Indy 500
All I know about car racing is they turn left a lot and if you’re not first, you’re last. So you can imagine that when presented with the opportunity to show off this vast knowledge, I jumped at it. And that’s how we found ourselves in the Chevy suite at the Indy 500 this past Sunday.
I’m on board with anything involving a traditional massive balloon release.
As it turns out, my vast knowledge is, in fact, all one needs to attend the Indy 500. Other than parking. Parking at the 500 is, without a doubt, one of the seven levels of hell.
This is what hat desperation looks like.
With the suite seats came a parking pass which was lovely in theory and terrible in real life. We spent a solid 90 minutes driving in circles as the traffic law and real law repeatedly misdirected us. There was much yelling and we were one more misdirection away from calling it a day and going home when the sweetest words I’d ever heard were uttered: “Follow the buses.” And follow we did.
Race traffic is super fun.
Thirty minutes later we were parked, through the gates, and in the suite for someone’s second breakfast while vowing never again.
Just like I had no idea what was happening during the race, I have no idea who these cars belong to.
Unless, of course, suite seats are back on the table. We’re not strong enough to turn down catered breakfast, lunch, and post-race snacks.
My head looks huge in the third picture. How do I walk around with that thing?
You have a very strong neck.
Truth.