It’s a tale as old as time. Man goes to Indiana for a car race and a rave breaks out…
My drive to Indiana, like the drive to Kentucky, crossed 5 states, but this time I only had 600 miles to go, and two days in which to do it. I drove hard the first day, all the way to the outskirts of Indianapolis. I wanted to explore the city, but I would be there again the following weekend for the Indy 500 and I didn’t have enough energy to do anything but crash.
The second day I only had 90 minutes of driving and couldn’t check into my Airbnb until 3:00, so I took the long way around. I drove the small country roads, stopping frequently to take pictures.
I felt like I truly got to appreciate the beauty of rural Indiana on that drive. Now, that might sound funny to someone who hasn’t spent time in the “fly-over states”, but it was a gorgeous late spring day. Bright yellow and purple wildflowers were blooming, crops were sprouting, and the first generation of terminator killing machines were scouring the land for…oh wait, that's just modern farming equipment.
Seriously though - you can find beauty anywhere you look for it (except Wichita).
WARSAW
I rolled into Warsaw, Indiana in the middle of the afternoon. It was hot. Not like the Arizona fry an egg on the sidewalk hot, but that sticky even my sweat is perspiring hot. I checked in and took a drive around Pike Lake to orient myself. I did a big grocery shop. After filling myself up with pig and liquor for five days straight, I wanted vegetables and home-cooked meals.
Despite the heat, I decided to take a bike ride and explore the little downtown.
Warsaw Indiana is the orthopedics capital of the world. Companies based there manufacture a third of all orthopedics and 60% of all replacement hips and knees. The industry employs 13,000 people within the area, which is impressive when you consider that Warsaw is a town of only 16,000 without much else nearby.
I chose Warsaw because it was roughly halfway between Indianapolis, where I would be attending the race the following weekend, and Valparaiso, where another college friend lives. I was hoping to reconnect with him while I was in the area. Besides, I loved Krakow when I went to Poland in 2019. Hell, my car is named Pierogi, so why not Warsaw? I never did manage to get together with my friend.
I cycled around the nearly deserted downtown. The tank on the lawn of city hall got my attention. It was a memorial honoring the 16 million Americans who served in WWII, and the 405,000 who died.
There were some lovely public gardens, and a small playground with concrete animals you could climb on. I shoved a toddler off this elephant so I could take this selfie, then biked on, leaving the little brat lying in the wood chips, crying.
Soaked with sweat, I biked to a small park on the shore of Pike Lake for a sunset swim. The water was cold and refreshing.
The next day, I got sick and lost my voice. I’m not someone who gets sick easily. Sure, my diet and behavior in Tennessee had done my immune system no favors, but I had also been on the road for over three months by this point. Week in, week out, non-stop movement. My body decided it was time for a restful week. Good thing I had all that food in the fridge.
I slept a lot, worked when I had to, did some writing, and generally took care of myself. I also took this opportunity to break out the game the miniatures I paint are from. The game is called Cursed City, and it’s set in the world of Warhammer: Age of Sigmar. The larger Warhammer game is vast and complicated, which is saying something coming from a guy who likes complicated games. I like this one because it’s self-contained and easy to understand. There are also rules for playing it solo.
When I packed up my minis to paint on the road, I packed everything into a foam-padded bag that holds all the game components too. This is the first time I’d played it on this trip, and it kept me entertained for hours while I convalesced.
By Thursday afternoon I was feeling better and decided to go for a walk. I hit up the Walgreens about a mile up the road, then meandered through the neighborhoods around the lake. I walked past a cemetery, the golden glow of magic hour making it burn orange.
I followed a path that wound its way through a wooded area behind some houses. There was a swampy area, filled with water. All of the cottontail and cotton wood fluff that had been floating through the air had collected on the surface of the water, giving the whole place an otherworldly quality.
As I turned a corner on the path, I stopped dead in my tracks. Ahead of me was a pile of large bones and fur. The bones looked large enough to be a deer, and there was a couple of intact hooves, so that must be what it was. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and a shiver went down my spine. I’ve seen my share of roadkill, so it wasn’t the bones that bothered me.
The bones were clean and I couldn’t see any blood on the fur. In fact, there was no blood anywhere. If the deer had been killed there long enough ago for the bones to be clean, the fur would be long gone. It would have smelled. Somebody would have discovered it, and disposed of the corpse. The path looked well maintained. If it had been killed recently, why was there no blood and viscera? How were the bones clean?
Bizarre scenarios swam through my mind, one more preposterous than the last: a hunter’s prank, a disgruntled taxidermist, a satanic cult sacrifice, an alien abduction? Rather than ponder the possibilities, I snapped my picture and left - maybe some questions are best left unanswered. I was glad never more glad that the sun was out.
Friday evening, before packing my car, I drove down to the local car wash. No matter how much I tried to deny it, The Butter smell was lingering. The sweltering heat of Indiana in May had made sure I could not longer pretend otherwise. I took all the mats out of the back of the car, and I went to town on them. They got scrubbed with the foaming brush, they got the soap spray, they got the high-powered rinse, and then they got the foaming brush again.
I repeated this cycle until I’d burned through about $10. Then I pulled the spare tire out. I wiped the entire inside of the trunk, sprayed down the tire, then put Pierogi back together again. This time surely, I thought to myself, that must have done the trick.
INDIANAPOLIS
My hotel in the outskirts of Indianapolis didn’t have an early check-in available so I drove around the city.
I drove past the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, where the race was being held the next day. The place was bustling with preparation. Traffic was jammed up, but I drove around the perimeter of the track, and holy crap, that thing is huge! The track is 2.5 miles long. It has the largest capacity of any sporting venue in the world. It seats over 250,000 people, but with infield seating the number is 400,000. Speaking of the infield, it is 253 acres. Four holes of the adjacent prestigious Brickyard Crossing golf course are INSIDE the track.
I mapped where my seat was and found the closest entrance. I then backtracked and found a big grassy area that was going to be used for parking. It was far enough from the track that I figured it wouldn't be too much hassle getting in and getting out.
When I got back to my hotel to check in, I found 30 people in the parking lot with pop-up tents and coolers having their own little tailgate pre-party. I grabbed a few beers for myself down the road and crashed their party. The crew was mostly from Ohio, and this was a regular thing for them. Some of the people there had been coming to Indy for decades. They had a betting pool where each person selected one driver and put in their money.
One of the people I met was from Trumansburg, a village of less than 2,000 about 20 minutes from Ithaca. Excited, she started texting her family back in T-Burg. As all people from small towns who meet each other do, we compared notes about people we knew and grew up with to see if there was any possible connection. As a shot in the dark, I asked her if she, or anyone in her family, knew Spider. But she didn’t hear back while I was there.
That’s what everyone calls my dad. He’s a colorful character who lives in the back of beyond, walks and hitchhikes everywhere, and goes by Spider. He tends to leave an impression on people.
Six months later, I am in Trumansburg with my dad, eating at Little Venice. He starts a conversation with the owner, who he clearly knows, and introduces me. She gets a pensive look on her face and asks “are you the one who does all the traveling who met my sister at a Nascar race or something?” True story.
I asked the Ohio crew for newbie advice, and got a lot. Get there early. You can bring a small beer cooler in with you as long as it fits under your seat. Get really good ear protection. Pick one driver and follow them for the whole race. Don’t try to keep track of the everything, it won’t make sense. Bring sunscreen. Get there early.
Following their advice, I made plans for an early start, and went to bed shortly after it got dark.
INDIANAPOLIS 500
As I have said, I’ve never been much of a car guy. I never really got car racing either - especially if it’s one of the ones that just go around an ovular track over and over again. So why, of all places, did I decide to go to the Indy 500?
Before I started my trip, I was talking to a coworker about it. I mentioned Jazz Fest and the Kentucky Derby, and he said that I should check out the Indy 500. It wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years, but the timing was pretty decent. Wedging Indiana into my route that week would take me a little out of my way, but not too far. Plus, the race sounded like a good Fucket List item, so I committed.
The sun wasn’t yet up when I dragged my ass out of bed. I hunted down some coffee, which was not easy at that hour, and caught a few glimpses of a gorgeous sunrise.
I drove my predetermined route to the grassy lot I'd scoped out the day before. Traffic jammed up about a quarter mile away, so I paid to park at a church.
On my mile long walk to the speedway, I discovered the source of our national scourge. How funny would it be, I thought, if I stormed in there and asked to speak to the manager.
The Karen people are actually an ethnic minority group in Myanmar & Thailand, many of whom have close ties to the Baptist Church. I just couldn't help giggle anyway.
The lots directly around the speedway were starting to fill up with people who had prepaid for reserved spaces in those lots. Groups were setting up pop-up tents, brewing coffee, and opening their first beers of the day. I walked through the lackluster security screening, and I was in!
I found my seat and surveyed the track from my vantage point in the empty stands. It was 7:00am and the race didn’t start until 12:30. So, what the hell was I going to do for the next five and a half hours? I didn’t know, but I was going to figure it out.
I walked the perimeter of the track. The size of it was just staggering. Partway down the side, I found a tunnel that led down under the track and into the infield. Unlike the Kentucky Derby, I had sprung for a seat this time around. At $125, I didn't mind. If you buy a seat, it comes with access to the infield, so I went to see what was going on in there.
I followed the sound of music to The Snake Pit, where maybe 200 people had congregated around a large stage. Some local radio DJ played club standards and tried half-heartedly to pump the crowd up. It was a pretty low-key affair.
I seemed to remember something about The Snake Pit from the Ohioans. Something about that’s where the young people go to go wild and party. It cost extra to go in, and didn’t look like much, but I still had five hours to kill.
I bought my first beer from one of the many vendors at 7:50 and walked around to check out the scene. Most of the people had brought coolers. More and more of them kept showing up, which I took to be a good sign. They were decked out in clothing that looked more suited to a music festival than to a car race.
At 8:00am sharp, with enormous flair, they announced Timmy Trumpet. He came out on stage, the music was kicked up eleven, gouts of fire shot from the stage and the LED boards along the edges of the stage started some heavy visuals with skeletons.
Timmy Trumpet is a DJ from Australia who is big enough on the scene that I have actually heard of him. I’m a fan of EDM, but I haven't followed it for 20 years. This was unexpected. The crowd ate it up, surging and dancing like they hadn’t before. The crowd continued to grow. He put on one hell of a show, playing his trumpet along with some of the songs. It was actually really impressive and I enjoyed it, but it was a lot to handle before the time I would normally be getting my first coffee on a Saturday.
After an hour and a half with TT, Sullivan King took over. I had never heard of him, but the crowd clearly had. His sound was something like a mashup of heavy metal and EDM.
The visuals got even darker, and the music nearly knocked me over. It was aggressive. I danced along with the crowd, now wearing the earplugs I’d brought for the race. Somehow, I’d stumbled into a serious rave in the infield at the Indy 500, and I was enjoying the hell out of it.
At 11:00 it was Gryffin. He is one of the very few DJs whose music I know and will seek out. He’s up there in my Top 5 of all time. I’d seen him in Vegas a year earlier and I was stoked beyond belief at my luck. I had another beer, kept danced and sang along.
Then, suddenly, the music stopped. His set was over and he thanked everyone for coming. Everyone was dazed and confused. What the hell had just happened? Then it became clear: a message flashed up on all the screens, and an announcement repeated out over the PA.
There had been lighting about 30 miles away, and the storm was headed toward us. The speedway is a giant metal ring on flat, flat land, and the tallest structure around. I could see the logic in evacuation.
I filed out of the speedway with the tens of thousands of other people who had come early. Outside, though it hadn’t started raining yet, I had no cover, no umbrella, no poncho. I searched for the latest reports online and learned that the race had been tentatively rescheduled (weather dependent) for 4:30. It wasn't even noon.
It was at that moment I decided to skip the race. I walked the mile plus back to my car. Just as I got there, the sky opened up and started pouring. I had made it all the way back and was still relatively dry. I felt pretty good about my decision.
So, yes. I am one of the few people who has been to The Kentucky Derby without seeing a single horse, and to the Indy 500 without seeing a single car.
Between getting sick and missing the race, one might say that Indiana was a bust, but I didn't feel like that was the case. I had gotten a restful week after a month chock full of big events and moderate debauchery. I got my money’s worth at the track, and probably enjoyed the music more than I would have enjoyed the cars.
As it was, I got a head start on my drive to West Virginia. Almost heaven, or at least that’s what the song says.
Yes, and…
Matt
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