Our journey to the Chicagoland Speedway began how I never imagined it would: in a Magic Bus on a sun-drenched dirt road to nowhere. It was there to pick us up from the windswept fields we were calling home, and it smelled of wet burlap & mystery. It was taking me to parts unknown.
It was taking me to my first race not named the Indy 500.
Understand, I have all the media credentials one can have, but they will not be put to good use. For on this night, there will be no detailed analysis of the race, nor anything else that might fall under the category of “journalistic professionalism.” There will be nothing close to it, actually.
Right or wrong, that isn’t the goal. Rather, the purpose of the journey is to immerse myself completely in the IndyCar Experience. To live the life I never have — the life of a hardcore fan – if only for a night. And if that means dousing my liver in grain alcohol & climbing atop a rickety barn under the warm glow of a trashcan fire, then so be it. Because it is enlightenment I seek … not approval from Curt Cavin and/or my wife. I apologize for nothing this night, which went down as follows:
5:02 CST — Welcome to Manhattan, Illinois … an exquisite little town thin on population density, heavy on charm. It also has continuous wind speeds of 190 mph. Against all odds, we set up camp and join the other noble campgrounders in their official pre-race activities: shotgunning beers and verbally assaulting Packers fans. Spirits are high, and from some distant corner of the grounds, Journey’s “Faithfully” blares gloriously. This will be a very good night.
5:58 — Our pre-race production meeting is adjourned. A plan for the night has been dutifully established, and that plan consists of walking the 300 yards to the bus stop. Beyond that, we have no plan.
6:02 — The aforementioned Bus arrives, on schedule, just as we were told it would. Of course, what we weren’t told is that it looks exactly like Jim Morrison’s gravestone. It is indescribably magnificent. We step aboard and are quickly greeted by the driver, as well as the young lady who sits atop his lap. It’s abundantly clear that much has happened in this Bus over the years … none of it particularly legal.
We sit in quiet awe & nervous excitement, drinking our beer and gazing out through graffitti-covered windows at the Chicagoland Speedway — which rises up in the distance like a lone oil rig atop an empty ocean horizon. Larry Phelps breaks the silence when he says this feels like a scene from “Red Dawn.” Yes. Yes it does.
6:09 — Wherever it is that the Bus drops us off, it’s approximately 38.7 miles from where it is we need to be. Or so it seems, during the excruciating long walk to the IndyCar Credentials trailer. Which – if I remember correctly – is located just outside of Turn 4, in Naperville.
6: 38 — Credentials secured. Next stop: our Mecca.
(Somewhere nearby, a cold shiver runs up the spine of whoever’s in charge of the Andretti Green Hospitality Area. This person senses impending danger — reckless, freeloading, drunken danger that threatens to wipe out all supplies. This person senses correctly.)
6: 44 — Thanks to Tony Kanaan, we saunter into the epicenter of the AGR elite, and we set up shop. Unimaginable excess ensues. Disgusting, inappropriate excess. However, the details of this will remain untold. Why? Because it’d only make me look like an asshole. That’s why. The whole thing would come across like I’m trying to regale the lowly commoners with wonderous tales of opulence & splendor, while essentially rubbing your face in our luxury. (Oh, what’s that you say? You’ve NEVER dined in a fully staffed trackside villa modeled after a South Hampton estate? Pity. It’s simply the MOST FABULOUS way to prepare for a race, I’m afraid. *puts in monocle* Let me tell you the 9 billion reasons why this is, and why it’s far superior to eating track fries & playing cornhole with peasant-folk …)
I’ll pass, thanks.
Just know that hours roll by as smartly dressed men continuously clear our table & stately looking women in fine jewelry give us a wide berth. We stay until we can stay no more.
Godspeed, AGR tent that I will certainly never again be invited to. You were everything I dreamt you would be, and you’ll be dearly missed.
8:27 — Question: What has 7,000 flights of stairs and comes with a free bout of nausea? Answer: The harrowing, never-ending vertical ascent to our seats. Oh, real world – I’ve forgotten how bothersome you can sometimes be! CURSES!! If only the wonders of the AGR tent could come with us, I’d be whisked up these stairs in a leather-upholstered rickshaw pulled by an Tawainese man named Chief. But alas, such wonders are no longer with us – and I think I just ruptured an Achilles.
Stupid real world.
8:42 — Finally in our seats, the night’s gambling game is proposed, seconded, and passed without objection. Top 20 drivers … blind draw out of a hat … 5 drivers each … $20 a man. The winner has to spend all the profits in the IndyCar Store — without going over — immediately following the race.
Shaun ends up drawing Briscoe, Dixon & Dario, among others. Well of course he does.
I draw EJ Viso, Hunter-Reay, & Dr. Jack Miller somehow. Balderdash!!!!!!
9:13 — It takes exactly two full-speed laps before I fully appreciate what it is I’m seeing. And what I’m seeing is the whole track — unobtruded — under the brilliant shine of 1.2 gigawatts of awesome. It’s a stunning visual, frankly, and the cars appear like the shiny tracer bullets in an unrealistic Michael Bay film. I can see everything, and for the first time in my racing existence, I have a legitimate sense of what’s going on. And having a sense of what’s going on is crucial, I think. It makes all the difference. It’s what separates us from the likes of algae & Lou Dobbs.
9:14 - 10:49— The race runs its glorious course in history-making fashion, Shaun claims his inevitable bounty amidst the chaos of the merchandise tent, and we somehow manage to get back to the windswept killing fields unscathed — although I’m not entirely sure how. It’s by far the most fun I’ve ever had in my 18 months in IndyCar. There is no second place. And the night’s just begun.
11:16 – 4:43 — It’s a moonless night in Manhattan, and the freakish debauchery that follows makes for a rather festive atmosphere. The details of which, again, will remain untold. But for different reasons.
The point of all this, I suppose, is that my goal of immersing myself in the IndyCar Experience was a smashing success. I lived the life of a hardcore fan – if only for a night – and I lived it well. And if I had to obliterate my internal organs & ride a stray donkey like a bull to do it? So be it. Enlightenment rarely comes cheaply, and I will never again miss the Chicago race. None of us will.
That dirt road to nowhere proved to be anything but.
By King Dave, August 31, 2009 @ 9:01 pm
Southampton is one word. Other than that, good read.
-King Dave
-East Hampton, LI, NY
By bickelmom, August 31, 2009 @ 9:40 pm
I want to go there.
By Stubbs, August 31, 2009 @ 9:50 pm
Hobbson,are you…..bald?
I’m just messing with you. I don’t care. Fantastic stuff as usual.
By pressdog, August 31, 2009 @ 9:55 pm
Welcome to the land of the Chicagoland non-virgins, my friend. The magical kingdom in Joliet, where you can see every square inch of the track, and it’s glorious, glorious — and the cars do indeed look like tracer bullets in the night. I’m sure some antibiotics will have you right as rain again soon.
By Roy Hobbson, August 31, 2009 @ 10:08 pm
I took the pictures, Stubbs. I’m not in them. Not that there’s anything wrong with it.
By Jeff Iannucci, August 31, 2009 @ 11:39 pm
You should invite Cavin to ride on the bus next year. I bet he’d count all of the seats for you.
By Sl4md4nce, September 1, 2009 @ 12:10 am
Hobsnob: If your door-prize Tissot stopwatch is correct, you just missed the FREE bands… Sponge AND Seven Mary Three. One of the best kept secrets of the day! Keep your shrimp crumpets, Jim Beam Slurpies, and endless VIP lapdances. I’ll take the cigarette burns, hurled mason jar shards, and impromptu wedgies of the free stage. Thanks for the dreamy whiff of the other side, but the death defying sensory shock of the perimeter MUST be told. Where else can you get frisked by a female rent-a-cop, fork over $12 for a cocktail, jam to “Plowed” while the bass guitarist stage-grinds your girlfriend, and feel the sweet sting of Donald Davidson giving you a prison style tattoo… all within sight of the glorious Oscar Meyer wienermobile?
I rest my case.
P.S. if any of you other concert goers took my car keys (specifically, in the “over 40″ section of the mosh pit), it’s not amusing anymore.
By pd, September 1, 2009 @ 12:20 am
loved all of it, but the harrassing of Packers fans… what the hell is the matter with you man?¿? The packers ARE HOLY!! That being said… I love your sypnopsis of your weekend to the point I am jealous. I wish I were ther to partake in your bebauchery of self indulgment based around an IndyCar event. Those are the things dreams are made of.
By Jeff Ellner, September 1, 2009 @ 7:02 am
Wish I’d seen you there. I too did climb the mountain of stairs and have a beer or two. I would’ve set you straight on the whole Packers/bears thing in a hurry. The bears STILL suck!
By DZ, September 1, 2009 @ 8:26 am
Welcome to your newest, lifelong obsession. This one will take you by the hand and lead you into thrills and terrors unknown except by those who dare. You are now one of us. Indycar Fan Rule #2a. – If we ever, EVER, EV–ER, hear you say anything good about Emerson eschewing the milk in victory lane and drinking the OJ abck in ‘93, well… you’ve been warned.
Also, don’t forget to fully inspect and sanitize the tent immediately following your journey and not one day prior to the next departure. Trust me, personal experience talking here.
By Air Conditioner, September 1, 2009 @ 12:47 pm
So what is Shaun going to do with all the AJ Foyt IV paraphernalia that has ever been made?
By Larry Phelps, September 1, 2009 @ 2:37 pm
I’d like to think boarding that bus was the 21st century equivalent of hopping the boatman’s ride across the river Styx. Only instead of crossing some crazy ass Purgatorian fjord we were making our way through cornfields littered with country rubes and dried up Shetland pony carcasses and things I’d rather not talk about. Soooo, essentially the same thing I guess. Never again Roy, never again.
By thebri2, September 1, 2009 @ 6:11 pm
How does one become part of your night-long odysseys of sexual and moral discovery next year? Would another Clambake donation move me into the congregation’s fringe?
The weekend in Joliet was good, especially my buddy’s cocktail-induced, reggae-infused dance moves in front of a festival crowd for Sponge and 7 Mary 3. Is the 2010 Clambake line-up already set!?
Drinking $13 Crown and sodas out of large Mason jars.
Missing my buddy’s stealthy exit from the portolet only to find him back at the parking lot playing Frog Soccer with drunk co-eds from the Region.
An encounter with a strip-, I mean, woman named Shauna (a hot, hot mess; not surprisingly, she has 5 boys, 1 girl, and 1 RV). And all for some Marlboro swag.
Hearing “push to pass” 520 times.
The all-nighters filing out of the Empress casino looking better than we did filing in at 10 a.m. the next morning.
By the way, I worked my first twenty up and down amongst a few “slot” machines I had no clue how to operate. They don’t even take or give coins any more? Cash, paper, or WIC vouchers only. The jingle jangle of the payouts are now as fabricated as the front porches of the cocktail waitresses yapping about.
Long story short, 9 dollars later getting to spin the WHEEL! OF! FORTUNE! (there’s no other way to say it) and winning 500 bucks.
By thebri2, September 1, 2009 @ 6:18 pm
Oh, and I found a set of car keys with a Duran Duran key chain and an I Heart Danica mini license plate on it.
By Shaun, September 1, 2009 @ 7:29 pm
For those that are interested in my treasure chest of winnings from Chicago:
– 1 Izod/IndyCar pullover
– 2 IndyCar Stickers
– 1 IndyCar Patch
– 3 Top Flite IndyCar Logo Golf Balls
– 3 Red IndyCar Pencils
– 5 White IndyCar Pencils
– 1 Package of Tylenol – Cherry Flavored (didn’t even know they offered that option)
All this for $60 using the 30% Hardcard discount, which I am pretty sure we talked the cashier into. I want to see Rick Mears try to get better use of $60 in the IRL tent.
By Roy Hobbson, September 2, 2009 @ 12:02 am
What Shaun fails to mention is that the entire merchandise tent — who figured out what was going on after 4 trips to the counter — treated him like a contestant on The Price Is Right as we repeatedly tried to hit the $60 mark without going over. It was a moment.
“STICKERRRRRRS!!!!!!!!!!!!”
$54.39.
“PENNNNNNNCILS!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
$58.71.
“TYLENNNNNNNOLL!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Oh … and there’s two B’s in Hobbsnob, boys.