Very early in the morning of the race a cannon blast would sound and the gates to the infield would be opened. Since most of the folks in line had been drinking all night, the race by everyone to get to their favorite spot was often at least as good as the race itself. As for the sights I witnessed as a young boy, suffice to say that all education in life does not take place in a classroom.

Later that morning my grandparents and uncles from Broadripple would join us with more fried chicken. There was no time in the morning too early for my grandfather to have a beer and he often was contentedly asleep somewhere on the golf course shortly after the race started. After the race we would have to retrieve him and tell him who won.

During those days (daze) one was allowed to bring almost anything into the infield. I recall one year when two men lumbered up next to us (at the exit to turn two) with a front-end loader. They had a couch and their beer cooler in the bucket and had us raise them up and down as needed.

Now all these years later I prefer to go to a dirt track race somewhere in the area on Saturday night.

George, since you are going on a honeymoon just three days after all you will have been through, perhaps Mr. Barfield will allow you a bit of extra “boost”.

Several years, we wound up parking in the old Speedway Shopping Center, pretty much across the street from the main gate. The sights that one could view from there would, quite frankly, scare the bejeezus out of the distaff members of our party on the few occaisions that we had distaff members of our party.

That was the one night of the year that I actually ate White Castles of my own free will, usually much to my later disdain, choosing to save our bucket of chicken until we actually got to our seats. (In those days, we were partial to the Southeast and Southwest Vistas.)

We generally packed three coolers, one very large Coleman model, which remained permanently ensconced in the trunk of the car, and two of the “legal” Playmate sizes to carry into the Speedway itself. For the night before, we made as large a dent in the Coleman as we could, and then just before the bomb would go off, we would load the Playmates with only the coldest of beverages, generally hiding at the bottom of the Coleman.

There were sights, sounds and smells in that parking lot and along 16th St. that would (and do now) curl my hair (assuming I had any.) One year a friend of mine and i happened upon a group of highly inebriated gentlemen hanging about their open trunk. Bear in mind this was (I believe) 1975, and there was a distinct odor of cannabis coming from their general direction. Since that was one provision we lacked, we decided to wander on over to see if those gentlemen might be interested in negotiating a trade for some of our ample quantity of beer.

Imagine our surpirse when we discovered that these seriously intoxicated individuals were peeing in their trunk. Now race day in 1975 was (before it rained) severely hot and humid. I can only imagine what the odor of that car must have been like on their trip back to wherever home was.

Considering all that I have seen in the confines of the “Speedway Triangle,” this story is but a mild vignette. There were many years in my misspent youth where the party far exceeded my interest in the race. This was especially true once my hero and idol, A. J. Foyt was out of contention. That was usually time to pop open the liquid refreshment and get pleasantly buzzed, if not moreso.

I can, however, say that I was there (and sober) in 1977 when Mr. Foyt won his fourth 500, and I was there ten years later when Al Unser repeated that feat.

Those memories last forever.