite time every year at IMS are the quiet moments leaving the media center at sundown after a long day of work. The Pagoda is achingly beautiful in the orange, purple and golden hues of dusk. The shadows of the steel girders and posts in the B and E Stands outside Turn 1 are majestic in the fading light.

At that quiet moment, you feel the ghosts of past glory and heartbreak at Indy. No question about it, and I’ve never been to another sporting facility on Earth that creates the same sensation.

And to think it all started with a cardboard turkey box.