Started 5/24/03 in a tent in some field northwest of Turn 4 

Well, it’s not what we expected. It was so much more...actually less than I thought. We exited I-74 onto Crawfordsville Road. That’s a misnomer; I-74 became Crawfordsville Road. It’s then that our quiet eight hour ride radically changed. Crawfordsville Road could just as well have been Bourbon Street. RVs and tents lined the south side of the street, turning the right-of-way into a string of mobilized partiers yelling at cars and looking for women to lift their shirts. Slogging along behind a group of Hogs (we were thankfully on the inside lane), it became a circus of Bacchus and the false deities of revelry. Thankfully, it came to an end (almost) after we drew past the south end of the track. We made our way around the east side of the raceway, around north to the parking lot/campground. Woodstock couldn’t have been like this. These folks are here for the race, right? To say it was an orgy is extreme, but young men with video cameras and beads (yes, those beads) haunted young women, in search of forbidden flesh (obviously no longer forbidden). We drove the gravel gridded grass looking for a “site.” There are not real sites, just room between the gravel and someone’s artificial, painted stripe in the grass parallel to the gravel path.

Close to a kibo and away from the party animals. That became our quest. We found a version of that in the far northwest corner of the inhabited field. Portions north of us remained divided for future parking.

Fireworks abounded, though they seemed to have abated later. Music blared from sources throughout the camp. One local “classic rock” station was obviously having a Block Party weekend with several Tom Petty and Def Leppard tunes ripping the air.

After a lousy night of sleep (I snored; we slept in the van), we groggily rose for Race Day. The revelry was all but gone. The “hardcores” were mounting their steeds for an all-day assault on the raceway. Binoculars, caps, the right jackets, coolers. These are the guys who know how to get into the racing.

We dragged brushes through matted hair and pulled on clean clothes. We mount up with bleacher seats, camera and tickets to enter the hallowed halls of racing. The journey was more like a trek through an army’s camp after battle. Smoldering fires belied bonfires from the night before. Mounds of beer cans resembled spent shell casings. An occasional body could be seen draped over frames, covered in a sort of shroud. One prankster had even placed a skeleton in a chair clutching a grill.

Past the camp, we followed a trash-strewn road to close our approach on the stadium. We tried to get breakfast. Blech. We ordered biscuits and gravy, sausage and hash browns. “Cold” is a term that is somewhat north of the food’s temperature. Oh well. We found and entered our gate for our seats. After a necessary stop and purchase of a program ($10), we entered the tunnel to the front of the grandstands. Whew, my breath was taken away. We came through right across from the pit entrance, at the end of the pit-side grandstands. The seats were mostly empty, but the site was awesome. Climbing our sand took a little more than I expected, but we quickly found our home for the next ¼ day. Section 14, Row V, Seats 13 & 14.

We thought we had just an hour to spare. I still don’t know if we didn’t cross into Eastern Time or if Indy just doesn’t observe Daylight Savings Time (ed.: They don’t), but the infield clock told us we actually were two hours early. Two hours? What were we going to do with the time? It didn’t take long to get our answer. We were directly across from a Jumbotron that was track-casting all the festivities. In the first hour, we watched the Purdue University band on the track in front of us. Then, we saw Brian McKnight perform on the screen. An historic race of cars that had won back-to-back 500s rolled through, replete with Helio Castoneves in his 2002 car, right in front of Al Unser’s Johnny Lighting care and a barrel-chested early front-engine racer. Time collapsed as the stands filled and a spate of performers filled our screen. The pace picked up with Florence Henderson and Jim Nabors belting out “God Bless America” and “Back Home in Indiana.”

God sang through the voice of Oscar Rodriguez, one of New York City’s Finest, who belted out “The Star Spangled Banner.” An invocation and salute to those who serve in the military was accompanied by a graceful, powerful B-2 Stealth flyover, whose deep banking turns reminded everyone why it’s good he’s on our side.

Through the festivities, the pits went “hot”, the cars were gridded and the anticipation mounted until the moment that Mari Hulman George declared, “Lady and gentlemen! Start your engines!” The “lady” was in deference to Sarah Fisher; the belle of the ball; the young, sprite star; the lone female driver in a pack of 33. She was the hope of young women and girls, and the first to exit the ball.

With that famous decree, 200 circuits of the oval were set into motion. What lay ahead, no one knew. Would Helio climb the fence the third time running? Would the retiring Michael go out in a blaze of glory? Immaturity can through in Scott’s tire scrubbing, AJ IV’s crawling speed, even Wheldon’s fantastic aerial display. The veterans took it on the chin, too, but mostly for mechanical reasons. Fatigue of their beasts cast out Michael, Kenny, Robby, and others. Physical fatigue even kept Arie from mounting a try.

Overall, it wasn’t the fastest race. In fact, nine cautions slowed it to a 155 mph average, and there wasn’t the nose-to-nose, turn searing racing many are accustomed to. But, strategy and patience reigned. That is, of course, until the end. Best friends quickly became fierce competitors. The Fence Climber and The Family Man were at it for five laps. It would have been easy for Gil to gently step aside and give Helio a place in history, though I can’t imagine living with that. Roger could have declared certain victory for Helio, but principles kept him from it. Instead, what took place was barely visible, but incredible. Each additional mile per hour seemed like a jump in the fabled warp speed, each click an exponential increase.

The change was there, though. As they shot out of Turn 3 together, you could sense a bit of edginess. Man and machine were reaching exhausting limits. Together, they pulled away from the racing remnant. Together, they closed ranks, not in unison but in challenge, Helio at the charge, Gil at the defense.

We heard that Helio clipped a wall, but the pursuit continued. All the clichés work here; it was mano-a-mano, “To the victor goes the spoils”, “may the best man win.” Even at 225 miles per hour, you could sense the ½ second gap closing. They pressed hard, these brothers-in-arms. It wasn’t enough for Helio, though. He ran out of pavement. The journey was done and Gil had bested him.

But it was far more than that. As a team, the two had bested the entire field. There were two victors. Gil took to the track with his family in a victory lap full of bellowed yells to celebrate. But the party wasn’t over. He invited Helio to Helio’s own party. “Climb the fence with me.” And the team winners scaled the metal fence together. Gil just a little higher than fair Helio. The race was won, and neither lost.