An ode to Indianapolis: My first Indy 500 experience

You cannot help but have a lump in your throat as it all unfolds. 

The scale alone? Unfathomable. And then the 300,000-plus attendees fall deadly silent; the only sound becomes that of a solitary instrument. Your breath is taken away. You simply have to look around and take it all in, for this is something extraordinary. 

It was one of the most memorable half-hours of my life. One of those feelings you bottle - a feeling so profound that it is almost tangible. You cannot possibly forget it.

There is plenty I will never forget from my first Indianapolis 500 experience this month. Even before seeing the Indianapolis Motor Speedway (IMS) itself, right back at the very beginning, merely arriving in the city, an IndyCar haven, will stick with me as a Briton covering the series. Because as a sport, IndyCar is largely invisible back home. 

Of course, the wider sport remains something of a hidden gem even in the United States, but that ramps up into another stratosphere in the motorsport-loving United Kingdom.

So to arrive at Indianapolis Airport and be greeted with a historic Indy car, Indy 500 and Pato O’Ward show cars and seas of race-related welcomes and advertisements from FOX Sports and otherwise was a pleasant beginning to the trip. It was an early taste of how an entire city lives, breathes and is united by racing - and its largest event - for a whole month.

Of course, the first view of IMS, ahead of the first day of practice, was equally unforgettable. 

Driving to the track for the first time, cruising down West 16th Street, the first thing that strikes you is the scale. Even driving parallel to the South Chute - also known as the ‘short chute’, which the cars make look almost non-existent - felt fairly long. 

You then look through an opening, beyond the grandstands and into the infield. The first glimpse of the iconic Pagoda building - and much else that I had seen on television and in photographs for years - was almost akin to seeing a religious monument. 

Peering further again, you see the grandstands lining the backstretch, down to the Turn 3 and Turn 4 complex in the distance. That’s when you truly realise how huge the place is. 

I would clock that scale even more as the fortnight progressed and the grounds filled up towards the almighty crescendo on Memorial Day weekend. But even from the outset, I was struck by the towering, even if dormant, nature of the grandstands. And if you wanted to walk anywhere, it felt something of a hike inside the 2.5-mile perimeter.

But you cared little, for you quickly realise every breath taken at IMS should be savoured.

At DIVEBOMB, in our early 20s, we have been accredited in the IndyCar space for three years now and have covered the sport for even longer. Never before, though, had I covered a race in-person. Travelling alongside my also-first-timer colleagues Dan and James, we were going in at the much-welcomed deep end with the biggest race of all.

Immediately, another first impression from being on the ground was the environment behind the sport and the race. The joy with which we were greeted - no longer “in a box” on Zoom calls or Google Meets, as IndyCar’s communications team remarked - was affirming. 

It was nice to see how welcoming and friendly the drivers, many of whom we had spoken to virtually, were - which is so often regarded as a staple of the IndyCar paddock. 

Our first interaction was with a disguised Callum Ilott - a content ploy from IndyCar - in the media-centre lift en-route to the Tuesday bullpen; a compatriot of ours, he was one of our first podcast guests and pleased to see us make the trip. Then first off in the bullpen, fittingly our first-ever podcast guest, Sting Ray Robb remarked: “Oh, you’re in-person this time!”

It was certainly full-circle - and a little strange, in the best way - to meet these many familiar faces after years of reporting from 4,000 miles away, across the Atlantic Ocean. 

Many similar interactions followed with many drivers. Exactly the same personality off-camera as he is in the public eye, David Malukas made a point of picking us out in the media centre to deliver a barrage of recommendations for our time in Indy. Yes, we gave into the pressure to try his favourite fast-food chain, Portillo’s, and it was fairly worthwhile.

Finally immersed in this world for real, we were never made to feel like outsiders. The desire from across the paddock to ensure our first experience was entirely maximised - whether through garage or workshop tours, being taken alongside the Borg-Warner Trophy or watching our first qualifying runs from the FOX booth - was extremely touching.

I learned this month that there is much that makes Indianapolis what it is; without many of those parts, it probably wouldn’t be quite the same. But atop of that list, as was so cruelly evident during the pandemic year, the people truly define this event.

I particularly relished the spontaneous interactions we had throughout the fortnight, whether with yellow shirts, fans, team personnel or even drivers. Everyone you meet has stories to tell about their relationship with the Indy 500 - such an important part of its framework.

For some, like ourselves, it was their first. Others were in their 10s, their 20s, their 30s of Indy 500s attended. One gentleman told me he had been to “around 40” - but at some point, the race becomes such a part of your life that you may lose count. 

One of my favourite moments was meeting Tommy DeHarde, sporting a t-shirt featuring a photo from his first Indy 500, revealing he was at his 63rd this year. Spending a few minutes looking through his old photos, plus those of his son Chris, a fellow media member attending his 30th this year, really reinforced the extent to which the race is the lifeblood of so many.

Even those who don’t attend the race have their own traditions. One worker at Chick-fil-A half-an-hour from the track had only been to the 500 once but, even if the television blackout is lifted, will listen religiously to the race on the radio every year.

“It’s part of our heritage,” she said of the race. That really resonated.

I have spoken here from my perspective, as a young member of the media experiencing what has been described to me as our insanity for the first time. But so much of the same goes for your regular fan; new or old, the paddock is open to and welcomes everybody. 

The access blows you away. Without dealing a dig at the championship, fans are able to see exponentially more than they would at, for instance, a Formula One event. You could argue that exclusivity can feed into an enticing mystique, but as the sport looks to grow, IndyCar’s unparalleled fan experience is an ingenious tool to connect more people to the series.

You can, on the right day with the right access, wander right through the garage area or into pit lane, dodging drivers on scooters, queues of front wings or cars towed by their tuggers. There is also a striking openness from the drivers or team members themselves to speak to the fans and make sure they are given the best possible experience of the sport.

All of this aside, when you then actually see cars on track for the first time at the Speedway, your appreciation is notched up to no end again. 

It first struck me quite how low to the ground they were - genuinely resemblant of fighter jets on wheels. There was something surreal about seeing them being wheeled down Gasoline Alley then minutes later being unleashed on track, as there was seeing the drivers seemingly so calmly strapping into their machines before putting everything on the line on the track.

Our first vantage point was the penthouse seats in Turn 1 and my first takeaway was the speeds at which the drivers are essentially careering directly towards the wall. At 220-230 mph, as normal as it may be to them, the bravery is otherworldly.

You then stare straight and watch the cars blow by. That blows your mind, too.

We travelled the whole track throughout practice: high and low in Turn 1; on the mounds in Turn 2 and Turn 3; down low up top in Turn 4, with a view of the North Chute and frontstretch. Nothing was more visceral than sitting as low towards the wall as possible.

To say practice week was ‘lowkey’ would do it no justice; every day is ferociously intense in preparation for the 500. But the first week is a quieter time at the Speedway. There was a noticeable echo of the cars running beneath the largely empty stands. Eerie, somewhat. 

That fierce reverberation only grew as the engine boost was ramped up on Fast Friday.

Rain arrived on that first Friday - an impending commonality over the next week, alongside quips that we had brought the British weather across the pond. But unlike the irritating drizzle back home, it was often a biblical explosion of humidity into a storm when the heavens opened. I suppose rain delays are a rite of passage at IMS, though.

It was irritating to have Saturday’s qualifying running washed out, though making way for a jeopardy-filled, high-stakes, one-shot format in the opening round on Sunday.

For the first time, as qualifying approached, you could also see a clear uptick in fan attendance. The grandstands were more populated, the infield more lively and campgrounds filling. With it came sights unique to the British eye; how about fans barbecuing trackside?

The fans’ passion for and knowledge of the sport became blatant. Sitting immersed with them for the Fast 12, they knew a good lap when they saw it. They rooted for their favourites - home-hero Conor Daly atop the list - but also backed those less-known. 

For one, Felix Rosenqvist greatly appreciated how much the fans rallied behind his and Meyer Shank Racing’s storming qualifying display. Bigger moments were to come for him.

The emotional toils of the event were laid bare that Sunday. Anticipation. Hope. But also times so fraught, even without the threat of being bumped from the race. Moving down to pit lane for the Fast Six gave a sense of just how much success means at the Speedway, as the provisionally leading team huddled as they waited for the next run to unfold.

First it was Alexander Rossi and his Ed Carpenter Racing team in the box seat. Then, with the penultimate run, Álex Palou and Chip Ganassi Racing took centre stage. The eruption when the Spaniard could not be denied by Rosenqvist made you realise the truth behind pole at Indianapolis being treated much like a race victory elsewhere. 

Following moments that big, there was something special about seeing the track empty. The early-morning or late-evening silence at a facility so grand was captivating in its own way.

There is no weekend more intense than living on the ragged edge throughout qualifying at IMS. I took time afterwards, at around 20:30 with the sun setting behind the frontstretch grandstands once the intensity had subsided, to sit and reflect with my notebook - feeding much of what you are reading here - in the tranquility which provided such a stark contrast.

One or two team members were still out packing up, with a light soundtrack of music from the PA, the occasional golf cart and sparrows chirping. It was in that quietness, where you could really take time to appreciate the place, that something clicked.

You almost appreciated the raging battleground - such a sprawling venue of gladiatorial exploits in a sporting sense - even more once the setting had reverted to a serenity of sorts. 

It truly is an enchanting place in every state, knowing what has been and anticipating what is yet to come. There is such character to its every inch, its grandstands lined with old-school metal benches. You can scarcely comprehend the history when you cross the Yard of Bricks or step foot on miles of tarmac that tell so many stories.

You see why people say the Speedway can talk, as though it lives and it breathes. It’s a mystical place that can make even the mundane feel magical.

Stepping foot in the renovated museum reaffirmed that sense, seeing the progression of cars, driver gear, reporting and plenty more from over the years. It transports you back in time and gives such a vivid sense of the race’s great history.

During our visit to the museum on a down-day of race week, we stumbled across rookie Dennis Hauger, taking it all in himself, alongside his family, ahead of his maiden Indy 500. His gauge of the race’s historic significance was certainly refreshing.

“It was cool to see all the different cars from the different generations,” he told me on media day, “from the early 1900s all the way up to Arie [Luyendyk] when he got the record around here, all the different champions, different engine suppliers through the years.

“Going to race for the first time, it’s cool to learn about the history behind it.”

The quiet post-qualifying evening marked the close of the first main chapter of the month, leading onto the most important. In one week’s time, the scene would be one in such acute opposition to the expanses of emptiness at the end of that first week.

Arriving at the track early on Monday morning, the sun glistening off the infield lake, you got an instant sense of calm before the storm, even with six more days to wait until the big day. 

Race week kicked off with the traditional front-row photoshoot, though any celebrations would be short-lived as the big prize beckoned. For second-place-starting Rossi, the comedown was instant, crashing in Monday practice before being collected by O’Ward, with Romain Grosjean also suffering an incident in his avoidance attempts. 

While I did not see the crash first-hand from the penthouse seats opposite the Pagoda, it was the first I have experienced on the ground in Indianapolis. You feel the apprehension in the gasp-come-silence in the crowd. Then after a long sprint from the heights of the grandstand to the infield medical centre, the feeling was equally eerie.

There was relief as O’Ward and Grosjean emerged unscathed but a nervousness as Rossi, having arrived in an ambulance to the care centre, remained inside. News eventually trickled in that he was relatively okay - but it was nonetheless a reality check.

As O’Ward described to me days later: “We’re so lucky that we are here and get to do this. We are kind of risking our lives but this is straight-up badass.”

It was in moments like those - and hearing lines like that - you were truly struck what sporting superheroes the drivers are.

In the non-public days that followed that dramatic penultimate practice session, the hustle and bustle only picked up across the grounds in anticipation for the coming weekend.

Frenzies of golf carts ferried people around as vans unloaded crates upon crates of goods. The concert stage began to grow from the ground up, from shell to a light show. The quieter corners of the Speedway started to rise from their slumber, too, as banners were removed from closed grandstands and each individual sold-out seat’s functionality was assessed.

While the garage area was briefly quiet from fans, cars were stripped and there was some ever-so-minor respite for the crews, there was a burgeoning buzz about the place.

That Wednesday, with drivers out in the community, I took the time to walk the length of the pit lane several times over. For much of it, I was entirely alone, the empty stands and suites of the world’s biggest sporting arena bearing down on a damp surface, the pylon reflecting in scattered puddles. An oddly fascinating scene.

Temperatures had turned a little cooler and the wind was only light, the many flags blowing subtly and windsocks drooping. There was a slight hum of jet washers in the distance, along with more machinery, the odd track tour and the occasional reverberation of a generator or beeping of a reversing truck. More sparrows chirped in the background.

A strange serenity again. Expectancy palpable.

Looking down Gasoline Alley, it was much the same. You picture the disparity. In four days’ time, it would be lined with people as far as the eye could see - a human-formed tunnel beckoning those about to go to battle for 500 miles across over three hours.

Through that gateway, the pit boxes were now in order of their race selections, their setup being completed by crew members dotted sparsely, only now awaiting the installation of the drivers’ names, car number and sponsor on the inside pit wall.

I took the time to stop in different pit boxes, staring at the run ahead and picturing what awaits for those standing in that very position come Sunday. You try to imagine the pressure on each member of the pit crews with over 300,000 people watching on. On the driver, too, to hit their marks as millions more watch on worldwide. It’s hard to process.

I then wandered over to the pit wall and looked the frontstretch up and down, down and up, across the Yard of Bricks and into Turn 1. Eyes closed, mustering visions of the 33 ground-bound jets and the impending noise of their roaring engines as they blow by.

But first, Carb Day awaited. Time for the party to start.

In this year’s case, the Friday festivities really commenced the night prior, with the ‘Carb Night Classic’ at Indianapolis Raceway Park (IRP) moved forward one day due to forecasted inclement weather. Even without the sprint cars given the postponement, instead only the USF2000 and USF Pro 2000 races as headliners, that was a fun experience.

The rawness of the setting at IRP was endearing, even if seeing race cars skirt our rental car en-route to the car-park-based paddock was moderately terrifying. 

The now-annual presentation of jackets to former winners on the Yard of Bricks kicked off the actual Carb Day proceedings. At that moment, it really hit home the extent to which you are immortalised forever if you win the Indy 500 - always invited to these ceremonies.

As the gates then opened, there was a shift from the calm before the storm to the storm brewing - literally, later that day - around IMS as 10s of thousands packed the grounds.

Final practice was a formality, leading onto the funkier festivities. The Wienie 500 attracts cynicism for its silliness, but when you experience it first-hand, entirely befitting of the party atmosphere in the stands, you understand entirely why it exists. It admittedly was then a shame that the rain then arrived to curtail the Pit Stop Competition.

From that point, as Carb Day concludes, the anticipation becomes tangible. Legends Day on Saturday was good fun at the track, with the Public Drivers’ Meeting and activations aplenty in the Midway providing a haven of entertainment for fans (and, unashamedly, media like ourselves on something of an off-day before our longest, best day of the year).

As the fans then disappear, the scale of the operation again becomes clear as frenetic final preparations for the following day continue apace. 

That late afternoon, the running-through and rehearsing of Sunday’s festivities induced goosebumps already, hearing the traditional pageantry, witnessing the practice flyover and watching several grandstand-level laps from the Blackhawk helicopters. I told myself: “Just wait until Sunday, when the place is packed and the stakes are so high.”

That Saturday evening, Speedway was the epicentre of the ramping up of celebrations. 

Through the entire fortnight, it was a fun place to be. At the end of long track days, teams will often populate the town’s short strip, with nearly every store decorated with flags and banners aplenty to mark a race like a religion. If you go deeper into its more residential areas, you will see much of the same paraphernalia again. It’s IndyCar central.

You quickly see why people liken the May period to Christmas. It is fitting that Main Street in Speedway is even home to a dedicated Christmas shop, I suppose.

There was something about the entire surrounding area that captivated you. While for one day a year it becomes as alive as almost anywhere on earth, it is by no means a tourist hub akin to your Miamis or New Yorks. It is a humble city that gives you the feel of raw America. And not in a bad way; it feeds into the integral sense of community that defines the 500.

Unquestionably, the eve of the race - IndyCar’s Christmas Eve, if you will - best exemplified this. We learned of Hoosier Hospitality very early in the fortnight but never more so than that night, when everyone is partying and anyone is welcome almost anywhere in Speedway. Even between complete strangers, there is such camaraderie bound by racing. 

Cruising round the streets brought about sights unlike anything I have ever seen: a massive, town-wide celebration all centred on this one event. 

There were fireworks from every direction, lights flashing and footballs being thrown down the roads in intervals between cars, golf carts, bikes - some even kitted out with glowsticks - and scooters wheeling around. Even as the night grew older, people remained everywhere.

Sleep is entirely optional for that one night a year, for people want to savour every moment of their greatest day. The adrenaline will suffice.

Frankly, it was hard to sleep that night anyway, given the pure excitement for the day ahead. Really, a 3:00 morning alarm call on two hours of sleep mattered little. The thrill of the day would get everyone through… how could it not?

I was at the track by 4:45, by which point many had already started to queue much earlier for the opening of the public gates at 6:00. As soon as you get within the vicinity, the energy you feel is unique, with people aplenty greeting you with “Happy Race Day” - very much as though it was Christmas Day - the moment you arrive.

It was special to see the day dawn from dark, knowing that by sunset, one driver will have had their life changed forever. Thinking of that as the cannon fired and fireworks launched to greet the opening of the gates, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

The building of people in the coming hours was impressive to see. I am used to almost 75,000 people at Old Trafford watching Manchester United - and the associated vehicle and foot traffic. Knowing we would be getting on for five times that amount at IMS was staggering; picture what you think, then imagine much, much more still.

As the flow of fans arriving began in the early hours of the morning, the teams were already hard at work in their garages. Only marginally past that 6:00 mark, engines were already being fired and the technical inspection queue started to form. By a little after 9:00, the cars were on pit lane and by 11:00 the grid filled. Time flies by extremely quickly.

By this point, as you walk down Gasoline Alley with peoples’ eyes prying from either side of the fences, you feel like something of a caged animal. From any raised vantage point, you wonder how it is possible to even move among the crowds. Yet still, they find a way to fill the grandstands as the ceremonies near, beginning with driver introductions a little after 11:45.

The grid itself was packed, particularly near the front few rows. Then you look around and almost every seat within the venue was filled too. Looking from Turn 4, down each side of the frontstretch and through Turn 1, the sheer volume of people was incomprehensible.

The festivities took centre stage for the ensuing half-hour, commencing with God Bless America, through military marches and addresses and the invocation, then the iconic rifle volley in Victory Circle and, from the flagstand, the playing of Taps.

Oh, Taps.

I had got used to seeing the Speedway in its silent state in emptiness over the fortnight, but nothing prepares you for that same silence - but for one solitary trumpet - when the globe’s greatest sporting gathering has the entire facility packed to the rafters.

Standing between Rows 9 and 10, I looked back to Jacob Abel, a lifelong fan experiencing his first Indy 500 as a driver. It was extremely moving seeing him looking around, taking in the sights and sounds, then bowing his head and no doubt fighting that same lump in his throat. He said he would feel all of the emotions come Sunday; it was impossible not to.

The show of patriotism and such passion - through both rapturous noise and the deafening, pin-drop silence - was something remarkable. A life-affirming experience.

The show climaxed with America the Beautiful, a rousing national anthem performance from Jordin Sparks and the flyover, before drivers were instructed to strap into their cars. Jim Cornelison’s rendition of Back Home Again in Indiana, greeted by a final flyover, was again tear-jerking as the drivers awaited the command to start engines.

I am not American, but for that half-hour of pageantry, my mouth agape through its entirety, I almost felt it. And at that moment, you really understand why Indy means so much.

It’s a conflicting feeling of excitement and tension when, at the command of Roger Penske, engines fire, the cars roll three-by-three with Blackhawks above (a sublime new tradition) and go-time beckons. All of the tireless work at the track for two weeks - and away from the track for almost 12 months - comes down to 200 laps. 

Above all, as it unfolds, you gain yet more appreciation for what all 33 drivers, no matter the result, are doing. The image of Rossi clambering from his burning car with an ankle surgically repaired only five days prior, hobbling away on crutches, was so striking. 

These are sporting warriors. Embracing the danger allows them to function as they do.

On this one Sunday every year, any hint of the bigger pictures goes out of the window. The championship? Not a thought to it. There is almost a mutual agreement between drivers that respect is at a premium in pursuit of racing’s biggest prize. There are no holds barred; they will put their cars where they should not be even for the slightest chance of glory.

When it is not your day, it is brutal. The sight of Ryan Hunter-Reay and Katherine Legge’s crews - both Indy-only teams - exiting pit lane after crashing out early in the race was crushing, after all of the work and focus to get to that point. It is emotional torment.

Then at the chequered flag, you see what Indianapolis really means for once and for all.

You would be hard-pressed to find greater gulfs of emotions anywhere in sport; that is why I often describe Indy in the terms of brilliant brutality. For the winner, their life and legacy is fulfilled forever and their dream comes true. Yet for most of the other 32, the story is one of despair - rarely more so than for the runner-up.

Much like for Rosenqvist on the right side of Indy’s closest-ever finish, last Sunday is a day Malukas will never forget - but for all the opposite reasons. The devastation of being 0.0233 seconds from achieving his lifelong dream is unimaginable. 

As an onlooker, it is a surging torrent of conflicting emotions. 

Standing by Malukas’ pit box post-race, with the driver in tears, his family and team embracing him and those around grasping one another too - many of them also in tears - it impacts you. But when you spend almost an hour in the presence of the winner in the press conference, that flips entirely to jubilation for an exceptional new champion.

You realise, through this, why they all do this. Even in the sphere of those who fall short, you see why they cannot help but come back and keep trying, trying and trying. Whether you are a driver or not, the place is like a drug. It leaves you wanting more. And more. And more.

This all amounts to quite the comedown when the event finishes. It’s astonishing how quickly the clear-out is completed and the tear-down begins. The 100s of thousands of people subside and vendors are immediately stripped, pit stalls disappear and the cars give way for golf carts inside the lines of garages. Few signs of what obscenity just occurred.

There is a real poignance to the crescendo, after such an extensive build-up. You are back to that contrast between full and empty, only the reverse this time, with 53 weeks to wait until you do it all again.

You don’t ever want to leave - that’s what the Speedway does to you - so I returned to the track one last time on Monday to see the winners’ photographs on the Yard of Bricks, before Rosenqvist’s extensive media tour continued. Not that he minds those winners’ duties.

It was a shock to be greeted that morning by the arrival of Formula One World Champion Lando Norris, checking out IMS having made the trip from the Canadian Grand Prix the day prior. It was extremely telling to see his mesmerised reaction to almost everything.

He met his old friend Rosenqvist in the shadows of the Pagoda, inundating the Swede with questions about his victory the afternoon prior. Then the Borg-Warner Trophy was wheeled out, which he stared up and down, kneeling to see its every corner and blown away by the size. But maybe nothing was more telling than when he was running pace-car laps on-track.

Norris was only supposed to be driven around the 2.5 miles of the oval by Arrow McLaren team principal Tony Kanaan. Yet towards the end of the track time, the pair stopped at the far end of pit lane - away from the accompanying McLaren staff - and executed an unplanned, sneaky driver swap. Norris was desperate to lap the track himself and scarcely held back.

The Briton was beaming once he exited the car, as he was through much of his morning at the Speedway. And wasn’t that telling? For that’s what IMS does to every first-timer - myself and our DIVEBOMB crew included - no matter your capacity or status.

Once everything cleared off the track on that final morning, I could have stayed staring at the empty surface and up at the Pagoda for hours more. It’s a fascinating place and you miss every little quirk once you leave, even as bizarre as the advert-carrying planes overhead.

Leaving those gates for the final time and saying our farewells was tough.

I’ll always remember a conversation I had with Doug Boles, who is behind the entire Indy 500 operation as Speedway president, in the media centre earlier this month, saying there is always deflation at the conclusion of May, given all that goes into the event. But I suppose the more you dislike the aftermath, the better - because you know you lived it.

This race changes the life of the winner. But I also now firmly believe it changes the life of any who merely witness the spectacle too. Life goes on but I have a feeling that life is never quite the same again once you have experienced your first Indianapolis 500.

Because in life, nothing quite compares to May at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.