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223.471 MPH
By Bill Zahren
(Posted 05/25/00)
I think I showed great restraint
yesterday when a co-worker said those ugly words: "What race?"
Come on. Memorial Day weekend?
11 rows of 3? Jim Nabors singing "Back Home in Indiana?" Couple
hundred thousand sunburned, hungover fans? Perennial threat
of rain? 223.471 freakin' miles per hour? High-maintenance
driver spouses in racing jumpsuits nicely accessorize with
ample gold jewelry and a visor? Swigging milk at the end?
Ringing any bells?
Tilt back in your chairs and
say it with me, boys. Breathe in. Now out -- "Indeeeeeeee."
For 83 years, the Indianapolis 500 has run on the Sunday before
Memorial Day. And for nearly as long, I've been planted immovably
in front of my TV for The Race.
The fastest qualifier this
year, Greg Ray, posted a four-lap average speed of 223.471
mph. That, my friend, is traveling at a rate of speed often
described by my auto mechanic father as, "hellity-boot-jack."
I have no idea where that term comes from, but it's the goal
of many American males to some day achieve hellity-boot-jack
velocity or at least travel "faster than a striped-assed ape,"
which is yet another of my father's high-speed descriptors.
Not only is speed thrilling,
but it's also key to "making good time," the number one priority
of high-testosterone male travelers. We feel challenged to
shave precious seconds off every trip by driving on the shoulder,
the median, whatever. The more advanced good time makers often
draft the car ahead of them, waiting for the corner so they
can "make their move" and "slingshot" around the leading car,
cutting valuable half minutes off their driving time.
So deep down, we all want to
go 223 mph -- while getting the absolute best gas mileage
possible. Now those Indy drivers, they make good time around
that track. They don't have to stop to let the kid pee every
six hours or get stuck behind a 1984 Dodge Reliant with its
left turn blinker on. No. They've harnessed American (and
in some cases Japanese) automotive prowess to go fast enough
to kill themselves.
That's another thing about
Indy. It's so on the edge. One little twitch at the wrong
moment and you're wall graffiti as your tires bounce blithely
on down the track, happily freed from your smoldering car.
During a TV interview once, a famous driver said the only
time he got scared during a crash was when he didn't hear
screeching, skidding and general car disintegration noises.
Because when everything gets quiet he knows he's airborne,
absolutely the worst place to be in any kind of racecar.
So we've got speed and the
real risk of dying, although car safety is so good that death
on the track is pretty rare. Being the son of the aforementioned
mechanic, I'm also digging the crew chiefs at Indy. They're
the grand master tweakers. The automotive Tweakasaurus Rex.
Reminds me of watching my dad spin balance tires on a car.
He'd jack up the car, hook up the tire spinner, and then literally
lay hands on the automobile, sometimes closing his eyes, his
rough fingers delicately adjusting controls. Almost spiritual.
Indy mechanics do that times
100. They worry about stuff like airflow over the car, suspension,
engine power, tires, mystical chants and rituals that may
or may not involve chicken blood to get the car ultra tricked
out so the pretty boy (and girl) drivers can ride the rocket.
Without a great mechanic crew at Indy, you ain't winning "best
paint job" let alone the race. And while the drivers sit in
the winners circle swigging the traditional victory milk,
the mechanics jump up and down like cheerleaders on diet pills.
The crew chief would be the guy smoking the huge cigar, engulfed
in total smugness.
And a guy like me -- with a
wife and two daughters -- is also smug about the two women
drivers in the race this year. One, Sarah Fisher, is starting
in the middle of the pack, in front of 13 men and one other
woman, seven-time Indy qualifier Lyn St. James. At the ripe
old age of 19, just 11 years older than my oldest, Fisher
qualified at 220.237 mph. St. James, at 53 the oldest qualifier,
managed an average of 218.826 mpg. Hellity-boot-jack indeed.
Then there's the emotion of
it all. On "Bubble Day," the last day to qualify for the race
- often by knocking someone else out of the field - grown
men who qualified wept like small children. Wriggling out
of the cockpit, they couldn't talk to the ubiquitous trackside
Indy reporter Jack Arute without choking up. They had to take
a moment.
Even four-time winner, certified
Indy God and now racing team owner, AJ Foyt, gets misty on
Bubble Day. Normally as subtle as a 2x4 between the shoulder
blades, Foyt got farklempt after one of his drivers, Billy
Boat, got into a car he'd never even seen before, started
t up and drove like a psychopath in order to qualify at 218.872
mph. Foyt said, right on ESPN2: "That kid's got a lot of balls."
When it comes down to it, Indy
is all about having a lot of sex organs (male or female).
All the tweaking, computer telemetry, qualifying runs and
first 190 race laps are just the price you pay to get to the
last 10 laps of the race in position to win.
At that point, it basically
comes down to what the car has left -- and the size of your
gonads. Big breath. Now let it out: "Indeeeeeeee."
© 2000 Bill Zahren
-- end --
Other Indy-related columns:
Pressdog
does the Indy 500
How
Can You Be So Calm?
On Being
Sarah Fisher
Catch
Sarah Sorenstam Fever!
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