Because for the next 100 or so miles, we crawled up & down winding dirt roads and one-lane blacktops at LITERALLY 12 mph. That’s not a joke. Nor hyperbole. GPS Lady apparently wanted to give us the scenic route — and if it took three weeks & a divorce to get there, so be it. Have you ever been in a terrible rush & slowly inched along behind a tractor tiller deep in Southern Indiana hill country as your scorned wife silently fumes next to you? Holy Jesus. Misery. Total misery. If I could’ve crawled into the glovebox right then, I would have. The resentment in the air was so thick, you could cut it with a court summons.

ME: You hungry? Let’s stop and get something to eat. Where should we –

WIFE: Why don’t you ask your stupid girlfriend? Maybe she can lead us to a Denny’s in Afghanistan.

A two-hour trip became an eternity. But all was not lost. Because somewhere along State Driveway 101 or whatever it was called, we happened to come across every decent-minded Hoosier’s holy land:

Milan, Indiana. The real-life home of the Hickory Huskers.

It was like popping out of the dense woods & straight into the Lost City of Atlantis … only AWESOMER. I had heard of Milan, of course — just as every Indiana native has. I wasn’t really sure it still actually existed, though, nor had I ever been there. (Only 37 people have, I believe.) I reacted accordingly: by parking the car & snapping pictures like a nerd & reverently bowing my head & snapping MORE pictures, totally in awe of its historical significance. My wife was now furious AND mortified!! But I had no time for that. THIS is the original home of the Goliath-killer, I thought. (This or the Valley of Elah from the Old Testament. Either or.) Simply being there put me in the mood for some old-fashioned GIANT SLAYING. It was a sign, alright. A sign of things to come later that night. A wonderful sign for Ed Carpenter or Dan Wheldon or ANYBODY else not affiliated with Penske or Ganassi. It had to be.

It was not.

Fast-forward to whenever it was Saturday night when it became clear that Helio was going to win. I’m not terribly sure when that was, exactly. With 10 laps to go? Five? My wife & I were watching from the pits — a difficult place to keep track of such things, particularly when neither of us are “race people.” All I know is that the entire area was crazy-ABUZZ with energy as Carpenter & company battled for the lead … and then totally & remarkably deflated when they weren’t. Everyone looked at the scoring pylon at roughly the same time & somehow saw #3 sitting atop it. And everyone kind of groaned. I won’t remember much from the race, but I’ll remember that unmistakable ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!?! vibe that quickly covered the pits like a wet blanket of predictability.

Helio coasted to victory, of course. It was all kinds of anticlimactic. It was anticlimactic on steroids, but not really. Because steroids are unpredictable & volatile … no, this was “anticlimactic” on fiber pills & a sensible 8 hours of sleep. It was the otherworldly anticlimactic that cuts coupons & spearheads the Neighborhood Crime Watch … in a neighborhood without crime. Such a letdown.

Upon exiting the Speedway, it was obvious that fans weren’t happy about the outcome. But through gritted teeth, they repeatedly muttered the time-honored mantra: “That’s racing.” I heard it no less than 30 times.

Well you know what? That little mantra doesn’t sit well with the casual American sports fan. It certainly doesn’t sit well with me. It’s a vague, miscellaneous catch-all that tries to explain away the worst aspects of the sport, but does so poorly. It’s hollow & dumb and I have no use for it anymore.

Week in & week out, all the best drivers aren’t even in the field??? Mm-hmm. That’s racing, I’m told. Nine different people can drive a better race than Helio Saturday night and LOSE to him? Yep. That’s racing. In fact, Curt Cavin credits Helio’s unlikely win to an archaic relic of the past — seemingly tongue-in-cheek, but I can’t say for sure:

Remember, there are examples in other sports where the one who shouldn’t win utilizes the only advantage he has and does. Like when basketball teams held the ball in the era before the shot clock.

HOORAY FOR US INDYCAR FANS!!! We’re still subjected to the same broke-ass tactics that were outlawed by mainstream sports some 60 years ago!! (You know, because they were ruining the sport & so forth.) In Cavin’s basketball analogy, an inferior team would take an early lead & then win by holding onto the ball for the next 983 straight minutes. Captivating theater, it was not. It wasn’t even basketball. So it was fixed. See if this sounds familiar:

The National Basketball Association (NBA) had problems attracting fans (and television coverage) before the shot clock’s inception. This was largely due to teams killing the clock once they were leading in a game; without the shot clock, teams could pass the ball nearly endlessly without penalty … Very low-scoring games with many fouls were common, boring fans.

The shot-clock came into existence in 1954, by the way. Which brings us back full circle.

To where? you ask.

Why to Milan, of course — who won the Indiana High School Basketball title that very same year.

Some consider it the greatest upset of all time. A fluke for the ages. It most certainly wasn’t. It was simply a matter of the little guy being better than the powerhouse, which is a rarity for sure. But not an impossibility. Because unlike the fictional Hickory Huskers, the real-life Milan team was exceedingly well known beforehand. They didn’t just come out of nowhere with a new batshit crazy coach & a mute 2-guard savant; they advanced to the Final Four the year prior. They didn’t just beat country rubes & obscure mining towns to luck their way into the Championship game; they pounded Oscar Robertson’s nationally renowned Crispus Attucks in the semi-finals — the team who would go on to win the next two Indiana state titles (1955 and 1956).

That final game was not a fluke. It was hardly an upset. Hollywood works like that, but not REAL sports. Because in real sports, there are no flukes. The best team might not always win, but whoever COMPETES the best does. Period. Every time, without exception. Be it an underdog or a favorite, a David or a Muncie Central. That’s sports.

And this is what’s so maddening about IndyCar. Those basic principles of legitimate competition seem absent. Because on a night when Ed Carpenter, Dan Wheldon & Tony Kanaan all CLEARLY competed better than anyone else, they all lost. To a middling, uninspired Goliath. On a fluke — a fortuitous, fuel-conserving loophole in the system that everyone hates. And worse still, they lost anticlimactically. Well of course they did.

And in case you’re confused as to why we have problems attracting fans (and television coverage), don’t be. Keep telling yourself this: That’s racing. And then please start thinking of ways to fix it.

[Dreyer & Reinbold Racing drivers meeting -- Wednesday, September 1st]

PT: Whaddup, homes? I’m Paul Tracy. But all my friends call me Big Dick McWinnerscircle. Someone here called me, so now I’m running this operation. Who the f–k are you?

Justin: Named after the naughty bits, are you? Right then. The name’s Wilson, friend. Justin Wilson. We’re teammates now. We’ll be driving together.

PT: Listen up, Harry Potter. Paul Tracy doesn’t drive with SHIT. You feel me? Paul Tracy drives ALONE! You don’t see some badass Arctic ninja-wolf hunting down deers & shit with some freaky-tall professor-wolf at his side, now do you? Shit no. That’s dumb.

Justin: A load of codswallop, that is. Wolves hunt in PACKS!

PT: Not this wolf, bro. That’s one thing you need to know about me. Here’s the others:

First — yes, I am THE Paul Tracy. I’m famous as f–k. I’ve won every race known to man and Converse manufactured my own line of cologne back in ‘89. It was called “Ivory Musk,” and it smelled like God-given excellence & marinara sauce. It was popular in most rural communities. But I’m out of that business now. Now I’m back in the business of kicking everyone’s shit.

Second — you probably heard that I’m cocky. And honestly, that’s not true. I just have a deep-seeded belief that I’m better than any racecar driver alive, and everybody else sucks balls. That’s just called keepin’ it real. Nothing more, nothing less. You give me a ride, I give you a trophy. Simple as that, homes.

Third — get in my way, and I will wreck your shit. For real. That goes for on the track, along the freeway, in the electronics aisle at Costco, in line at the salad bar at Fogo de Chao … pretty much anywhere in life. I’m like one of those hardcore fire tornadoes sent down by Jesus. Yeah, I’m nice to look at & all that. But you’d better steer clear — unless you want to get torched in the face & probably blown into the atmosphere. And if that’s what you want, then by all means, go ahead & get in my way.

And fourth — you play your cards right, and I might just teach you how to be a f–king superstar. Now go get me two Baconator Doubles from Wendy’s.

Justin: Rightey o, mate.

Because this race — this trip — had become THE seminal moment of the IndyCar season for us. More than the Indy 500, frankly. And now it is gone. Likely forever. The good ones always die too young — and yet Mid-Ohio lives eternally. Pffffft.

The otherwise festive atmosphere had grown a bit morose as we began shutting it down for the night. Some still had functioning tents, but not me. Not most of us. We lied there in the grass wondering aloud what was next. Short of a wire fraud conviction (possible — perhaps even probable) and a 36-month stint in Joliet’s lockup, we shan’t be returning to these parts. Ever. What would become our NEW Chicago? Where will we go? Texas, perhaps? Iowa? Would it be the same? Would it still be the wondrous & magical event that this had always been? Probably not, we concluded. Certainly not. How it could it be? A sorrowful & collective sigh was quickly followed by sleep, but it was not restful. It’s always darkest before etcetera etcetera, I suppose.

Because there at daybreak, an odd & wonderful thing happened. There was rustling in one of the few tents not set ablaze hours earlier, and it was silhouetted by brilliant & piercing sunshine. There were terrible rumblings & groans from inside its walls, and it seemed ready to burst. We were all awake because of it, watching with painfully squinted & confused vision. But we said nothing. Everything was still. It was captivating theater. It would become more so.

Because the tent took on the persona of a regal Gypsy horse or something, and she was pregnant. With our friend. The majesty of Nature was revealing Herself before our blurry & awestruck eyes. The tent door became a birthing canal as a trembling leg poked through. And then an arm! And then another leg, followed awkwardly by the torso and the other arm. Newborn colts don’t typically emerge from the womb wearing tighty whiteys, but this one did. (IT’S A BOY!!!) At long last, the head emerged & he was free! He had survived the taxing ordeal, but he did prosper. That much was certain. He was whimpering incoherently & trembling. Again, we said nothing. We simply watched in awe.

Completely unaware of his surroundings, the poor little fella was lathered in grotesque birthing fluid(?) & struggled to keep his footing. Like any newborn colt, he was totally blind and had no real motor skills to speak of. Or balance. Or coordination. He took one clumsy step & promptly tripped over a cooler. Felled by a Coleman 40-quart, he remained face-first in the grass too exhausted to move. Being born is never easy.

The symbolism was not lost on us. Nor the humor.

The death of Chicagoland was mourned festively & with great vigor, but it was mourned nonetheless. We went to sleep broken-hearted — we awoke laughing uncontrollably & with a renewed sense of optimism.

Death is unavoidable, but so too is birth. Circle of life and all that. Because while Chicagoland is gone forever, something else will emerge. It always does. And we will make an event of it — a wondrous, debauchery-laced trip full of merriment & facial lacerations. We will go to Texas or Iowa or Kentucky or some other track we’ve never been … some place we wouldn’t otherwise go had this race not been murdered. It won’t be just like Chicagoland, but so what? It can be equally spectacular — maybe even more so — but in entirely different ways. We at last understood this, and decided that we will not go gently into that Chicago-less schedule. Nor will we go dejectedly. Quite the opposite.

Because there against backdrop of a sun-drenched Illinois cornfield, that regal tent gave birth to a 200-pound & spectacularly hungover gent named Tom who had no earthly business being alive. That was the least of what it gave us.

Not everyone learns this lesson, but I did. I did indeed.

Because my senior year in high school, I received a full scholarship to play basketball in college. All those miserable summer games in 128-degree gyms & 9,000-degree blacktops … all the horrible travel & missed opportunities & gruesome floor burns … all the work & the injuries & the stupid, never-ending ball-handling drills … they were all about to pay off. Finally. My thoughts of what I felt I was owed were not subtle:

AT LONG LAST, I AM A DIVISION I BASKETBALL PLAYER. Unimaginable perks & co-eds will flow like Powerade, and we will stay only in the plushest Four Seasons –  never the questionable ones. Nike will outfit us handsomely & chartered jets will ferry us to & from our destinations, and those jets will be filled with rich mahogany & fine liquors. We will dine like wealthy shipping merchants & and otherwise bask in the dignified glow of the Division I Life.

As it turned out, I was a remarkably awful collegiate basketball player & our program continuously teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. I quickly learned that this wasn’t Duke or Florida or Michigan State I was playing for — this was a very mid-major university facing the same economic challenges that EVERY OTHER mid-major does. We stayed in dilapidated Ho-Jo’s & Motel 6’s & various roadside shitbaskets, sometimes four to a room. We bussed anywhere within a 38-hour drive, and if we ever did get to eat, it’d be at a gas station or Golden Corral. Our uniforms were made of reclaimed rawhide, I think, and breathed like a COPD patient. Handsome, they were not. Oh — and pitifully, we once played a regular season game in a hotel ballroom with ZERO spectators in attendance.

It was everything I imagined the Division I life being, only the complete & utter opposite. (So long, sense of entitlement!! Hello, petty crimes to make ends meet!!)

It was a sad state of affairs, alright, hardly capable of getting worse. OH BUT IT DID!!! Because twice a year, the cold reality of our plight would rear its ugly head & thrash us with billy clubs. Billy clubs made of shame. Because twice a year, our Athletic Director would round us up for our Semiannual Fundraising Telethon, where we’d cold call alumni & boosters & random town folk and hit them up for cash. There we’d sit, in some depressing conference room with 20 telephones & 20,000 numbers to harass. We’d be huddled up like some sorry-ass gang of orphaned bootshines in a Charles Dickens novel — all disheveled & probably gout-stricken — begging strangers for our continued survival. The phone calls reflected this grim truth:

G’ eveining, sir — my name is Roy Hobbson, and I’m the 37th-string point guard for your Fightin’ [REDACTED]s!! Say, mister, can you spare $200 so that our team can buy basketball shoes & food?

Was it demoralizing & awful? Oh, totally. But was it necessary? Sadly, yes. Absolutely. We had no delusions about that. Such is life at the bottom rung of the NCAA ladder.

I only bring this up because some people think that the whole IZOD/IndyCar/Playboy marketing-triangle is also demoralizing & awful & that they’re raping our country blind with their SLUTTY SORCERY & SUGGESTIVE COME-HITHER POSES! They aren’t, of course. Not even remotely. But pretend that they are. Pretend that these lovely ladies are terrible she-devils hellbent on whoring up America & dismantling our Space Program for one reason or another. Would it still be necessary then?

Sadly, yes. Absolutely. Such is life along these bottom rungs of professional sports.

Clearly, we’re not the NFL. We’re not the NBA. We’re barely Major League Soccer –  and even that might be a stretch. We can’t just turn down MASSIVE exposure on a puritanical whim. We don’t have that luxury. And make no mistake, this Playboy thing is generating all kinds of exposure. Consider this: by the end of this week, the number of people who will have watched that video will far exceed the number of viewers of EVERY RACE THIS YEAR COMBINED. It is exposure on an almost unfathomable scale. And to replicate it naturally — without Playboy or IZOD’s marketing wizards — Danica would have to go all Chaz Bono & “switch teams” & promptly go on a 9-state felony spree. Or simply win a race. Whichever comes first.

It would be nice if this weren’t the case. It would be ideal if we could just sit back & wait for the masses to come to us organically — for them to realize on their own that our product is entertaining & sexy & far superior to all other forms of racing. Then we could simply pick & choose only the most responsible marketing tools that would also reach billions of people. That would just be THE CAT’S PAJAMAS! Of course, it’s also woefully naive & delusional & just overflowing with a false sense of entitlement. We’re in no position for such things. Rather, we’re in the unenviable position of TAKING IT ANY WAY WE CAN GET IT — and even then, in the grand scope of things, there are far worse ways to sell our sport & keep us afloat. (I’m looking at you, tasteless Juggs Magazine spread involving vats of mustard & a harpoon. You too, IndyCar Fundraising Telethon on local television station WMBH-40.)

Listen, this is a good problem to have. It’s a phenomenal problem, really. Because as we debate the philosophical & societal aspects of sex in marketing, 38 million people are thankfully being exposed to our brand. And they’re instantly associating us with sexy & cool & (mild) edginess — and perhaps their interest will be piqued. The prudish Lutheran elders among us will howl with disgust, of course, just like they never did the previous 9 trillion times racing & sex appeal were packaged together. But so be it. I’m not interested in judging their morals, nor they in judging mine — it’s boring & pointless & nothing good can come of it.

Rather, I’m focused on the fact that IZOD is taking us to parts unknown. The buzz they’re capable of  generating is unlike anything we could’ve imagined three (or even two) years ago, and we should be nothing but grateful. And also tremendously excited for where this all is heading. But perhaps your sense of righteous decency demands that we not take this route. Maybe your sense of entitlement tells you that IndyCar need not resort to such “lowly” measures — that our product alone will carry the day, and that we deserve nothing less. To which I’d say, few things would be more dangerous.

The road to Defunctville is paved with delusions.

Well — not CLOSED closed. Just temporarily relocated. Because today we’re making a mad dash out of these here parts & jumping the big stupid Wall of Oppression that has long held us back & we’re running roughshod through the terrified audience at VERSUS.com. Or to put it another way, we’re the bull shown here:

Poor VERSUS.com. You’ll likely never knew what gored you in the spinal column & ravished your site. But nevermind all that. It is a price I’m willing to pay for the quarter-ounce bag of WIN that will certainly go down.

Because a special-edition Live Colloquium kicks off at 5:00. “Special” in the sense that the usual band of Pagodan misfits will be joined by AJ Foyt IV, John Lewis (The Creator) and PR extraordinaire Pat Caporali, all broadcasting live from an undisclosed fortified compound. (The pot to take a taser to the neck has grown to $850, by the way, and there’s the chance that Pat rides the lightning & walks home with the cash. We shall see.) Better still, panelists for the Live Chat include people who actually know what they’re talking about. Wonderful people like George Phillips from OilPressure.com, Tony Johns from PopOffValve.com, The Speed Geek from everywhere, and Will McCarty from IsItMayYet.com. A blue-ribbon panel, that. Whatever nonsense we’ll be discussing will certainly be more entertaining than whatever isn’t going on in the race.

So let us now flee this hellhole & RUN!! RUN TO FREEDOM!!!

[hops wall ... gets speared in the head ... doesn't really care]

August 18, 1923 — At the annual National Football League Board of Directors meeting in Akron, Ohio, Cotton Whittaker of the Columbus Panhandles was named League President. His first order of business? A queer & revolutionary concept that involved transforming the very long & very continuous 60-minute NFL game into TWO SEPARATE 30-minute games. Except the first game wouldn’t really count in the standings — only the final cumulative score at the end of GAME NUMBER TWO would determine that day’s victor. The other owners were mighty confused.

“Well bust my buffers, boys!” Whittaker famously bellowed. “TWO GAMES INSTEAD OF ONE!! We’re gonna be rich, I tells ya! Rich as Persians!!!”

The lone player representative in attendance — George “Peggy” Parratt of the Massillon Tigers — then unknowingly coined the phrase that would echo throughout sports history.

“Gee, sir — isn’t that nothin’ but ONE game split into two halves?” he asked. “With a period of time in between for a restful bath & a smoke. A time at half, if you will. Is that about right?”

“Whatever,” Whittaker said dismissively. “We’re doing it.”

And from that bit of marketing trickery, the concept of “halftime” was born.

Going to the Chicago race, are you? Splendid. A fabulous event, that. But why stop there? Why return to an unoriginal hotel or domicile when there is revelry to be had? Answer: you shouldn’t.

Join us, won’t you, in some remote & moonless campground where neither the laws of man nor God are particularly enforced. It is “Paul & Mary’s Raceway Camping,” and it is a regal patch of land. Plus, it is reasonably priced & smells of cannon fire — and some whimsical Crazybus takes you to & from the track. Last year, a small platoon of Pagoda operatives set out to scout the premises & gauge its potential — the final verdict was most favorable.

This year, we invite all Pagodans to secure their slot & pitch a tent & be apart of the lively camping festivities. Because hotels are for uppity Communists, and you are no Communist. You’re a winner — a winner who happens to enjoy delicious s’mores & six-story Patrón bongs under the warm glow of a flare gun. Just like John Denver. You’re welcome, America.

It’s “good for making headlines,” he writes. But “it doesn’t have a place in IndyCar.”

INDUBITABLY!! Well said, Graham. We’re IndyCar, damn it … not homeless mouth-breathers. Our palates are refined & dignified, and our races have no use for “headlines.” (That bothersome tripe is for poor people & dullards!!) Rather, we prefer the highfalutin hills of Mid-Ohio, “where you stare at the clock waiting for it to be over,” as Graham so correctly describes it. Hear hear.

The HBO series “Hard Knocks” premieres tonight. It’s a show tangentially centered around football, yes — but it’s focused mainly on the human drama & intrigue & captivating story lines which transcend the game.  The NFL, it seems, is (still) striving to bring their product into the lives of people who aren’t necessarily football fans. They’re (still) trying to broaden their appeal.

Perhaps IndyCar and/or Versus should be taking notes & doing the EXACT SAME THING with our sport. Perhaps a weekly documentary show depicting the drama & intrigue & captivating story lines off the track would serve us well & bring in new fans. I tend to think so. But then again, who am I to judge? What do I know? I’m no marketing guru. Perhaps we’re already on the right track & moving along swimmingly. Time will tell, I suppose.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go be the 50th person to Re-Tweet this & join IndyCar Nation so I can maybe win a free pair of Magnum® work boots.

Now is the time to pray. But now is NOT the time to panic. We must do as the IZOD Girl has always done: we must keep our heads as everyone else is losing theirs. Godspeed.

(Stay poised in IZOD PerformX®!!)