I have a neighborhood friend who is into cars, something that never appealed to me. However, despite my aversion to machines themselves, I’ve managed to find a marketing interest in auto racing. It started when I was working for WTRC Radio in Elkhart, Indiana, one of many network affiliates for the broadcast of the Indianapolis 500. I sold advertising in the race, but more importantly got my first tickets to the event from the General Manager of the station. I drove with my son and his mother, along with some good friends to Indianapolis, a three-hour drive. The race started at 11a.m., so we must have been on the road very, very early. 

We had four tickets in the main grandstand and bought two inexpensive infield admission tickets, thinking we would switch seats several times during the course of the race. None of us had any idea how big the place was that housed the world’s largest sporting event. It rained all the way down but miraculously cleared just as we arrived, so we somehow found a parking spot in a muddy field, across from the track, owned by the Coca-Cola Bottling Company. The six of us aimlessly wandered into the infield and spread a picnic blanket. After the fried chicken was gone, the wives then took the two kids up to the safer, reserved seats, while my buddy and I roamed through the ruckus crowd on the inside of the track. 

I mention all is because my son went into the massive Speedway through one gate, through a tunnel into the infield, and out to the seats through another. We had insisted that he hold on to our hands. I have no sense of direction, so it was easy for me to get lost, let alone a little kid. Plus, the adults rotated seats four times during the race since you’d be lucky to see any track action from the infield seats – just drunken debauchery! 

We managed to get everyone back together under the main grandstand after the race was over, but my son got mad and ran off by himself. We spent well over an hour trying to find him in that packed crowd and reluctantly headed back to the car desperately empty-handed. I thought for sure my young son had been abducted or injured trying to find us. All kinds of horrible scenarios naturally raced through my mind. I notified the police and security officials, as I frantically circled the two-and-a-half-mile oval, but he was nowhere to be found. 

When we got back to the car, there he was, thankfully! He was under the protection of an inebriated fan wearing a cape, claiming to be “Mud Man.” Regardless, he was a superhero to me in reuniting us with our son. Then, he went back to sliding in the mud puddles with his friends. Fortunately, my son did not inherit my directionally- challenged gene, and easily found the car and some “capable” help. At that point, I was more gratefully relieved than angry at his foolish antics. 

This was my very first encounter with the Indy 500, with many more to write about. See Post #1333. Within the past year, my auto-crazed neighbor drove us to the St. Petersburg Indycar race last year, along with a road rally at a nearby airport course. He drives a Mazda Miata and is taking me to Sebring this weekend, home of the 12-hour endurance race won in 1990 and 1991 by my friend Derek Daly. He was the driver expert we hired at WISH-TV, another chapter in my unlikely but rewarding involvement with auto racing throughout the years.