Some 25 years ago, back in 1990, I took my then-girlfriend on her first
trip to the world’s greatest race course.
We had been going out for a few months, and things were going well.
It was time for the next big step in our relationship.
It was time to meet … the track.
She was from Valparaiso, went to Purdue and at one time lived in
Plainfield, but in all those years had never ventured to 16th and
Georgetown.
This I found both incredible and ridiculous and, most of all, something
that needed to be fixed immediately.
So we went on the second day of practice, a Sunday. The weather was
beautiful – sunny, temperatures in the upper 70s to low 80s. A gentle breeze
now and then.
We sat in the tower terrace and enjoyed watching the cars race down the
straightaway and dart in and out of the pits.
“Joining” us was a group of enthusiastic and, uh, interesting
spectators.
They were a few rows down from us. One fellow – despite the warm
temperatures – wore a battered brown leather jacket.
Without a shirt underneath.
He didn’t smell too good – reeked would be an apt description.
Every time the No. 19 Budweiser car of Raul Boesel would roar past, he
would leap up and yell, “Budweiser.”
And take a drink. More like a gulp, actually. Certainly not a sip.
I’m sure my girlfriend wondered what she had gotten herself into.
Why does he come to this place, year after year?
We thought about moving, but as we all know, people-watching is one of
the things you do at the track.
So we stayed. Watched the cars (and people), had a corn dog. Maybe even
a sno-cone.
We were married a couple of years later and are still together today.
But she leaves going to the track to me and our son.
Photo credit: Indianapolis Motor Speedway/scanned out of the 1990
Hungness 500 Yearbook
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