Indy 500 Honeymoon
Discussion
Mrs Chev and I got married in May and, against all the odds, I persuaded her that we should cruise the Deep South watching motor racing, going to gigs, and over-indulging in BBQ food and beer. As if by some miracle, she agreed!
Part one doesn't really feature any racing but it does introduce our wheels for the trip and gave us the opportunity to savour live music - our other great passion in life. Part two will feature more cars.
Part one:
It wasn’t the easiest sell in the world but I think the promise of some NASCAR swung it: against all the odds, I’d secured an Indy 500 honeymoon. While the Maldives or Bora Bora might be more traditional, there’s nothing like the prospect of 40 snarling stock cars to convince your bride-to-be of the merits of a US road trip to celebrate permanent legal union.
Our starting point is Atlanta, the capital of Georgia – a buzzing Southern town with a history of extreme commerce and one of the most important cities in the civil rights movement during the last century.
The hospitality is superb from the moment we arrive at our hotel. Apparently a British accent goes a long way in these parts but being conscientious and polite is a way of life in this part of the world. The effervescent lady working the late shift on our hotel bar implores every guest to, “have a blessed day, y’all.” It’s disconcerting at first, but this is the bible belt and the gesture is sincere. Her banter is strong too.
We set a relaxed schedule for day one, electing not to take the car but instead to just explore the city on foot. Our first destination is the Martin Luther King, Jr. Historic Site; a couple of blocks dedicated to the life of the civil rights movement’s most noted peaceful proponent, who spent much of his life in Atlanta.
The skyline of midtown and downtown looms over much of the city but the Martin Luther King, Jr. Historic Site is in a peaceful, mostly residential, neighbourhood with kids playing basketball and residents of all ages quietly going about their business. In spite of this, the area is imbued with a soft, almost reverential tone. While the site might be named after King, it does much to promote peace and civil rights generally.
The National Centre for Civil and Human Rights lays bare the best and worst of humanity. From slavery to defiance, it provides a stark reminder for privileged Middle England how far the Western world has progressed in the last 60 years. The centre is free to enter but welcomes donations. It’s moving but essential. The Ebenezer Baptist Church where Kings Jr. and Snr. were pastors sits to one side of the museum, and further up is King’s boyhood home.
We keep on walking, exploring Inman Park and up to Krog Street Market, a hipster street food joint based out of an old industrial unit. It’s similar in concept to PapirØen in Copenhagen, if a little slicker in execution. It’s hard to resist delving into the outrageous selection of cask beers, even though it’s barely lunchtime. But what else are holidays for?
This pretty much sets the tone for our day in Atlanta and we waste no time in sampling a few dive bars and burger joints in the company of a fellow local mosher we befriend in Little Five Points, Atlanta’s equivalent to Camden; albeit with a grittier edge. We quickly learn to heed the advice issued to us by our hosts in one bar: a glass of water with every beer. It’s so hot and sticky here that hydration is of paramount importance during drinking. It always pays to sit at the bar and get to know one’s hosts.
Atlanta is super-cool and we could easily have stopped another few days but this is a road trip and we need to get rollin’.
We had identified that a trip around the Deep South would require a properly American car – six cylinders being the bare minimum and eight preferred. Our number one target is the Dodge Challenger: an awesome throwback to the land Donald Trump remembers, with eight offbeat cylinders, hemispherical heads and an earnest devotion to turning fuel into noise. We managed to snare the last one in the rental lot. At a price.
It doesn’t take long to escape Atlanta’s urban sprawl and we are soon cruising the archetypical roads we’ve seen in Smokey and the Bandit: two carriages ways a mile wide, separated by a broad, inviting strip of grass. I have to fight the urge to launch from the asphalt and tear across the grass while evading Smokey.
Our first target is Senoia, Georgia, about an hour south of Atlanta. This little homestead has become famous as a location for TV and movie filming – and today is best known as the home of The Walking Dead. In preparation for the trip, I’ve spent many hours watching Andrew Lincoln slay zombies while deploying a semi-convincing southern accent.
Senoia is small town and it feels it. The streets are hushed, the buildings unspoilt and there’s no litter anywhere. The locals evidently take pride in their environment. They also drive everywhere in golf buggies. The little electric bolides sit outside every house and they appear from all directions loaded with children, pets and provisions, like mopeds in Thailand. I query our tour guide and she appears bemused that I have to ask: the golf buggy is simply the best way to get around. Well, amen to that.
The Walking Dead tour is pretty cool. It transpires that the fictional town of Alexandria is an existent town in Senoia. All the buildings are real, many of them occupied and all behind a battered hoarding line, as seen in the show. Something of a surprise is a barbecue joint on the main strip which features a tribute to Top Gear USA presenter, Rutledge Wood. Now a NASCAR commentator, it transpires that Wood is a hometown boy and his family owns Katie Lou’s, which serves a wicked mac n cheese.
As with all good road trips, we’ve enlivened proceedings with a little jeopardy. We have tickets for a must-see gig in Nashville this evening. We’re tight on time but a clear run should get us there in time for the second band at least. We make good running and the roads are clear. There is more of the same, with broad, open highways disappearing on for miles. The terrain is green and lush, with coniferous trees lining much of the route. Small towns appear and disappear. I’m pleased to note that the margins are less cluttered with ephemera than we experienced in Texas three years ago. There are only so many different burger chains you can patronise, after all.
The advertising we do find is alien and fascinating. As we skirt the border with Alabama, we find a vast proliferation of fireworks shops – one proclaiming to be the largest in the world. I’ve no idea whether this bold claim has been independently verified but it looks bloody massive.
Compared to the quiet dignity of a British ecclesiastical building, it takes some acclimatising to the rather more forward approach that the church adopts in this part of the world. Vast roadside signs implore the motorist to visit each church in turn – or remind one of the good work of Jesus. Barely a handful of miles will pass without a star spangled banner proudly waving in the breeze. The trucks are suitably vast, with towering, shiny stack exhausts exiting high above the cabs.
As with everything in North America, the highway and its periphery are huge. Giant railway bridges periodically bisect our path – lumpen steel structures suitable for heavy goods wagons travelling long distances. Periodically, we pass painlessly through monstrous rock formations, where the scars of dynamite explosions are still exposed on each face. It’s clear to see where deep holes have been drilled before the rock was blown apart to permit the easiest possible passage for the road. While it may feel natural and unobtrusive, there has clearly been a huge amount of civil engineering work undertaken to make the road flow so easily.
As we make our way through Tennessee and into the outskirts of Nashville, the peripheral signs become more plentiful. There are several opportunities to visit whiskey distilleries and some of Broadway’s famous honky tonk bars are advertising up to 20 miles outside of town. It’s a good way of increasing the tension: will we make first band?
Our hotel would be a pretty unprepossessing place, were it not for a dramatic lobby, with chains of spherical light fittings reaching 20 storeys into the rafters. Glass-fronted elevators whisk occupants to their rooms in a journey I can only imagine is ten times better under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs.
By now we realise we’re definitely running late for the gig and walk as fast as our ageing legs will permit to the Ryman Auditorium. The Ryman is a red brick tabernacle dating back to the late-19th century and is one of Nashville’s most famed live music venues – quite an accolade for Music City. Tonight is the first time the Ryman has played host to metal bands: Mastodon is in town. It’s only once we’ve bought our $9 pints of craft beer that a helpful staff member is able to get through to us that we’ve traversed a time zone. Instead of being 15 minutes late for the gig, we’re actually 45 minutes early. In fact, I believe this is the first time in my life when I’ve ever actually been early for anything.
It gives us time to explore the venue and check out the merch. The Ryman is a shell-shaped theatre, all seated, with the balcony seating gently tiered and constructed from beautifully wrought timber pews. Directly opposite the stage, behind the balcony, is a set of tall stained-glass windows through which the early evening light bathes the congregation. It makes a notable change from our usual dingy pub gig venues.
First on is Russian Circles, a band which has managed to escape the shackles of a crowded post-metal genre. They’re equal parts dense brutality and ethereal ambience. It’s a mega show and drummer Dave Turncrantz is out of this world – a blur of technicality and ferocity. They close with a wall of noise; perhaps the most pummelling sonic abuse the Ryman has suffered in its 125 years.
Second on the storied stage is Eagles of Death Metal. Attracting headlines for all the wrong reasons when its show at the Bataclan in Paris was chosen for a terror attack, the band’s name is misleading. This is really a bluesy rock band and supremely pro. Singer Jesse Hughes is a ball of energy, an ordained pastor and his stage persona bears this out. The music isn’t totally my bag but it’s perfectly executed and there’s evidence of a crowd which clearly hangs on every word. Sometimes you need to step back and remember where you are.
And so; with another $9 beer tearing its way through my beleaguered bank balance, Mastodon takes to the stage.
This is a band at the very top of its game and blessed with a back catalogue bulging with killer hooks, outrageous time signatures and an ability to drop the deadliest chugs with no prior warning. It’s an incendiary mix and they juggernaut their way through a greatest hits set, dropping hit after hit with barely a pause for breath. They open with Sultan’s Curse, the first track from latest album Emperor of Sand, taking in highlights from that record including the stand-out Show Yourself. They plunge through each record picking out the biggest riffs before closing with an epic triumvirate of Mother Puncher, Circle of Cisquatch and finally the mighty March of the Fire Ants, bringing the house down with it. It’s a display of pure power, mastery of melody and terrifying technicality. Best metal band in the world? Don’t doubt it.
With the opening riff from March of the Fire Ants still swirling in the memory, drummer Brann Dailor delivers a heart-felt epilogue. His grandparents had played the Ryman Auditorium in the 1950s and he was clearly moved looking up to the same stained glass windows as they had, 60 years earlier. The first metal show at the Ryman was a triumph.
Nashville first came to my attention during the TV comedy Master of None, when Dev takes his new belle Rachel on a one-day date to Music City. This is the home of country music and it wears its heart on its sleeve. The downtown district bursts with high-rise blocks, including the AT&T tower, nicknamed The Batman Building due to its resemblance to Batman’s mask. It looms over the entire state of Tennessee as its tallest building.
The city is heaving with construction activity and it’s fascinating to observe how things are done on the other side of the pond. The speed of construction is hugely impressive, with crazy back-propping to progress multiple floors of high-rise buildings. I’d hate to be undertaking the temporary works calculations on those. Elsewhere, it’s evident that health and safety is not up to the standards of the UK industry but this is a place where things get done.
By far the most impressive structure is Music City Centre. This is an enormous exhibition space sprawling over two full blocks and stretching high into the sky; large enough that a main road actually passes through it. Imagine dropping the Birmingham NEC into the middle of a busy city and cladding it in a flowing, trippy façade.
We take a recommendation and dine at Martin’s BBQ – a bustling, traditional barbecue house which smells divine and serves the best brisket I’ve ever eaten. This kind of food might be a hipster staple in the UK, but here in the South, it’s a way of life and the proliferation of awesome eats is one of the highlights of the trip.
We need a decent meal as our next stop is Broadway. This legendary neon strip is home to Nashville’s honky tonk bars. It’s as brash as it sounds, with live music in every joint but less forced and tacky than Bourbon Street in New Orleans. This is still the real deal.
We settle at the bar in Nudie’s – home of the longest bar in Nashville; allegedly. As we have to squint to see its conclusion, it’s hard to disagree. There’s a band in full flow and for the two hours we stay, they don’t let up. It’s a mix of blues, rock and country – mostly covers and plenty of songs we know but many that we don’t. The guitarist makes frequent requests for tequila shots – at one stage being furnished with a huge shot by a very enthusiastic and apparently devoted middle-aged lady who hollers in response. We don’t stick around long enough to witness the conclusion of that burgeoning relationship.
Despite having no background in country music, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the whole atmosphere. People in cowboy boots dance in front of the stage and the guitarist intersperses his tequila shots with waltzes along the bar and, as a backdrop, Nudie’s own white Cadillac hangs from the wall behind the stage.
Of course, this is just the warm-up act for the main event: we’re off to see hardcore’s craziest live band. Every Time I Die are playing a tiny dive bar called The End. Upon arrival in the early evening, it’s still sweltering but the beer is cheaper than most places and the venue is packed. The band is completely off the hook – as you would expect. The tiny venue has people hanging from every available rafter, with crowd surfers from beginning to end. As a static observer, it’s hellishly intense and sweaty; one cannot imagine how tough it must have been on stage. This is a special band, with massive, catchy, heavy songs played with unerring conviction. A totally different gig to Mastodon the night before but no less vital.
Every Time I Die is the soundtrack to close our time in Nashville – it’s been short but sweet. We’ve got to get over the border and into North Carolina. Boogity boogity boogity – let’s go racing! Charlotte Motor Speedway beckons.
Part one doesn't really feature any racing but it does introduce our wheels for the trip and gave us the opportunity to savour live music - our other great passion in life. Part two will feature more cars.
Part one:
It wasn’t the easiest sell in the world but I think the promise of some NASCAR swung it: against all the odds, I’d secured an Indy 500 honeymoon. While the Maldives or Bora Bora might be more traditional, there’s nothing like the prospect of 40 snarling stock cars to convince your bride-to-be of the merits of a US road trip to celebrate permanent legal union.
Our starting point is Atlanta, the capital of Georgia – a buzzing Southern town with a history of extreme commerce and one of the most important cities in the civil rights movement during the last century.
The hospitality is superb from the moment we arrive at our hotel. Apparently a British accent goes a long way in these parts but being conscientious and polite is a way of life in this part of the world. The effervescent lady working the late shift on our hotel bar implores every guest to, “have a blessed day, y’all.” It’s disconcerting at first, but this is the bible belt and the gesture is sincere. Her banter is strong too.
We set a relaxed schedule for day one, electing not to take the car but instead to just explore the city on foot. Our first destination is the Martin Luther King, Jr. Historic Site; a couple of blocks dedicated to the life of the civil rights movement’s most noted peaceful proponent, who spent much of his life in Atlanta.
The skyline of midtown and downtown looms over much of the city but the Martin Luther King, Jr. Historic Site is in a peaceful, mostly residential, neighbourhood with kids playing basketball and residents of all ages quietly going about their business. In spite of this, the area is imbued with a soft, almost reverential tone. While the site might be named after King, it does much to promote peace and civil rights generally.
The National Centre for Civil and Human Rights lays bare the best and worst of humanity. From slavery to defiance, it provides a stark reminder for privileged Middle England how far the Western world has progressed in the last 60 years. The centre is free to enter but welcomes donations. It’s moving but essential. The Ebenezer Baptist Church where Kings Jr. and Snr. were pastors sits to one side of the museum, and further up is King’s boyhood home.
We keep on walking, exploring Inman Park and up to Krog Street Market, a hipster street food joint based out of an old industrial unit. It’s similar in concept to PapirØen in Copenhagen, if a little slicker in execution. It’s hard to resist delving into the outrageous selection of cask beers, even though it’s barely lunchtime. But what else are holidays for?
This pretty much sets the tone for our day in Atlanta and we waste no time in sampling a few dive bars and burger joints in the company of a fellow local mosher we befriend in Little Five Points, Atlanta’s equivalent to Camden; albeit with a grittier edge. We quickly learn to heed the advice issued to us by our hosts in one bar: a glass of water with every beer. It’s so hot and sticky here that hydration is of paramount importance during drinking. It always pays to sit at the bar and get to know one’s hosts.
Atlanta is super-cool and we could easily have stopped another few days but this is a road trip and we need to get rollin’.
We had identified that a trip around the Deep South would require a properly American car – six cylinders being the bare minimum and eight preferred. Our number one target is the Dodge Challenger: an awesome throwback to the land Donald Trump remembers, with eight offbeat cylinders, hemispherical heads and an earnest devotion to turning fuel into noise. We managed to snare the last one in the rental lot. At a price.
It doesn’t take long to escape Atlanta’s urban sprawl and we are soon cruising the archetypical roads we’ve seen in Smokey and the Bandit: two carriages ways a mile wide, separated by a broad, inviting strip of grass. I have to fight the urge to launch from the asphalt and tear across the grass while evading Smokey.
Our first target is Senoia, Georgia, about an hour south of Atlanta. This little homestead has become famous as a location for TV and movie filming – and today is best known as the home of The Walking Dead. In preparation for the trip, I’ve spent many hours watching Andrew Lincoln slay zombies while deploying a semi-convincing southern accent.
Senoia is small town and it feels it. The streets are hushed, the buildings unspoilt and there’s no litter anywhere. The locals evidently take pride in their environment. They also drive everywhere in golf buggies. The little electric bolides sit outside every house and they appear from all directions loaded with children, pets and provisions, like mopeds in Thailand. I query our tour guide and she appears bemused that I have to ask: the golf buggy is simply the best way to get around. Well, amen to that.
The Walking Dead tour is pretty cool. It transpires that the fictional town of Alexandria is an existent town in Senoia. All the buildings are real, many of them occupied and all behind a battered hoarding line, as seen in the show. Something of a surprise is a barbecue joint on the main strip which features a tribute to Top Gear USA presenter, Rutledge Wood. Now a NASCAR commentator, it transpires that Wood is a hometown boy and his family owns Katie Lou’s, which serves a wicked mac n cheese.
As with all good road trips, we’ve enlivened proceedings with a little jeopardy. We have tickets for a must-see gig in Nashville this evening. We’re tight on time but a clear run should get us there in time for the second band at least. We make good running and the roads are clear. There is more of the same, with broad, open highways disappearing on for miles. The terrain is green and lush, with coniferous trees lining much of the route. Small towns appear and disappear. I’m pleased to note that the margins are less cluttered with ephemera than we experienced in Texas three years ago. There are only so many different burger chains you can patronise, after all.
The advertising we do find is alien and fascinating. As we skirt the border with Alabama, we find a vast proliferation of fireworks shops – one proclaiming to be the largest in the world. I’ve no idea whether this bold claim has been independently verified but it looks bloody massive.
Compared to the quiet dignity of a British ecclesiastical building, it takes some acclimatising to the rather more forward approach that the church adopts in this part of the world. Vast roadside signs implore the motorist to visit each church in turn – or remind one of the good work of Jesus. Barely a handful of miles will pass without a star spangled banner proudly waving in the breeze. The trucks are suitably vast, with towering, shiny stack exhausts exiting high above the cabs.
As with everything in North America, the highway and its periphery are huge. Giant railway bridges periodically bisect our path – lumpen steel structures suitable for heavy goods wagons travelling long distances. Periodically, we pass painlessly through monstrous rock formations, where the scars of dynamite explosions are still exposed on each face. It’s clear to see where deep holes have been drilled before the rock was blown apart to permit the easiest possible passage for the road. While it may feel natural and unobtrusive, there has clearly been a huge amount of civil engineering work undertaken to make the road flow so easily.
As we make our way through Tennessee and into the outskirts of Nashville, the peripheral signs become more plentiful. There are several opportunities to visit whiskey distilleries and some of Broadway’s famous honky tonk bars are advertising up to 20 miles outside of town. It’s a good way of increasing the tension: will we make first band?
Our hotel would be a pretty unprepossessing place, were it not for a dramatic lobby, with chains of spherical light fittings reaching 20 storeys into the rafters. Glass-fronted elevators whisk occupants to their rooms in a journey I can only imagine is ten times better under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs.
By now we realise we’re definitely running late for the gig and walk as fast as our ageing legs will permit to the Ryman Auditorium. The Ryman is a red brick tabernacle dating back to the late-19th century and is one of Nashville’s most famed live music venues – quite an accolade for Music City. Tonight is the first time the Ryman has played host to metal bands: Mastodon is in town. It’s only once we’ve bought our $9 pints of craft beer that a helpful staff member is able to get through to us that we’ve traversed a time zone. Instead of being 15 minutes late for the gig, we’re actually 45 minutes early. In fact, I believe this is the first time in my life when I’ve ever actually been early for anything.
It gives us time to explore the venue and check out the merch. The Ryman is a shell-shaped theatre, all seated, with the balcony seating gently tiered and constructed from beautifully wrought timber pews. Directly opposite the stage, behind the balcony, is a set of tall stained-glass windows through which the early evening light bathes the congregation. It makes a notable change from our usual dingy pub gig venues.
First on is Russian Circles, a band which has managed to escape the shackles of a crowded post-metal genre. They’re equal parts dense brutality and ethereal ambience. It’s a mega show and drummer Dave Turncrantz is out of this world – a blur of technicality and ferocity. They close with a wall of noise; perhaps the most pummelling sonic abuse the Ryman has suffered in its 125 years.
Second on the storied stage is Eagles of Death Metal. Attracting headlines for all the wrong reasons when its show at the Bataclan in Paris was chosen for a terror attack, the band’s name is misleading. This is really a bluesy rock band and supremely pro. Singer Jesse Hughes is a ball of energy, an ordained pastor and his stage persona bears this out. The music isn’t totally my bag but it’s perfectly executed and there’s evidence of a crowd which clearly hangs on every word. Sometimes you need to step back and remember where you are.
And so; with another $9 beer tearing its way through my beleaguered bank balance, Mastodon takes to the stage.
This is a band at the very top of its game and blessed with a back catalogue bulging with killer hooks, outrageous time signatures and an ability to drop the deadliest chugs with no prior warning. It’s an incendiary mix and they juggernaut their way through a greatest hits set, dropping hit after hit with barely a pause for breath. They open with Sultan’s Curse, the first track from latest album Emperor of Sand, taking in highlights from that record including the stand-out Show Yourself. They plunge through each record picking out the biggest riffs before closing with an epic triumvirate of Mother Puncher, Circle of Cisquatch and finally the mighty March of the Fire Ants, bringing the house down with it. It’s a display of pure power, mastery of melody and terrifying technicality. Best metal band in the world? Don’t doubt it.
With the opening riff from March of the Fire Ants still swirling in the memory, drummer Brann Dailor delivers a heart-felt epilogue. His grandparents had played the Ryman Auditorium in the 1950s and he was clearly moved looking up to the same stained glass windows as they had, 60 years earlier. The first metal show at the Ryman was a triumph.
Nashville first came to my attention during the TV comedy Master of None, when Dev takes his new belle Rachel on a one-day date to Music City. This is the home of country music and it wears its heart on its sleeve. The downtown district bursts with high-rise blocks, including the AT&T tower, nicknamed The Batman Building due to its resemblance to Batman’s mask. It looms over the entire state of Tennessee as its tallest building.
The city is heaving with construction activity and it’s fascinating to observe how things are done on the other side of the pond. The speed of construction is hugely impressive, with crazy back-propping to progress multiple floors of high-rise buildings. I’d hate to be undertaking the temporary works calculations on those. Elsewhere, it’s evident that health and safety is not up to the standards of the UK industry but this is a place where things get done.
By far the most impressive structure is Music City Centre. This is an enormous exhibition space sprawling over two full blocks and stretching high into the sky; large enough that a main road actually passes through it. Imagine dropping the Birmingham NEC into the middle of a busy city and cladding it in a flowing, trippy façade.
We take a recommendation and dine at Martin’s BBQ – a bustling, traditional barbecue house which smells divine and serves the best brisket I’ve ever eaten. This kind of food might be a hipster staple in the UK, but here in the South, it’s a way of life and the proliferation of awesome eats is one of the highlights of the trip.
We need a decent meal as our next stop is Broadway. This legendary neon strip is home to Nashville’s honky tonk bars. It’s as brash as it sounds, with live music in every joint but less forced and tacky than Bourbon Street in New Orleans. This is still the real deal.
We settle at the bar in Nudie’s – home of the longest bar in Nashville; allegedly. As we have to squint to see its conclusion, it’s hard to disagree. There’s a band in full flow and for the two hours we stay, they don’t let up. It’s a mix of blues, rock and country – mostly covers and plenty of songs we know but many that we don’t. The guitarist makes frequent requests for tequila shots – at one stage being furnished with a huge shot by a very enthusiastic and apparently devoted middle-aged lady who hollers in response. We don’t stick around long enough to witness the conclusion of that burgeoning relationship.
Despite having no background in country music, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the whole atmosphere. People in cowboy boots dance in front of the stage and the guitarist intersperses his tequila shots with waltzes along the bar and, as a backdrop, Nudie’s own white Cadillac hangs from the wall behind the stage.
Of course, this is just the warm-up act for the main event: we’re off to see hardcore’s craziest live band. Every Time I Die are playing a tiny dive bar called The End. Upon arrival in the early evening, it’s still sweltering but the beer is cheaper than most places and the venue is packed. The band is completely off the hook – as you would expect. The tiny venue has people hanging from every available rafter, with crowd surfers from beginning to end. As a static observer, it’s hellishly intense and sweaty; one cannot imagine how tough it must have been on stage. This is a special band, with massive, catchy, heavy songs played with unerring conviction. A totally different gig to Mastodon the night before but no less vital.
Every Time I Die is the soundtrack to close our time in Nashville – it’s been short but sweet. We’ve got to get over the border and into North Carolina. Boogity boogity boogity – let’s go racing! Charlotte Motor Speedway beckons.
Part two:
In the interests of true road tripping, we have again introduced a little jeopardy to a serious day’s motoring. We have tickets for NASCAR’s third-tier Camping World Truck Series at Charlotte Motor Speedway. Not only does this mean six hours of driving, but we have no time zone straddling to aid our progress.
We treat the multi-storey hotel car park as an opportunity to warm up the Challenger and it’s impossible not to giggle as the big ole brute rocks on its springs from the torque – virtually from idle. The noise is outrageous for a production sedan.
It’s unusual to tap a destination into a sat nav and find oneself with no directions for a full 200 miles but the I-40 East will convey us for almost 300 miles – right into the Smoky Mountains. Bearing in mind our location, vehicle and the extent of driving ahead of us, it feels right to deploy some real driving music: Credence Clear Water Revival. Now we’re in business.
We pause for breakfast in Gordonsville, a little hick town in the middle of nowhere. Waffle House is a chain we see everywhere but other than its eponymous wares, we know nothing about it. We find a scene straight out of a movie. As usual, we sit at the bar in order to survey the scene and get to know our hosts. We are shown to our elevated seats by a friendly lady, comfortably into her 60s, whom the chef calls ‘Miss Judy’. He and another lady run the kitchen with an iron grip, though from the moment we arrive we have no clue what is happening. Food flies from all directions, apparently cooked with little regard for order and yet each cover is delivered as one at the appropriate moment. It’s akin to witnessing witchcraft first-hand.
Waffle House is far from glamorous but the filter coffee isn’t bad and the waffles are pretty damn good. The clientele is mixed but just to our right is a chap who could’ve passed for the Marlboro Man in retirement: Cowboy hat, packet of cigarettes to one side and moustache drooping into his coffee. I don’t imagine they get many folk from the UK passing through but we’re afforded remarkable anonymity compared to many places on our trip. An honest, cholesterol-ridden breakfast to kick-start the day; you couldn’t ask for much more and all for barely $5 apiece.
The scenery is evocative and lush but not hugely memorable. The Tennessee countryside is densely wooded with mature tree disappearing to the horizon, our broad highway carving a gentle path through the middle. It’s impossible not to wonder at the sheer number of trees and ponder a solution to the sustainable harvesting of timber.
We pass more ludicrous signs including the inviting ‘Love Shack’ and a huge advert for a Gun Show; two tickets, please...
A pause for barbecue food brings forth more mac n cheese and some exceptional ribs. Each BBQ joint seems to produce one stand-out meat and at Sweet P’s in Knoxville, the ribs win hands down. The restaurant is on the water and we take a breather for half an hour to chill out before saddling back up to maintain our progress towards North Carolina and our third state in four days.
The scenery improves dramatically as we reach the foothills of the Appalachian mountain range. The mountains stretch 1,500 miles from Newfoundland in Canada all the way to Alabama so we really only traverse a short section. Most stunning is the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The vistas become broader, longer and taller; giant rigs are dwarfed by looming mountain peaks and tufts of mist hang in the trees whimsically.
This is hugely dramatic motoring and the majesty of the surroundings is belied to some extent by the normality of the road: still, wide and flowing, with the occasional advert for a burger outlet and scores of burst tyres littering the hard shoulder. It really is one of the most stunning roads I’ve ever driven – even if there are no dabs of oppo, blipped downchanges or bursts of acceleration. We simply make casual, easy progress with blues rock on the stereo and the thrill of a constantly-evolving horizon to lure us deeper into North Carolina.
We arrive at Charlotte in time to grab our tickets, drop off our bags and take the 20 minute drive over to the Speedway. We miss qualifying for the Saturday’s All-Star Race but we’re comfortably in time for the truck event on Friday evening. Another poke in the eye for our road trip jeopardy.
North Carolina and the area around Charlotte is the home of stock car racing in the US. While casual European observers (and I count myself among them) might consider Talladega and Daytona to be the archetypal NASCAR circuits, the teams and the drivers are almost all based within half an hour of Charlotte Motor Speedway. This is NASCAR’s church. That said, it’s something of a surprise to find a card promoting The Apostolic Restoration Church bundled in with our programme. That is a first for me at a motor sport event.
It’s hard to know quite where to start when describing a NASCAR event as most European frames of reference are inadequate. Certainly my last experience of stock car racing on an oval – ASCAR at Rockingham (Corby) – sells the spectacle woefully short.
Charlotte Motor Speedway is a huge facility. As well as the high-banked 1.5 mile paved oval, the place boasts a short-track dirt oval and a four-wide NHRA drag strip. And, yes, they do host four-wide top fuel dragsters and funny cars on the strip. That will definitely be a feature of our next trip.
Friday night oval racing is a tradition in North America – from midgets on dirt to 200mph bump-drafting around Daytona. This is how families see in the weekend. As traditional as the attendance itself; is the right to bear beer. It may not technically be drafted into the Constitution but the NASCAR fan’s right to haul a big ass cooler of beer into his or her chosen venue is the kind of issue over which men start civil wars. This stuff is serious in these parts.
The crowd is a little thin tonight; for a venue which can hold up to 120,000 people, anything less than half-full feels a bit ghostly. We adopt our perch on the bleachers and find ourselves high above the front stretch, a little ahead of the point at which the drivers are turning left into turn one. At this stage it’s still light but dusk is descending and by the time the safety car peels off into the pits to unleash the pack, the drivers are running under floodlights and the skies are black.
The most striking aspect of the start is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the noise. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt compelled to wear earplugs at a race meeting. The cumulative effect of 40 raging stock cars is a savage assault on the eardrums. This is a pretty physical sport to watch, with the pack pushing a draft across your face every 30 seconds.
The race belongs to one man only: Kyle Busch has joined the grid as an interloper and he is peerless all evening. He is challenged but not to the extent that the result ever looks in doubt. Christopher Bell is an early challenger but he drops way back down the field as the result of an unscheduled pitstop. Somehow he claws his way back into contention by the end.
The race is run to a relatively straightforward format but there are a couple of stages at which the order remains the same but everything resets with a trip to the pits. With the entire circuit visible from our seats, it’s not difficult to follow the race but most of the cars and their pilots aren’t familiar so it doesn’t feel totally intuitive to watch. The sheer visceral thrill of the cars at speed is comfortably enough to hold your interest though.
There are a couple of spins and the odd bit of contact but those expecting a demolition derby must have gone home disappointed. The spread of talent through the field is pretty broad and the difference in speed between Busch and the tail-enders is far more pronounced than we would find the following day for the Cup race.
When the chequered flag drops, it’s close across the line but the ever-controversial Busch has added another victory to his bulging CV and celebrates with a bag of donuts which fills the Speedway with smoke. Friday night in Charlotte has proven pretty awesome – and this is merely the warm-up act.
We hit the circuit at lunchtime the next day to fully explore and soak up everything the event has to offer. The temperature is outrageous – pure, dry, energy-sapping heat and we have to run between the shady spots.
Really gaudy merch is a massive guilty pleasure of mine and there are acres of stalls selling naff t-shirts, caps, bleacher mats, mugs, keyrings, beer coolers...you name it. It’s all completely fantastic and I can’t stop myself from buying a Dale Earnhardt Jr. t-shirt, almost half of the material given over to a giant image of his #88 Chevy. We also manage to snare a NASCAR cooler – perfect for keeping our beers just a degree or two below the sweltering ambient temperature.
The place is rammed today and the police are in full attendance with rows of state trooper cars parked up and the thousands of cars being directed with absolute authority. In spite of the sheer volume of traffic, everything is pretty orderly. It sure beats the usual ineffectual teenager in a hi vis vest you find at most big events in Europe.
There is a real buzz in the air and All-Star Race kicks off a week of racing in Charlotte, with World of Outlaws sprint cars on the dirt track the following week, before the big Coca Cola 600 points-paying NASCAR event next weekend. The crowd is vast and devoted with event t-shirts on display from the previous 30 years. It’s very evident that Dale Earnhardt Jr. is the darling of the home crowd. He lives locally and his race team is based just half an hour from the track. This is his farewell tour and the sport ponders how it will grow in his absence. It’s very apparent that there will be a void left when he hangs up his helmet.
We have passes to walk pit road and several of the cars are already lined up outside their pit boxes (no garages facing into the pit lane here) and it’s fascinating to survey how the stock car teams go about their racing.
The cars are simple and yet completely alien in many respects. The hulking tube frames look agricultural but the engines are jewels: nowhere near the size you’d expect, the ancillaries are all kept well out of harm’s way and the blocks are implausibly low and tight up to the firewall. Think 90s Super Tourer and you wouldn’t be far off in terms of engine location, only these monsters pack an 800bhp punch.
The cabins are stark and look positively vintage. The steering wheels retain a centre cushioned pad – ya’know, just in case. Compared to the European approach of carbon fibre everything, it feels strange seeing steel and aluminium everywhere. Even my old Lotus road car has Kevlar seats and yet Ricky Stenhouse Jr. makes do with a leather-lined metal throne.
While it’s easy to scoff at the relative lack of sophistication, it’s clear that these machines have evolved to be perfectly fit for their intended purpose. And they’re obviously extremely highly-developed, even if that doesn’t mean carbon fibre monocoques and hybrid powertrains. The upper surfaces of the cars are littered with passive flaps. These are designed to rise in the event that the car spins – simply through the process of the air hitting the leading edge of the flap, helping to prevent the car from becoming airborne. This is clever stuff and, being entirely passive, they require no complex control systems or electronics.
Of equal fascination are the mechanics’ kit boxes. Each team has a rack of equipment facing out into pit road. Forget your F1 / LMP1 reboot protocol, here the guys set to work on injured cars using hack saws and acres of duct tape. Fitness for purpose once again...
We are free to roam the front stretch and it brings home quite home enormous the place is. The grass between pit road and the front stretch feels as large as a decent-sized dairy farm, while the grandstands tower high above us, the steepness of the banking is only apparent when you stand at the top and consider the turn-in speed of the Cup cars. *Gulp*.
Hundreds of fans have written little notes and dedications on the start line but the ultimate has to be the simple: “Kyle Busch has a punchable face.” I suppose he does.
The All-Star Race is a non-championship Cup round which carries a huge prize purse. You won’t help your title ambitions by winning, but you will help your retirement plans. The series’ 16 most successful drivers are granted automatic entry, with a qualifying session and multi-stage heat race to decide the other four spots in the 20-car All-Star Race, with the participants competing for a $1 million prize for the overall win.
This all seems pretty complicated, especially as I’m not hugely familiar with all of the drivers out there. Everyone knows Jimmie Johnson and his incredible achievements but, for example, I know almost nothing about Mexican sensation Daniel Suarez. The locals, though, are evidently well-informed and hold dear their favourite drivers while rarely missing a chance to malign those out-of-favour.
The three-stage heat race – the Monster Energy Open – gave places in the All-Star Race to Clint Bowyer, Ryan Blaney and Daniel Suarez. Chase Elliott won the popular vote to become the final entrant in the grand final.
The All-Star Race itself comprises 70 laps – effectively three 20-lap heats for all 20 runners, with the top-10 going through to a 10 lap dash to the flag.
The early running is all about Kyle Larson. The youngster aboard the #42 Chip Ganassi Chevrolet has the legs on the entire field and probably has about a tenth per lap on his rivals. He wins the opening two stages of the race comfortably and looks a shoo-in for the big dollar prize.
The Cup cars are notably faster than the previous evening’s trucks. Average lap speed is up by a full 10 mph and the leaders are lapping at 188mph. One on-board reveals that Larson is sweeping into turn one at 197mph, just beneath our feet. This is serious stuff and the cars are visibly on a knife-edge, showers of sparks firing from the sills if they take to the apron with full tanks and visibly squirming throughout. Forget any preconceptions are mashing the throttle and simply turning left: these guys are properly brave and awesomely skilled.
Charlotte is designated a superspeedway, although it’s much shorter than the likes of Daytona, Talladega or Indy. In spite of that, it is not a restrictor plate track so the drivers have full power with which to range themselves. The banks are really very steep and there’s something properly emotive about the sight and sound of the pack pummelling through the first corner, the roof of the car as visible to us as the side. I have a lump in my throat.
The racing is surprisingly clean and I’m relieved we don’t witness any significant incidents. There are occasional spins but nothing serious. At one stage during the Monster Energy Open, Erik Jones spews oil over the surface, causing a brief cessation of racing. While oil on European road courses is handled by an orange-clad marshal and a bucket of cement dust, things over here are – naturally – on a bigger scale. A pick-up truck drenches the affected Tarmac with cement dust before a squadron of pick-ups uses rear-mounted jet engines to blast the cement from the surface. It’s noisy and dusty but certainly effective: a proper operation. The only time I’d previously seen the jet blowers in action was when Champ Car visited Rockingham and the track surface was weeping groundwater.
The assembled crowds are not shy in their enthusiasm for their favourite drivers. Top of the list is local hero Dale Earnhardt Jr. 2017 will be his last as a full-time, top-flight driver and he doesn’t look like a force to be reckoned with all weekend. His #88 Chevy is decorated in a garish yellow and orange livery which looks fantastic under the evening floodlights. You’d certainly never lose it in a car park.
NASCAR currently faces a major challenge in terms of maintaining fan interest once the series’ most popular driver retires. Of the younger challengers, #24, Chase Elliott, is evidently the fan favourite. I never quite ascertain what gives him the X-factor but he receives rapturous cheers on virtually every lap. Equally, the fans are not afraid to give their less favoured drivers hell. One angry supporter near to us shouts “you suck” every single lap at Kyle Busch. Mercifully for Busch, his 850bhp V8 will just about have drowned out the hostile jibes.
This is pretty tribal stuff and evidently highly traditional. Much like the long-standing Australian Holden vs. Ford war, the battle lines were drawn long ago and there is a sense of generational entrenchment around a family’s favoured driver or manufacturer. Every single attendee is displaying some kind of loyalty towards his or her preferred pilot. Hats, shirts, jackets, coolers, big gulp cups...you name it, they’ll be wearing it in support of their hero.
With all that said, though, Toyota appeared to be well-respected and perhaps the Japanese company’s establishment as a major employer in the US has served it well. Manufacturers like Dodge and Plymouth have been and gone in stock car circles so Toyota’s dedication is to be applauded and it appears to have been accepted into the scene.
The final 10-lap bout is a thriller. All the runners bar Brad Keslowski pit under yellow before forming up for the rolling start. Larson suffers a slow stop and we’re treated to the sight of him going four-wide down pit road in the company of Jimmie Johnson, Kyle Busch and Denny Hamlin. This sets up a monster showdown over the final fifteen miles.
As the track goes green, Friday’s winner Busch dives under Keslowski to snatch the lead. Keslowski’s Ford makes contact with Larson which slots Jimmie Johnson into second while Busch scarpers. Keslowski is out of it, almost nerfing Hamlin into the wall. That enables Kurt Busch to grab fourth.
Kyle Busch in special Caramel M&Ms livery repeats his Friday victory while Larson overhauls Johnson on the final tour for second. From the stands, he looked the quickest guy all evening so he’ll be ruing that slow stop. Busch, meanwhile wears can’t wipe the grin from his ‘punchable’ face. Another set of raucous donuts fills the air with thick, white smoke and fireworks launch from behind the back stretch. Never let it be said that the Americans miss an opportunity for a little pomp and ceremony.
As we file out of the venue, we follow a chap wearing a t-shirt proudly proclaiming the slogan: “Trump: Finally someone with balls”. We’ve been treated to the national anthem, prayers, star spangled banners, tributes to the military and any number of references to America’s status as the greatest country in the world.
This isn’t motor racing as we know it in Europe. Not only is the spectacle of 40 raging stock cars utterly alien (though equally intoxicating and bewitching) but the sentiment, the patriotism and the passion of the fans requires some adjustment. It’s as far as you might find from the Goodwood garden party vibes but it’s a historically rich and hugely significant branch of our sport and I’d urge everyone with petrol in their veins to attend at least one event. You won’t forget the wall of noise as the pack charges past you at 200mph and the experience of attending a race in the bible belt is unlike anything else.
In the interests of true road tripping, we have again introduced a little jeopardy to a serious day’s motoring. We have tickets for NASCAR’s third-tier Camping World Truck Series at Charlotte Motor Speedway. Not only does this mean six hours of driving, but we have no time zone straddling to aid our progress.
We treat the multi-storey hotel car park as an opportunity to warm up the Challenger and it’s impossible not to giggle as the big ole brute rocks on its springs from the torque – virtually from idle. The noise is outrageous for a production sedan.
It’s unusual to tap a destination into a sat nav and find oneself with no directions for a full 200 miles but the I-40 East will convey us for almost 300 miles – right into the Smoky Mountains. Bearing in mind our location, vehicle and the extent of driving ahead of us, it feels right to deploy some real driving music: Credence Clear Water Revival. Now we’re in business.
We pause for breakfast in Gordonsville, a little hick town in the middle of nowhere. Waffle House is a chain we see everywhere but other than its eponymous wares, we know nothing about it. We find a scene straight out of a movie. As usual, we sit at the bar in order to survey the scene and get to know our hosts. We are shown to our elevated seats by a friendly lady, comfortably into her 60s, whom the chef calls ‘Miss Judy’. He and another lady run the kitchen with an iron grip, though from the moment we arrive we have no clue what is happening. Food flies from all directions, apparently cooked with little regard for order and yet each cover is delivered as one at the appropriate moment. It’s akin to witnessing witchcraft first-hand.
Waffle House is far from glamorous but the filter coffee isn’t bad and the waffles are pretty damn good. The clientele is mixed but just to our right is a chap who could’ve passed for the Marlboro Man in retirement: Cowboy hat, packet of cigarettes to one side and moustache drooping into his coffee. I don’t imagine they get many folk from the UK passing through but we’re afforded remarkable anonymity compared to many places on our trip. An honest, cholesterol-ridden breakfast to kick-start the day; you couldn’t ask for much more and all for barely $5 apiece.
The scenery is evocative and lush but not hugely memorable. The Tennessee countryside is densely wooded with mature tree disappearing to the horizon, our broad highway carving a gentle path through the middle. It’s impossible not to wonder at the sheer number of trees and ponder a solution to the sustainable harvesting of timber.
We pass more ludicrous signs including the inviting ‘Love Shack’ and a huge advert for a Gun Show; two tickets, please...
A pause for barbecue food brings forth more mac n cheese and some exceptional ribs. Each BBQ joint seems to produce one stand-out meat and at Sweet P’s in Knoxville, the ribs win hands down. The restaurant is on the water and we take a breather for half an hour to chill out before saddling back up to maintain our progress towards North Carolina and our third state in four days.
The scenery improves dramatically as we reach the foothills of the Appalachian mountain range. The mountains stretch 1,500 miles from Newfoundland in Canada all the way to Alabama so we really only traverse a short section. Most stunning is the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The vistas become broader, longer and taller; giant rigs are dwarfed by looming mountain peaks and tufts of mist hang in the trees whimsically.
This is hugely dramatic motoring and the majesty of the surroundings is belied to some extent by the normality of the road: still, wide and flowing, with the occasional advert for a burger outlet and scores of burst tyres littering the hard shoulder. It really is one of the most stunning roads I’ve ever driven – even if there are no dabs of oppo, blipped downchanges or bursts of acceleration. We simply make casual, easy progress with blues rock on the stereo and the thrill of a constantly-evolving horizon to lure us deeper into North Carolina.
We arrive at Charlotte in time to grab our tickets, drop off our bags and take the 20 minute drive over to the Speedway. We miss qualifying for the Saturday’s All-Star Race but we’re comfortably in time for the truck event on Friday evening. Another poke in the eye for our road trip jeopardy.
North Carolina and the area around Charlotte is the home of stock car racing in the US. While casual European observers (and I count myself among them) might consider Talladega and Daytona to be the archetypal NASCAR circuits, the teams and the drivers are almost all based within half an hour of Charlotte Motor Speedway. This is NASCAR’s church. That said, it’s something of a surprise to find a card promoting The Apostolic Restoration Church bundled in with our programme. That is a first for me at a motor sport event.
It’s hard to know quite where to start when describing a NASCAR event as most European frames of reference are inadequate. Certainly my last experience of stock car racing on an oval – ASCAR at Rockingham (Corby) – sells the spectacle woefully short.
Charlotte Motor Speedway is a huge facility. As well as the high-banked 1.5 mile paved oval, the place boasts a short-track dirt oval and a four-wide NHRA drag strip. And, yes, they do host four-wide top fuel dragsters and funny cars on the strip. That will definitely be a feature of our next trip.
Friday night oval racing is a tradition in North America – from midgets on dirt to 200mph bump-drafting around Daytona. This is how families see in the weekend. As traditional as the attendance itself; is the right to bear beer. It may not technically be drafted into the Constitution but the NASCAR fan’s right to haul a big ass cooler of beer into his or her chosen venue is the kind of issue over which men start civil wars. This stuff is serious in these parts.
The crowd is a little thin tonight; for a venue which can hold up to 120,000 people, anything less than half-full feels a bit ghostly. We adopt our perch on the bleachers and find ourselves high above the front stretch, a little ahead of the point at which the drivers are turning left into turn one. At this stage it’s still light but dusk is descending and by the time the safety car peels off into the pits to unleash the pack, the drivers are running under floodlights and the skies are black.
The most striking aspect of the start is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the noise. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt compelled to wear earplugs at a race meeting. The cumulative effect of 40 raging stock cars is a savage assault on the eardrums. This is a pretty physical sport to watch, with the pack pushing a draft across your face every 30 seconds.
The race belongs to one man only: Kyle Busch has joined the grid as an interloper and he is peerless all evening. He is challenged but not to the extent that the result ever looks in doubt. Christopher Bell is an early challenger but he drops way back down the field as the result of an unscheduled pitstop. Somehow he claws his way back into contention by the end.
The race is run to a relatively straightforward format but there are a couple of stages at which the order remains the same but everything resets with a trip to the pits. With the entire circuit visible from our seats, it’s not difficult to follow the race but most of the cars and their pilots aren’t familiar so it doesn’t feel totally intuitive to watch. The sheer visceral thrill of the cars at speed is comfortably enough to hold your interest though.
There are a couple of spins and the odd bit of contact but those expecting a demolition derby must have gone home disappointed. The spread of talent through the field is pretty broad and the difference in speed between Busch and the tail-enders is far more pronounced than we would find the following day for the Cup race.
When the chequered flag drops, it’s close across the line but the ever-controversial Busch has added another victory to his bulging CV and celebrates with a bag of donuts which fills the Speedway with smoke. Friday night in Charlotte has proven pretty awesome – and this is merely the warm-up act.
We hit the circuit at lunchtime the next day to fully explore and soak up everything the event has to offer. The temperature is outrageous – pure, dry, energy-sapping heat and we have to run between the shady spots.
Really gaudy merch is a massive guilty pleasure of mine and there are acres of stalls selling naff t-shirts, caps, bleacher mats, mugs, keyrings, beer coolers...you name it. It’s all completely fantastic and I can’t stop myself from buying a Dale Earnhardt Jr. t-shirt, almost half of the material given over to a giant image of his #88 Chevy. We also manage to snare a NASCAR cooler – perfect for keeping our beers just a degree or two below the sweltering ambient temperature.
The place is rammed today and the police are in full attendance with rows of state trooper cars parked up and the thousands of cars being directed with absolute authority. In spite of the sheer volume of traffic, everything is pretty orderly. It sure beats the usual ineffectual teenager in a hi vis vest you find at most big events in Europe.
There is a real buzz in the air and All-Star Race kicks off a week of racing in Charlotte, with World of Outlaws sprint cars on the dirt track the following week, before the big Coca Cola 600 points-paying NASCAR event next weekend. The crowd is vast and devoted with event t-shirts on display from the previous 30 years. It’s very evident that Dale Earnhardt Jr. is the darling of the home crowd. He lives locally and his race team is based just half an hour from the track. This is his farewell tour and the sport ponders how it will grow in his absence. It’s very apparent that there will be a void left when he hangs up his helmet.
We have passes to walk pit road and several of the cars are already lined up outside their pit boxes (no garages facing into the pit lane here) and it’s fascinating to survey how the stock car teams go about their racing.
The cars are simple and yet completely alien in many respects. The hulking tube frames look agricultural but the engines are jewels: nowhere near the size you’d expect, the ancillaries are all kept well out of harm’s way and the blocks are implausibly low and tight up to the firewall. Think 90s Super Tourer and you wouldn’t be far off in terms of engine location, only these monsters pack an 800bhp punch.
The cabins are stark and look positively vintage. The steering wheels retain a centre cushioned pad – ya’know, just in case. Compared to the European approach of carbon fibre everything, it feels strange seeing steel and aluminium everywhere. Even my old Lotus road car has Kevlar seats and yet Ricky Stenhouse Jr. makes do with a leather-lined metal throne.
While it’s easy to scoff at the relative lack of sophistication, it’s clear that these machines have evolved to be perfectly fit for their intended purpose. And they’re obviously extremely highly-developed, even if that doesn’t mean carbon fibre monocoques and hybrid powertrains. The upper surfaces of the cars are littered with passive flaps. These are designed to rise in the event that the car spins – simply through the process of the air hitting the leading edge of the flap, helping to prevent the car from becoming airborne. This is clever stuff and, being entirely passive, they require no complex control systems or electronics.
Of equal fascination are the mechanics’ kit boxes. Each team has a rack of equipment facing out into pit road. Forget your F1 / LMP1 reboot protocol, here the guys set to work on injured cars using hack saws and acres of duct tape. Fitness for purpose once again...
We are free to roam the front stretch and it brings home quite home enormous the place is. The grass between pit road and the front stretch feels as large as a decent-sized dairy farm, while the grandstands tower high above us, the steepness of the banking is only apparent when you stand at the top and consider the turn-in speed of the Cup cars. *Gulp*.
Hundreds of fans have written little notes and dedications on the start line but the ultimate has to be the simple: “Kyle Busch has a punchable face.” I suppose he does.
The All-Star Race is a non-championship Cup round which carries a huge prize purse. You won’t help your title ambitions by winning, but you will help your retirement plans. The series’ 16 most successful drivers are granted automatic entry, with a qualifying session and multi-stage heat race to decide the other four spots in the 20-car All-Star Race, with the participants competing for a $1 million prize for the overall win.
This all seems pretty complicated, especially as I’m not hugely familiar with all of the drivers out there. Everyone knows Jimmie Johnson and his incredible achievements but, for example, I know almost nothing about Mexican sensation Daniel Suarez. The locals, though, are evidently well-informed and hold dear their favourite drivers while rarely missing a chance to malign those out-of-favour.
The three-stage heat race – the Monster Energy Open – gave places in the All-Star Race to Clint Bowyer, Ryan Blaney and Daniel Suarez. Chase Elliott won the popular vote to become the final entrant in the grand final.
The All-Star Race itself comprises 70 laps – effectively three 20-lap heats for all 20 runners, with the top-10 going through to a 10 lap dash to the flag.
The early running is all about Kyle Larson. The youngster aboard the #42 Chip Ganassi Chevrolet has the legs on the entire field and probably has about a tenth per lap on his rivals. He wins the opening two stages of the race comfortably and looks a shoo-in for the big dollar prize.
The Cup cars are notably faster than the previous evening’s trucks. Average lap speed is up by a full 10 mph and the leaders are lapping at 188mph. One on-board reveals that Larson is sweeping into turn one at 197mph, just beneath our feet. This is serious stuff and the cars are visibly on a knife-edge, showers of sparks firing from the sills if they take to the apron with full tanks and visibly squirming throughout. Forget any preconceptions are mashing the throttle and simply turning left: these guys are properly brave and awesomely skilled.
Charlotte is designated a superspeedway, although it’s much shorter than the likes of Daytona, Talladega or Indy. In spite of that, it is not a restrictor plate track so the drivers have full power with which to range themselves. The banks are really very steep and there’s something properly emotive about the sight and sound of the pack pummelling through the first corner, the roof of the car as visible to us as the side. I have a lump in my throat.
The racing is surprisingly clean and I’m relieved we don’t witness any significant incidents. There are occasional spins but nothing serious. At one stage during the Monster Energy Open, Erik Jones spews oil over the surface, causing a brief cessation of racing. While oil on European road courses is handled by an orange-clad marshal and a bucket of cement dust, things over here are – naturally – on a bigger scale. A pick-up truck drenches the affected Tarmac with cement dust before a squadron of pick-ups uses rear-mounted jet engines to blast the cement from the surface. It’s noisy and dusty but certainly effective: a proper operation. The only time I’d previously seen the jet blowers in action was when Champ Car visited Rockingham and the track surface was weeping groundwater.
The assembled crowds are not shy in their enthusiasm for their favourite drivers. Top of the list is local hero Dale Earnhardt Jr. 2017 will be his last as a full-time, top-flight driver and he doesn’t look like a force to be reckoned with all weekend. His #88 Chevy is decorated in a garish yellow and orange livery which looks fantastic under the evening floodlights. You’d certainly never lose it in a car park.
NASCAR currently faces a major challenge in terms of maintaining fan interest once the series’ most popular driver retires. Of the younger challengers, #24, Chase Elliott, is evidently the fan favourite. I never quite ascertain what gives him the X-factor but he receives rapturous cheers on virtually every lap. Equally, the fans are not afraid to give their less favoured drivers hell. One angry supporter near to us shouts “you suck” every single lap at Kyle Busch. Mercifully for Busch, his 850bhp V8 will just about have drowned out the hostile jibes.
This is pretty tribal stuff and evidently highly traditional. Much like the long-standing Australian Holden vs. Ford war, the battle lines were drawn long ago and there is a sense of generational entrenchment around a family’s favoured driver or manufacturer. Every single attendee is displaying some kind of loyalty towards his or her preferred pilot. Hats, shirts, jackets, coolers, big gulp cups...you name it, they’ll be wearing it in support of their hero.
With all that said, though, Toyota appeared to be well-respected and perhaps the Japanese company’s establishment as a major employer in the US has served it well. Manufacturers like Dodge and Plymouth have been and gone in stock car circles so Toyota’s dedication is to be applauded and it appears to have been accepted into the scene.
The final 10-lap bout is a thriller. All the runners bar Brad Keslowski pit under yellow before forming up for the rolling start. Larson suffers a slow stop and we’re treated to the sight of him going four-wide down pit road in the company of Jimmie Johnson, Kyle Busch and Denny Hamlin. This sets up a monster showdown over the final fifteen miles.
As the track goes green, Friday’s winner Busch dives under Keslowski to snatch the lead. Keslowski’s Ford makes contact with Larson which slots Jimmie Johnson into second while Busch scarpers. Keslowski is out of it, almost nerfing Hamlin into the wall. That enables Kurt Busch to grab fourth.
Kyle Busch in special Caramel M&Ms livery repeats his Friday victory while Larson overhauls Johnson on the final tour for second. From the stands, he looked the quickest guy all evening so he’ll be ruing that slow stop. Busch, meanwhile wears can’t wipe the grin from his ‘punchable’ face. Another set of raucous donuts fills the air with thick, white smoke and fireworks launch from behind the back stretch. Never let it be said that the Americans miss an opportunity for a little pomp and ceremony.
As we file out of the venue, we follow a chap wearing a t-shirt proudly proclaiming the slogan: “Trump: Finally someone with balls”. We’ve been treated to the national anthem, prayers, star spangled banners, tributes to the military and any number of references to America’s status as the greatest country in the world.
This isn’t motor racing as we know it in Europe. Not only is the spectacle of 40 raging stock cars utterly alien (though equally intoxicating and bewitching) but the sentiment, the patriotism and the passion of the fans requires some adjustment. It’s as far as you might find from the Goodwood garden party vibes but it’s a historically rich and hugely significant branch of our sport and I’d urge everyone with petrol in their veins to attend at least one event. You won’t forget the wall of noise as the pack charges past you at 200mph and the experience of attending a race in the bible belt is unlike anything else.
K50 DEL said:
I've never heard of any of the bands but it's lovely to see some great photos of an area I last toured through in the early 00's
My trip to the Ryman was much more "normal" - I went to the Grand Ole Opry there but Nudies escaped me, I'm a huge country fan so went for Tootsie's Orchid Lounge instead. The Gaylord Opryland Resort was also worth a visit
Did you tour Coca-Cola, CNN and the Georgia Dome whilst in Atlanta? all 3 are well worth seeing.
Looking forward to the next instalment.
We have so much stuff left to do in both Atlanta and Nashville. We didn't get chance to try any of those places! Because we were bound by the gigs and the racing, we skipped around a little to get to the events. I think next time we go to the States we'll fly into Atlanta again and stop over another couple of nights to explore some more. Really cool city though. We also didn't get time to do any of the Tennessee distilleries so we'll certainly explore those on another trip too. Just got to save up a little! My trip to the Ryman was much more "normal" - I went to the Grand Ole Opry there but Nudies escaped me, I'm a huge country fan so went for Tootsie's Orchid Lounge instead. The Gaylord Opryland Resort was also worth a visit
Did you tour Coca-Cola, CNN and the Georgia Dome whilst in Atlanta? all 3 are well worth seeing.
Looking forward to the next instalment.
Thanks for all the positi comments and stories from your own adventures, guys - loving getting more ideas from everyone. There really are scores of other places and events I want to visit in the States. We passed quite close to Bristol and there was a Late Model event taking place while we were there but Mrs Chev put her foot down – probably quite rightly as I did manage to squeeze three race meetings into one honeymoon!
I’ve only been to a couple of drag events – the Euros at Santa Pod and a smaller event at Texas Raceway where I ended up competing against the strip owner in my rental car! The last time I saw the blowers in action was the Champ Car race at Rockingham in 2001 when they were desperately trying to dry the track after groundwater was causing ‘weeping’ through the track surface. Very impressed seeing them in action clearing an oil spill though.
I’m a good chunk through part three which deals a little more with the Challenger. It’ll be another month or so before the Indy 500 account is up. It takes hours to research, write and proof read 3,000 words and unfortunately I have to prioritise my day job and commissioned features over my own self-indulgence.
I’ve only been to a couple of drag events – the Euros at Santa Pod and a smaller event at Texas Raceway where I ended up competing against the strip owner in my rental car! The last time I saw the blowers in action was the Champ Car race at Rockingham in 2001 when they were desperately trying to dry the track after groundwater was causing ‘weeping’ through the track surface. Very impressed seeing them in action clearing an oil spill though.
I’m a good chunk through part three which deals a little more with the Challenger. It’ll be another month or so before the Indy 500 account is up. It takes hours to research, write and proof read 3,000 words and unfortunately I have to prioritise my day job and commissioned features over my own self-indulgence.
I've finally finished the latest installment of our road trip. There's a bit of an assessment of the Challenger, some great roads, a museum and some tiny birds. Such a great week!
Part three:
With our ears still ringing and our livers having taken quite a battering, it’s time to continue north. Mrs Motorcardiaries doesn’t share quite the same enthusiasm as me for car museums and niche automotive diversions but she has granted me the opportunity to take a pilgrimage to Penske’s headquarters in Mooresville, about half an hour outside Charlotte.
While this does mean missing the Hendrick team’s museum and the NASCAR Hall of Fame, marriage – so I am told – is all about compromise so I accept the decision with good grace and sulk for barely an hour in response.
Sadly Penske’s shop is all shut up as it’s Sunday morning but we’re able to drive up to the door, finding a huge, and hugely impressive, facility. All of Penske’s US race operations are based here. That means IndyCar, NASCAR and whichever sports car campaign is prevailing at the time. Soon the team will be returning to endurance racing with Honda / Acura. Maybe the cars are in the shop when we visit...
Tucked away in a rural corner of a fairly nondescript town, we do at least get the chance to use the Challenger for some photos. I just wish we had a blue Camaro to pay tribute to the great Penske hero Mark Donohue who cleared up aboard a Sunoco Camaro in the Trans Am between 1967 and 1969. Maybe one day we’ll come back in a more appropriate muscle car.
I’m amused to find Penske has a mailbox – much like a normal residential abode, only this one is resplendent in corporate black and red. There being little to divert us here, we move on and stop at Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s base, JR Motorsport. This is the home of his marketing and business activities, as well as the race shop which prepares his Xfinity Series stock cars. Sadly the place is even more deserted than Penske so we miss the chance to purchase more items of gaudy merch or have our photo taken with the wax effigy of Jr.
Sunday in this part of the world is pretty quiet so we press on towards our destination and home for the next few days: Asheville. But not before we’ve passed a humorous road sign depicting a traditional farmer on a tractor. We’re not sure if it’s deliberately self-deprecating or simply an accurate representation of agricultural life in the North Carolina area. Either way, it raises a chuckle in the Challenger. We pick up provisions from a local Walmart, including a bag of Caramel M&Ms – as per Kyle Busch’s All-Star Race winning livery. They’re pretty tasty but not quite as good as the peanut butter equivalents. If I reveal a diabetes diagnosis in a future blog then please be assured that NASCAR marketing is entirely to blame.
We skirt Lake Norman and stop for a bite on the shoreline which is stunning. Most of our short (by the standards of this trip, at least) journey features densely forested vistas which roll to the horizon. This splendour is rather interrupted when we run into serious rain; but you don’t get giant green trees without a little precipitation, right? We just wish it could’ve done all its precipitating a few days earlier.
This pretty torrential rain is a feature of our stay in Asheville. While it’s never cold, it does rather take the edge of a truly stunning part of the world; though it does offer a transcendent, ever-changing horizon to enjoy. At least that’s how I try to cheer up a despondent Mrs Motorcardiaries.
Our base for the next few days is the only truly extravagant hotel of our stay: the Omni Grove Park Inn. It’s a massive resort set high above Asheville with its own verdant golf course offering a foreground view, with the Blue Ridge Parkway in the distance. The hotel is evidently fairly historic by American standards and I never quite shake the notion that it’s a little too plush for a couple of old moshers like us. That said, we’re treated well. The food and drink is superb and there’s enough latitude among the dining options to permit us to eat at a vaguely bearable price point.
Asheville appeared on my radar after a friend moved there from Virginia. A little research revealed a bustling university town described as being like a small Austin with a hipster vibe. Live music abounds and the town has become legendary for its beer-brewing scene, with over 40 breweries in the locale at the time of our visit. We have a go at visiting as many as possible.
The coolest end of town is South Slopes where the greatest congregation of breweries is to be found. It helps to head out relatively early as most places stop serving between 10pm and 11pm – the result of a very virtuous ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ between the various brewers to help customers savour the beer, rather than seeking dizzying inebriation. With most of the hoppy concoctions starting at 6%, it’s not hard to understand why this agreement was proposed.
Each brewery has a different vibe but we become particularly fond of Burial. As usual we prop ourselves up at the bar and chat to the serving staff, who are only too keen to fill us in on the local scene and their awesome home brews. All of these places brew within sight of the bar and it lends them an authentic odour. One brewer urges me to take a behind the scenes tour. By this time, his potent concoctions have taken their toll but I try to appear vaguely lucid while we discuss the challenges of protecting floor slabs from the corrosive liquids which are part of the brewing process. At least I think that’s what we discussed.
Whatever, we enjoy a fabulous time exploring Asheville’s lively and friendly drinking scene. We develop a serious addition to sour, a type of beer brewed with fruit to give it a distinct citrus tang. It sounds horrendous but it’s horribly addictive and we export a few cans back to Blighty to enjoy at our leisure. Mrs Motorcardiaries is so infatuated that she drinks half of her allocation before we’ve even left the States.
I’m conscious that we’re a week into this special trip and I’ve barely made mention of our badass wheels. In fact I’ve spent more time discussing craft beer than I have our big grey Challenger. Asheville offers us the opportunity to drive it off the interstate and onto some winding mountain roads.
The huge Blue Ridge Parkway runs for 469 miles through Virginia and North Carolina. Unfortunately time constraints are such that we only explore a short section but it’s a truly spectacular road – and one which genuinely bears comparison with the best I’ve found in Europe and Australia.
The speed limit is low but that’s not a massive problem on a rainy day in a chunky muscle car. The road is serpentine in its writhes and twists. For much of our drive we traverse a high ridge which means spectacular views periodically reveal themselves as the topography and vegetation permit. Our elevation means that any views which do reveal themselves are invariably breath-taking. As our drive proceeds, the weather closes in and the clouds thicken. This serves only to enhance the atmosphere and the clouds hurtle along the valley creating an evolving landscape every time we stop.
The Challenger is, erm, challenged on this kind of road. Heavy braking into tight bends and agile flicks through piff-paffs do not play to its strengths. That said; it’s an entertaining companion, even on roads more suited to a mid-engined flyweight.
The chassis is nicely rear-wheel driven and reacts well when you start to press on a little; the back squatting under load. The traction is strong and it’s actually more convincing the harder you drive it. Even so, it feels miles off a European mid-sized saloon and a Giulia or 3-series would run rings around it dynamically.
In spite of those reservations, it remains one of the most captivating cars I’ve ever driven. Over the whole trip we would cover 1,800 miles and it was never less than awesome fun. A reactive eight-speed gearbox helps and it launches off the line with serious conviction, banging up through the gears with ceremonial fireworks on every up-change. The noise is outrageous for a big sedan – bold, brassy and resonant. It might lack the dense thunder of a NASCAR but in confined underground car parks, it’s hilarious lighting up the rear tyres in a demonic sonic assault.
The Challenger’s sheer charisma and bombastic drivetrain are enough to out-weight the bland interior and mediocre dynamics. This is a true blue muscle car and the perfect counterpoint to anything on the holiday rental market back in Europe. I’m an addict.
From Asheville we head pretty much due west into Kentucky, our next destination being Mammoth Cave – a location with convenient access to the National Corvette Museum. In my mind’s eye, Kentucky is a flat mid-western state with little to offer (excuse me, Kentucky residents) beyond endless agriculture cast across flat plains. The area adjoining North Carolina couldn’t be further from this vision.
The vast arboreal vistas of previous days continue apace. The roads are truly stunning: wide dual carriageways which stretch to distant horizons. The sun casts dramatic rays through patchy clouds, lending everywhere a slightly ethereal, divine atmosphere. Once again, these aren’t driver’s roads in the ‘dab of oppo out of the hairpins’ sense – these are highways on a scale we can’t comprehend in Europe. I take a few check measures and realise that often we have a full five miles of macadam stretching to a vanishing point on the horizon. Vultures circle above, gliding on thermal currents without any apparent effort. It’s quite staggering.
Mammoth Cave is really something – a UNESCO World Heritage Site and home of the longest cave system known to man. Of course, we don’t bother with in any that geological stuff, we’re here for cars – though once we arrive I’m gutted we can’t explore the area a little more as it is fascinating. We are staying overnight in a charming bed and breakfast – such a novelty in the US, where soulless chain hotels proliferate.
The B&B sits within a hilly, wooded area and the surrounding roads are fantastic: smooth, well-sighted and blessed without another vehicle in sight. This would be the perfect area to exercise one’s Lotus or Caterham early on a Sunday morning, though I doubt one could do so inconspicuously.
The greatest privilege of the B&B reveals itself on Friday morning over breakfast: scores of tiny hummingbirds swarm (flock?) around feeders adjacent to the owners’ stoop. Apparently little bothered by our presence, they feed voraciously, buzzing one another out of the way as they do so. Their remarkable proximity enables us to take some striking photos using a telephoto lens. We sit in rapture with our morning coffee for what feels like hours. These remarkable miniature birds are worth the trip all by themselves.
Eventually we have to drag ourselves away from our avian friends and (rather counter-intuitively given our general bearing) head south to Bowling Green. The drive finally reveals the flat mid-western farming territory I’d always imagined. Near Brownsville we spot a couple of nodding donkeys so assume they are pumping oil but this looks to be very much on a domestic scale. I wonder whether they could be used to distribute potable water. Either way, they’re an atmospheric addition and not typical of life in rural Yorkshire.
The agricultural land is as flat as one might imagine, with grain silos and other farming ephemera dotting the landscape. The farmhouses are a long way from the quaint stone cottages of ole England. Towering neo-classical dwellings, replete with ostentatious pillars, modest they are not.
The National Corvette Museum sits close to the factory where every one of America’s sports cars is produced, though it is an independent facility not owned by GM. It serves to celebrate every aspect of the Corvette and its pivotal role in American automotive society as the aspirational motor of choice for domestic gearheads.
Naturally, it veers occasionally into pastiche (check out the signs for the lavatories) but one might equally accuse the great technical museums as Speyer and Sinsheim of the same crime. It’s part of the charm of visiting museums in different countries – each one is representative of its own automotive culture.
The collection of cars is deeply impressive and charts the history of the model from its earliest C1 roadster through to the latest C7. Each visitor is offered the opportunity to sit in a C7 and it’s a genuinely lovely environment with supportive seats, an ergonomic interior and tactile controls. I’m impressed.
The car’s history is charted through its evolution including important examples of each model including the former Nürburgring lap record holder – a vision of extreme yellow which lapped the North Loop faster than a Ferrari Enzo. Elsewhere are celebrity-owned cars, unusual prototypes and a host of Indy 500 pace cars.
While there is none of the recent Pratt & Miller GT contenders on display, the model’s racing history is given due reverence, from parochial club races up to Le Mans class success. It’s impossible to conceive these days of a GT class at Le Mans without a brace of thumping yellow Corvettes hassling the European grandees.
A large gallery is given over to modified ‘Vettes and there is a great selection from a number of different tuners, some familiar but others new. Highlight of the display is a trio of Greenwood-modified examples. While a couple of the outlandish race cars have graced Goodwood in recent years, I’m never previously seen a road car – let alone three. The turbocharged, wide-body coupes are just as outrageous as the racers, with wonderfully period graphics and flared arches to make a 911 RSR blush with inadequacy.
Also in the same gallery is a Callaway Corvette Sledgehammer – once among the very fastest road cars in the world. As a child I could quote its performance figures verbatim, though sadly creeping middle age has dulled those synapses somewhat. This is another first, though – as I suspect barely a single Sledgehammer left North America and I’ve certainly never seen one in the flesh before. It’s actually quite an elegant device by the standards of this company and it could pass for a genuine GM product with the right marketing. I wanted one when I was 10 years old and I still want one now.
The National Corvette Museum made global headlines in 2014 when a cavernous sinkhole opened up under its famous dome, swallowing a handful of cars in the process. The museum hasn’t sought to hide this history and the dome features a taped line on the ground to illustrate the extent of the void. It’s hard not to conclude how fortunate it was that the sink hole opened up overnight and that nobody was hurt.
The event severely damaged several important Corvettes, a couple of them way beyond repair. Today they sit on a plinth as a display in their own right, a rather sad sight though the collateral damage could have been so much worse. As a museum feature, this is a quite fascinating, macabre – and certainly unique – display.
We have just long enough to pose for a cheeky photo with Dodge’s finest outside a totemic demonstration of GM’s achievements before we plough north. Finally we are on the last leg of our pilgrimage to Indianapolis and the greatest spectacle in racing. Unsurprisingly, I’m a little giddy.
Links:
http://www.jrmracing.com/default.aspx
http://www.teampenske.com/about/index.cfm?cid=1419...
https://www.omnihotels.com/hotels/asheville-grove-...
http://www.corvettemuseum.org
Part three:
With our ears still ringing and our livers having taken quite a battering, it’s time to continue north. Mrs Motorcardiaries doesn’t share quite the same enthusiasm as me for car museums and niche automotive diversions but she has granted me the opportunity to take a pilgrimage to Penske’s headquarters in Mooresville, about half an hour outside Charlotte.
While this does mean missing the Hendrick team’s museum and the NASCAR Hall of Fame, marriage – so I am told – is all about compromise so I accept the decision with good grace and sulk for barely an hour in response.
Sadly Penske’s shop is all shut up as it’s Sunday morning but we’re able to drive up to the door, finding a huge, and hugely impressive, facility. All of Penske’s US race operations are based here. That means IndyCar, NASCAR and whichever sports car campaign is prevailing at the time. Soon the team will be returning to endurance racing with Honda / Acura. Maybe the cars are in the shop when we visit...
Tucked away in a rural corner of a fairly nondescript town, we do at least get the chance to use the Challenger for some photos. I just wish we had a blue Camaro to pay tribute to the great Penske hero Mark Donohue who cleared up aboard a Sunoco Camaro in the Trans Am between 1967 and 1969. Maybe one day we’ll come back in a more appropriate muscle car.
I’m amused to find Penske has a mailbox – much like a normal residential abode, only this one is resplendent in corporate black and red. There being little to divert us here, we move on and stop at Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s base, JR Motorsport. This is the home of his marketing and business activities, as well as the race shop which prepares his Xfinity Series stock cars. Sadly the place is even more deserted than Penske so we miss the chance to purchase more items of gaudy merch or have our photo taken with the wax effigy of Jr.
Sunday in this part of the world is pretty quiet so we press on towards our destination and home for the next few days: Asheville. But not before we’ve passed a humorous road sign depicting a traditional farmer on a tractor. We’re not sure if it’s deliberately self-deprecating or simply an accurate representation of agricultural life in the North Carolina area. Either way, it raises a chuckle in the Challenger. We pick up provisions from a local Walmart, including a bag of Caramel M&Ms – as per Kyle Busch’s All-Star Race winning livery. They’re pretty tasty but not quite as good as the peanut butter equivalents. If I reveal a diabetes diagnosis in a future blog then please be assured that NASCAR marketing is entirely to blame.
We skirt Lake Norman and stop for a bite on the shoreline which is stunning. Most of our short (by the standards of this trip, at least) journey features densely forested vistas which roll to the horizon. This splendour is rather interrupted when we run into serious rain; but you don’t get giant green trees without a little precipitation, right? We just wish it could’ve done all its precipitating a few days earlier.
This pretty torrential rain is a feature of our stay in Asheville. While it’s never cold, it does rather take the edge of a truly stunning part of the world; though it does offer a transcendent, ever-changing horizon to enjoy. At least that’s how I try to cheer up a despondent Mrs Motorcardiaries.
Our base for the next few days is the only truly extravagant hotel of our stay: the Omni Grove Park Inn. It’s a massive resort set high above Asheville with its own verdant golf course offering a foreground view, with the Blue Ridge Parkway in the distance. The hotel is evidently fairly historic by American standards and I never quite shake the notion that it’s a little too plush for a couple of old moshers like us. That said, we’re treated well. The food and drink is superb and there’s enough latitude among the dining options to permit us to eat at a vaguely bearable price point.
Asheville appeared on my radar after a friend moved there from Virginia. A little research revealed a bustling university town described as being like a small Austin with a hipster vibe. Live music abounds and the town has become legendary for its beer-brewing scene, with over 40 breweries in the locale at the time of our visit. We have a go at visiting as many as possible.
The coolest end of town is South Slopes where the greatest congregation of breweries is to be found. It helps to head out relatively early as most places stop serving between 10pm and 11pm – the result of a very virtuous ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ between the various brewers to help customers savour the beer, rather than seeking dizzying inebriation. With most of the hoppy concoctions starting at 6%, it’s not hard to understand why this agreement was proposed.
Each brewery has a different vibe but we become particularly fond of Burial. As usual we prop ourselves up at the bar and chat to the serving staff, who are only too keen to fill us in on the local scene and their awesome home brews. All of these places brew within sight of the bar and it lends them an authentic odour. One brewer urges me to take a behind the scenes tour. By this time, his potent concoctions have taken their toll but I try to appear vaguely lucid while we discuss the challenges of protecting floor slabs from the corrosive liquids which are part of the brewing process. At least I think that’s what we discussed.
Whatever, we enjoy a fabulous time exploring Asheville’s lively and friendly drinking scene. We develop a serious addition to sour, a type of beer brewed with fruit to give it a distinct citrus tang. It sounds horrendous but it’s horribly addictive and we export a few cans back to Blighty to enjoy at our leisure. Mrs Motorcardiaries is so infatuated that she drinks half of her allocation before we’ve even left the States.
I’m conscious that we’re a week into this special trip and I’ve barely made mention of our badass wheels. In fact I’ve spent more time discussing craft beer than I have our big grey Challenger. Asheville offers us the opportunity to drive it off the interstate and onto some winding mountain roads.
The huge Blue Ridge Parkway runs for 469 miles through Virginia and North Carolina. Unfortunately time constraints are such that we only explore a short section but it’s a truly spectacular road – and one which genuinely bears comparison with the best I’ve found in Europe and Australia.
The speed limit is low but that’s not a massive problem on a rainy day in a chunky muscle car. The road is serpentine in its writhes and twists. For much of our drive we traverse a high ridge which means spectacular views periodically reveal themselves as the topography and vegetation permit. Our elevation means that any views which do reveal themselves are invariably breath-taking. As our drive proceeds, the weather closes in and the clouds thicken. This serves only to enhance the atmosphere and the clouds hurtle along the valley creating an evolving landscape every time we stop.
The Challenger is, erm, challenged on this kind of road. Heavy braking into tight bends and agile flicks through piff-paffs do not play to its strengths. That said; it’s an entertaining companion, even on roads more suited to a mid-engined flyweight.
The chassis is nicely rear-wheel driven and reacts well when you start to press on a little; the back squatting under load. The traction is strong and it’s actually more convincing the harder you drive it. Even so, it feels miles off a European mid-sized saloon and a Giulia or 3-series would run rings around it dynamically.
In spite of those reservations, it remains one of the most captivating cars I’ve ever driven. Over the whole trip we would cover 1,800 miles and it was never less than awesome fun. A reactive eight-speed gearbox helps and it launches off the line with serious conviction, banging up through the gears with ceremonial fireworks on every up-change. The noise is outrageous for a big sedan – bold, brassy and resonant. It might lack the dense thunder of a NASCAR but in confined underground car parks, it’s hilarious lighting up the rear tyres in a demonic sonic assault.
The Challenger’s sheer charisma and bombastic drivetrain are enough to out-weight the bland interior and mediocre dynamics. This is a true blue muscle car and the perfect counterpoint to anything on the holiday rental market back in Europe. I’m an addict.
From Asheville we head pretty much due west into Kentucky, our next destination being Mammoth Cave – a location with convenient access to the National Corvette Museum. In my mind’s eye, Kentucky is a flat mid-western state with little to offer (excuse me, Kentucky residents) beyond endless agriculture cast across flat plains. The area adjoining North Carolina couldn’t be further from this vision.
The vast arboreal vistas of previous days continue apace. The roads are truly stunning: wide dual carriageways which stretch to distant horizons. The sun casts dramatic rays through patchy clouds, lending everywhere a slightly ethereal, divine atmosphere. Once again, these aren’t driver’s roads in the ‘dab of oppo out of the hairpins’ sense – these are highways on a scale we can’t comprehend in Europe. I take a few check measures and realise that often we have a full five miles of macadam stretching to a vanishing point on the horizon. Vultures circle above, gliding on thermal currents without any apparent effort. It’s quite staggering.
Mammoth Cave is really something – a UNESCO World Heritage Site and home of the longest cave system known to man. Of course, we don’t bother with in any that geological stuff, we’re here for cars – though once we arrive I’m gutted we can’t explore the area a little more as it is fascinating. We are staying overnight in a charming bed and breakfast – such a novelty in the US, where soulless chain hotels proliferate.
The B&B sits within a hilly, wooded area and the surrounding roads are fantastic: smooth, well-sighted and blessed without another vehicle in sight. This would be the perfect area to exercise one’s Lotus or Caterham early on a Sunday morning, though I doubt one could do so inconspicuously.
The greatest privilege of the B&B reveals itself on Friday morning over breakfast: scores of tiny hummingbirds swarm (flock?) around feeders adjacent to the owners’ stoop. Apparently little bothered by our presence, they feed voraciously, buzzing one another out of the way as they do so. Their remarkable proximity enables us to take some striking photos using a telephoto lens. We sit in rapture with our morning coffee for what feels like hours. These remarkable miniature birds are worth the trip all by themselves.
Eventually we have to drag ourselves away from our avian friends and (rather counter-intuitively given our general bearing) head south to Bowling Green. The drive finally reveals the flat mid-western farming territory I’d always imagined. Near Brownsville we spot a couple of nodding donkeys so assume they are pumping oil but this looks to be very much on a domestic scale. I wonder whether they could be used to distribute potable water. Either way, they’re an atmospheric addition and not typical of life in rural Yorkshire.
The agricultural land is as flat as one might imagine, with grain silos and other farming ephemera dotting the landscape. The farmhouses are a long way from the quaint stone cottages of ole England. Towering neo-classical dwellings, replete with ostentatious pillars, modest they are not.
The National Corvette Museum sits close to the factory where every one of America’s sports cars is produced, though it is an independent facility not owned by GM. It serves to celebrate every aspect of the Corvette and its pivotal role in American automotive society as the aspirational motor of choice for domestic gearheads.
Naturally, it veers occasionally into pastiche (check out the signs for the lavatories) but one might equally accuse the great technical museums as Speyer and Sinsheim of the same crime. It’s part of the charm of visiting museums in different countries – each one is representative of its own automotive culture.
The collection of cars is deeply impressive and charts the history of the model from its earliest C1 roadster through to the latest C7. Each visitor is offered the opportunity to sit in a C7 and it’s a genuinely lovely environment with supportive seats, an ergonomic interior and tactile controls. I’m impressed.
The car’s history is charted through its evolution including important examples of each model including the former Nürburgring lap record holder – a vision of extreme yellow which lapped the North Loop faster than a Ferrari Enzo. Elsewhere are celebrity-owned cars, unusual prototypes and a host of Indy 500 pace cars.
While there is none of the recent Pratt & Miller GT contenders on display, the model’s racing history is given due reverence, from parochial club races up to Le Mans class success. It’s impossible to conceive these days of a GT class at Le Mans without a brace of thumping yellow Corvettes hassling the European grandees.
A large gallery is given over to modified ‘Vettes and there is a great selection from a number of different tuners, some familiar but others new. Highlight of the display is a trio of Greenwood-modified examples. While a couple of the outlandish race cars have graced Goodwood in recent years, I’m never previously seen a road car – let alone three. The turbocharged, wide-body coupes are just as outrageous as the racers, with wonderfully period graphics and flared arches to make a 911 RSR blush with inadequacy.
Also in the same gallery is a Callaway Corvette Sledgehammer – once among the very fastest road cars in the world. As a child I could quote its performance figures verbatim, though sadly creeping middle age has dulled those synapses somewhat. This is another first, though – as I suspect barely a single Sledgehammer left North America and I’ve certainly never seen one in the flesh before. It’s actually quite an elegant device by the standards of this company and it could pass for a genuine GM product with the right marketing. I wanted one when I was 10 years old and I still want one now.
The National Corvette Museum made global headlines in 2014 when a cavernous sinkhole opened up under its famous dome, swallowing a handful of cars in the process. The museum hasn’t sought to hide this history and the dome features a taped line on the ground to illustrate the extent of the void. It’s hard not to conclude how fortunate it was that the sink hole opened up overnight and that nobody was hurt.
The event severely damaged several important Corvettes, a couple of them way beyond repair. Today they sit on a plinth as a display in their own right, a rather sad sight though the collateral damage could have been so much worse. As a museum feature, this is a quite fascinating, macabre – and certainly unique – display.
We have just long enough to pose for a cheeky photo with Dodge’s finest outside a totemic demonstration of GM’s achievements before we plough north. Finally we are on the last leg of our pilgrimage to Indianapolis and the greatest spectacle in racing. Unsurprisingly, I’m a little giddy.
Links:
http://www.jrmracing.com/default.aspx
http://www.teampenske.com/about/index.cfm?cid=1419...
https://www.omnihotels.com/hotels/asheville-grove-...
http://www.corvettemuseum.org
Gary29 said:
What a great read! I'm so jealous! Planning on doing something similar when I get married (2019 hopefully)
Thanks, Gary - I really appreciate you taking the time to have a read. Good luck with you own honeymoon plans and if I can help with any advice, my contact details on on my website. Good luck! RWJ said:
Interesting to see this past weekend's X-Finiti race from Bristol on MotorsportTV last night when I had been wandering around in there just 16 weeks ago. Shame they are no longer showing NASCAR Cup and NHRA.
Looking forward to the next instalment of Indy 500 Honeymoon.
Would love to go to Bristol - it looks extraordinary! Real shame the Cup isn't shown on TV but I find the volume of racing already broadcast a bit overwhelming. Next installment now online - hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading :-)Looking forward to the next instalment of Indy 500 Honeymoon.
I bailed on doing the full Indy weekend in one hit: there's too much to talk about. So this is 'The Race Before The 500'...
For the final time on our trip, we have once again injected a little jeopardy into proceedings. The week leading up to the Indy 500 features a host of short-track races across the surrounding area. The Carb Night Classic takes place on the Lucas Oils Raceway, about half an hour from downtown Indianapolis. I’m determined to be there for the evening’s activities. Mrs Motorcardiaries is less concerned. Either way, we hit the road due north from Bowling Green, bound for our last state: Indiana.
I really wish I could find something interesting to say about our journey to Indianapolis but, honestly, I’m struggling. The southern part of Kentucky is pleasant and at one stage we cross quite a good bridge but once we’ve cleared the Mammoth Cave area it is just the mid-western wilderness stretching to the horizon. We do stumble upon a little group of Dodge Vipers in one town – I forget where – and that briefly raises the pulse but otherwise, this is, by a huge margin, the least edifying motoring we undertake during our entire fortnight in America: A means to an end but nothing more.
But what an end! We arrive at Lucas Oils Raceway having missed practice but with the main event still to come – the Carb Night Classic for USAC Silver Crown champ cars. It’s my first short track event since a club event in rural French Canada 18 years ago and I’m giddy with excitement.
During a lull before the race itself, we’re able to acquaint ourselves with the merchandise stands. I’m a little disappointed to find that some of the merch is actually quite tasteful, but there’s still plenty of wonderfully gaudy stuff nestling among the pastel shades. I select a bright blue t-shirt featuring glossy images of racing cars and perhaps the most delightfully grotesque stubby holder I’ve ever seen. It’s irresistible.
The food is provincial and actually a little like the fair in the UK – it’s certainly not up to the remarkable standards set by Texas Raceway – but fine for temporary nourishment. The beer is not quite at the provincial prices one might expect but nothing crazy and at least it’s cold. Behind the merch stands, the facility’s drag strip is playing host to kids in motorcycle-engined dragsters. The strip holds events right up to NHRA Top Fuel level.
We file into the stadium to find the competitors assembled on the start line and we’re free to wander among the cars and drivers. These are rugged, rudimentary machines. The styling has barely altered in decades and the historical link to Indy roadsters is still visible from the distinctive boat tail rear. The engines are hefty V8s, 358 cubic inches – or 5.9 litres for we Europeans – and apparently pumping out 700bhp+ in a front-engined tubular chassis. The whole thing weighs about 680kg. I imagine that feels pretty lively in the cockpit.
The USAC Silver Crown competitors race on both pavement and dirt tracks and several of this evening’s competitors had been in action in the Hoosier 100 at Indianapolis State Fairgrounds earlier in the week, with the cars on treaded tyres and running a little more ground clearance. Tonight, all the cars are wearing huge slicks.
The circuit itself is a 12deg banked oval measuring 0.686 miles. It’s billed as featuring four corners but they’re less distinct than at its big brother, the Speedway, and from the bleachers it feels more like two. After the towering high banks of Charlotte Motor Speedway, the banking here appears so marginal it actually looks pretty much flat, though the corner speeds betray that bit of help provided by the gradient.
While perusing the metal on the start line, we converse with a charming gentleman who’s very evidently a short track fan but is particularly well-versed in European racing. He talks of his enthusiasm for Goodwood, the Isle of Man TT and Le Mans. These guys aren’t myopic in their racing interests, in spite of how insular the world of ‘left turns only’ might appear from the outside. This chap is recovering from cancer and expresses his keenness to get over to Europe for some of our great events – I really hope he gets his wish.
We are so enjoying our conversation that we are soon being herded off the grid ahead of the pre-race formalities. Tributes are paid to veterans and serving members of the armed forces, who are asked to stand before being applauded by the crowd. This is the build-up to Memorial Day and the country takes the business of saluting its troops extremely seriously.
A man sings the national anthem and there is much whooping as the external battery packs are inserted into the noses of the cars and they fire violently into life. I just love the pageantry that goes with racing in the US: This is an amazing sport and a little hollering to celebrate the start of a race is all good with me.
A couple of slow laps behind the pace car and the runners are released: 100 laps in the shortest possible time. Let’s go racing!
The circuit record stands at a fraction over 20seconds and that equates to average lap speeds in the region of 120mph. That’s bloody fast and you’re well aware of the challenge of manhandling these brutes around such a tiny track – especially for 100 consecutive laps. The drivers are tidy on corner entry but allow the rear tyres to smear over the pavement in a gentle drift on the exit. With heavy left-to-right stagger obvious at dead-ahead, this offers a spectacle unique to this kind of racing.
The race is gripping but perhaps not thrilling. The top half dozen cars are significantly faster than the rest of the pack but, after 50 green flag racing laps, the leading five drivers are still on the lead lap. The Swanson brothers, Kody and Tanner, lead at the half-way point but the #22 car of the brilliantly-monikered Bobby Santos is in close proximity. A safety car brings the pack together and Santos hassles Tanner Swanson doggedly but, despite getting his nose alongside the #02 car, he can’t find a way past.
With the skies above darkening by the second, Justin Grant noses the wall at turn three, causing a safety car period. The race is extended by two laps to enable it to finish under green. The lead trio is line astern as they enter the penultimate tour. Kody Swanson pulls a small lead but Santos dives under Swanson Jr and chases the long-time leader. Both drivers perform their fastest race laps of the day as they career towards the chequer. Swanson holds on for a secure victory, having led every lap. He really had to earn that one though, and those darkening skies were starting to deliver their first drops of rain over the closing couple of laps, with distant claps of thunder rolling across the banks.
As the post-race interviews and ceremonies begin, most race-goers make a break for the car parks. The skies are now thick with heavy, dense clouds and the rain is beginning to strengthen. As we hurry back towards the Challenger, those skies launch a biblical attack. Thunder pummels the air, bursts of lightning intermittently fill the sky in vast sheets before arcing towards the ground, the rain bounces high off the Tarmac, saturating the fields and flooding the access roads. Funnel clouds start to form, looking deeply ominous.
This is weather on a simply epic scale – I’ve never seen anything like it. We idle our way to downtown Indianapolis, an awful drive with visibility almost at zero and the road more river than highway. We’d have stayed at LOR, were it not for the very real fear that we’d never reach our hotel if we stayed any longer.
Arriving downtown, it’s shocking to find huge numbers of homeless sheltering under one of the city’s railway bridges. Not a dozen, nor 20, there must be 100 sleeping rough – perhaps more. It’s a shock to find such deprivation in such a major city and moving to find so many folk trying to stay dry for the night. America is certainly a land of great social contrast.
We eventually locate our hotel and make some effort to settle. I’m immediately buoyed to find a CART-era Champ Car in the lobby; but deflated to learn that storms like ours are tearing through North America at the moment. There’s no guarantee we won’t see rain on race day – in fact it looks incredibly likely that this will become one of very few rain-affected Indianapolis 500s. I can’t believe I might come all this way, having waited so long to see this event, and find it rained off. Still, we’re here; just a few miles from the Speedway and tomorrow I will finally stand in Gasoline Alley. Can the power of positive thought stave off a thunder storm? Maybe if 300,000 people think positively, it might just work...
Links:
http://usacracing.com/
http://www.lucasoilraceway.com
For the final time on our trip, we have once again injected a little jeopardy into proceedings. The week leading up to the Indy 500 features a host of short-track races across the surrounding area. The Carb Night Classic takes place on the Lucas Oils Raceway, about half an hour from downtown Indianapolis. I’m determined to be there for the evening’s activities. Mrs Motorcardiaries is less concerned. Either way, we hit the road due north from Bowling Green, bound for our last state: Indiana.
I really wish I could find something interesting to say about our journey to Indianapolis but, honestly, I’m struggling. The southern part of Kentucky is pleasant and at one stage we cross quite a good bridge but once we’ve cleared the Mammoth Cave area it is just the mid-western wilderness stretching to the horizon. We do stumble upon a little group of Dodge Vipers in one town – I forget where – and that briefly raises the pulse but otherwise, this is, by a huge margin, the least edifying motoring we undertake during our entire fortnight in America: A means to an end but nothing more.
But what an end! We arrive at Lucas Oils Raceway having missed practice but with the main event still to come – the Carb Night Classic for USAC Silver Crown champ cars. It’s my first short track event since a club event in rural French Canada 18 years ago and I’m giddy with excitement.
During a lull before the race itself, we’re able to acquaint ourselves with the merchandise stands. I’m a little disappointed to find that some of the merch is actually quite tasteful, but there’s still plenty of wonderfully gaudy stuff nestling among the pastel shades. I select a bright blue t-shirt featuring glossy images of racing cars and perhaps the most delightfully grotesque stubby holder I’ve ever seen. It’s irresistible.
The food is provincial and actually a little like the fair in the UK – it’s certainly not up to the remarkable standards set by Texas Raceway – but fine for temporary nourishment. The beer is not quite at the provincial prices one might expect but nothing crazy and at least it’s cold. Behind the merch stands, the facility’s drag strip is playing host to kids in motorcycle-engined dragsters. The strip holds events right up to NHRA Top Fuel level.
We file into the stadium to find the competitors assembled on the start line and we’re free to wander among the cars and drivers. These are rugged, rudimentary machines. The styling has barely altered in decades and the historical link to Indy roadsters is still visible from the distinctive boat tail rear. The engines are hefty V8s, 358 cubic inches – or 5.9 litres for we Europeans – and apparently pumping out 700bhp+ in a front-engined tubular chassis. The whole thing weighs about 680kg. I imagine that feels pretty lively in the cockpit.
The USAC Silver Crown competitors race on both pavement and dirt tracks and several of this evening’s competitors had been in action in the Hoosier 100 at Indianapolis State Fairgrounds earlier in the week, with the cars on treaded tyres and running a little more ground clearance. Tonight, all the cars are wearing huge slicks.
The circuit itself is a 12deg banked oval measuring 0.686 miles. It’s billed as featuring four corners but they’re less distinct than at its big brother, the Speedway, and from the bleachers it feels more like two. After the towering high banks of Charlotte Motor Speedway, the banking here appears so marginal it actually looks pretty much flat, though the corner speeds betray that bit of help provided by the gradient.
While perusing the metal on the start line, we converse with a charming gentleman who’s very evidently a short track fan but is particularly well-versed in European racing. He talks of his enthusiasm for Goodwood, the Isle of Man TT and Le Mans. These guys aren’t myopic in their racing interests, in spite of how insular the world of ‘left turns only’ might appear from the outside. This chap is recovering from cancer and expresses his keenness to get over to Europe for some of our great events – I really hope he gets his wish.
We are so enjoying our conversation that we are soon being herded off the grid ahead of the pre-race formalities. Tributes are paid to veterans and serving members of the armed forces, who are asked to stand before being applauded by the crowd. This is the build-up to Memorial Day and the country takes the business of saluting its troops extremely seriously.
A man sings the national anthem and there is much whooping as the external battery packs are inserted into the noses of the cars and they fire violently into life. I just love the pageantry that goes with racing in the US: This is an amazing sport and a little hollering to celebrate the start of a race is all good with me.
A couple of slow laps behind the pace car and the runners are released: 100 laps in the shortest possible time. Let’s go racing!
The circuit record stands at a fraction over 20seconds and that equates to average lap speeds in the region of 120mph. That’s bloody fast and you’re well aware of the challenge of manhandling these brutes around such a tiny track – especially for 100 consecutive laps. The drivers are tidy on corner entry but allow the rear tyres to smear over the pavement in a gentle drift on the exit. With heavy left-to-right stagger obvious at dead-ahead, this offers a spectacle unique to this kind of racing.
The race is gripping but perhaps not thrilling. The top half dozen cars are significantly faster than the rest of the pack but, after 50 green flag racing laps, the leading five drivers are still on the lead lap. The Swanson brothers, Kody and Tanner, lead at the half-way point but the #22 car of the brilliantly-monikered Bobby Santos is in close proximity. A safety car brings the pack together and Santos hassles Tanner Swanson doggedly but, despite getting his nose alongside the #02 car, he can’t find a way past.
With the skies above darkening by the second, Justin Grant noses the wall at turn three, causing a safety car period. The race is extended by two laps to enable it to finish under green. The lead trio is line astern as they enter the penultimate tour. Kody Swanson pulls a small lead but Santos dives under Swanson Jr and chases the long-time leader. Both drivers perform their fastest race laps of the day as they career towards the chequer. Swanson holds on for a secure victory, having led every lap. He really had to earn that one though, and those darkening skies were starting to deliver their first drops of rain over the closing couple of laps, with distant claps of thunder rolling across the banks.
As the post-race interviews and ceremonies begin, most race-goers make a break for the car parks. The skies are now thick with heavy, dense clouds and the rain is beginning to strengthen. As we hurry back towards the Challenger, those skies launch a biblical attack. Thunder pummels the air, bursts of lightning intermittently fill the sky in vast sheets before arcing towards the ground, the rain bounces high off the Tarmac, saturating the fields and flooding the access roads. Funnel clouds start to form, looking deeply ominous.
This is weather on a simply epic scale – I’ve never seen anything like it. We idle our way to downtown Indianapolis, an awful drive with visibility almost at zero and the road more river than highway. We’d have stayed at LOR, were it not for the very real fear that we’d never reach our hotel if we stayed any longer.
Arriving downtown, it’s shocking to find huge numbers of homeless sheltering under one of the city’s railway bridges. Not a dozen, nor 20, there must be 100 sleeping rough – perhaps more. It’s a shock to find such deprivation in such a major city and moving to find so many folk trying to stay dry for the night. America is certainly a land of great social contrast.
We eventually locate our hotel and make some effort to settle. I’m immediately buoyed to find a CART-era Champ Car in the lobby; but deflated to learn that storms like ours are tearing through North America at the moment. There’s no guarantee we won’t see rain on race day – in fact it looks incredibly likely that this will become one of very few rain-affected Indianapolis 500s. I can’t believe I might come all this way, having waited so long to see this event, and find it rained off. Still, we’re here; just a few miles from the Speedway and tomorrow I will finally stand in Gasoline Alley. Can the power of positive thought stave off a thunder storm? Maybe if 300,000 people think positively, it might just work...
Links:
http://usacracing.com/
http://www.lucasoilraceway.com
In spite of apocalyptic weather battering the US, it’s a relief to find clear skies on Saturday morning. This is Legends Day at Indy and we have a relatively short time at the track to explore, orientate, absorb and revere.
The most striking aspect of the Speedway is – as one might expect – its size. The grandstands are less looming and lofty than we found the previous weekend at Charlotte but it’s their sheer reach which is so staggering. Stand around the yard of bricks and you need to squint ahead to see turn one and behind you to pick out turn four. It is simply enormous – on a scale you can’t quite believe until you’re stood there, gazing towards the horizon in all directions. The only comparison I can make is the pit straight at Monza; no other circuit of my experience stands up as a reference in terms of pure, flat(ish) real estate.
Legends Day is a pretty relaxed affair. One often reads about how open and accommodating American events are, but Indy redefines how major race meetings can facilitate their fans. Every car is freely available to view; many of the garages are open so you can wander around. Cars rest with engine covers lying to one side to allow the earnest punter the opportunity to scope out the plumbing of the Honda and Chevy V6 motors.
The garages sit behind the main pits – Gasoline Alley in local parlance – and all the vehicles are undergoing scrutineering ahead of the big race. They’re being wheeled between the inspection bay and their own garages on dollies, with delicate front wings mounted high for convenience. As we potter between the various teams, Simon Pagenaud’s lurid yellow Penske appears in front of us. Already feeling emotionally charged from the enormity of being at the Speedway – a place I’ve yearned to visit for 25 years – the sight and proximity of a Penske is enough to have me welling up.
This is absolutely one of the defining moments of my racing life: Penske at Indy is like Ferrari at Monza or Porsche at Le Mans. There’s an alchemy about the Speedway and a magic in the air that defies explanation and rational thought. It’s very, very special and an apparently innocuous moment has reduced a grown man to tears.
Having made some effort to recompose myself, we continue to explore. Scrutineering is known as ‘tech inspection’ in these parts and it’s entirely visible to the punter – akin to Le Mans. Everything happens in public and the cars are out in the open queuing up to be inspected. In fact, if one were so inclined, it would be perfectly plausible to hop into the cockpit of one of the cars, such is the easy-going nature of the access here. It’s a real pleasure just to mooch around and soak up the atmosphere, permitting oneself a little giddiness at the reality of the whole affair. And it’s not raining! Yet.
Track action is relatively limited and the 500 field itself isn’t running today. However, there are three groups of historic IndyCars doing high speed demonstration laps and they’re hugely evocative in their own right. While notionally behind a pace car, they’re still travelling pretty quickly and we adopt a perch on the infield ahead of turn one. The fields showcase everything from spindly 1920s racers through to chunky 1980s turbo cars, with everything in between represented.
The fabulous ‘roadsters’ of the late-1950s and early-1960s are particularly fascinating and, for this European, hugely redolent of the era. While front-engined open wheel racers effectively died out with the 1.5l GP formula of 1961 in Europe, these brutes continued to enjoy success for several more seasons Stateside. AJ Foyt was carried to victory at the Brickyard in a roadster as late as 1964. The ultimate iterations of these behemoths might be cited as the last purpose-built cars of their type. With laydown engines and booming Offenhauser four cylinder engines, they are thrilling to observe running together in small packs. One can only imagine the terror of 33 of these monsters barrelling into turn one during the early-1960s when average lap speeds were nudging 150mph in qualifying trim.
While the blood and thunder of the Offy roadsters stirs the soul, equally intriguing is the quietest car in action: one of the quartet of Lotus Type 56 turbine wedges is whistling around the Speedway at pace. Heralding a new era of aerodynamics, the vivid orange ‘carrot’ sought Indy glory using a Pratt & Whitney helicopter-type gas turbine engine. Joe Leonard claimed pole and led the 1968 Indy 500 before retiring just a handful of laps from the end of the race in one of those great ‘could have been’ moments in motor sporting history. The sight of the Type 56 and its incongruously silent progress remains a Legends Day highlight.
Closing out the demonstrations are Johnny Rutherford and Mario Andretti. In tribute to McLaren’s much-vaunted return to the Brickyard with Fernando Alonso, Rutherford turns laps in his 1974 500-winning McLaren M16C/D. Alongside is Mario Andretti in a later M24 – the car he raced for Penske at Indy in 1977. This is an event which pays due reverence to its heroes of the past while still acknowledging that the most important Indianapolis 500 is the next one.
The final piece in the Legends Day jigsaw is the driver briefing. Not locked away behind closed doors, this takes place on the front stretch, facing the grandstands and everyone is free to attend.
The competitors line up neatly in starting order and it’s fascinating to observe the dynamic between them. Some are obviously pally, while others stare at their phones. Fernando Alonso carries himself quietly and seems to enjoy interacting with old rival Juan Pablo Montoya, the pair chatting for several minutes. Alonso also dives into a spirited engagement with reigning IndyCar champ Simon Pagenaud, the duo illustrating their words with that enduring racer’s dynamic explanation, the outstretched hand.
The briefing does contain some element of, “don’t crash into each other and obey the flags” but it’s mostly pageantry. Each runner is presented with a participant’s ring by somebody terribly important, whose identity escapes me, while 2016 victor Alexander Rossi is awarded a miniature Borg Warner trophy and delivers a short impromptu speech. He receives a warm reception and his success, along with that of compatriot Joseph Newgarden will be critical for IndyCar to regain any kind of foothold in the mainstream domestic conscience moving forwards.
Indy is also particularly good at looking after its long-standing visitors. One old boy, who has been attending the 500 since Adam was a lad rises to his feet from the spectator stands and delivers his view on contemporary IndyCar racing. I was staggered to learn that Speedway president Doug Boles calls ten loyal Speedway customers every single evening on his commute home – just to tell them how much he values their custom. It underlines how seriously traditions and the dynastic element of racing are embedded in this part of the world.
It’s interesting to note, as we file away from the briefing, that the pit garages erected for Formula One compliance are now redundant. Rather than filled with expensive racing machinery, they are replete with merchandise stalls selling everything you can possible imagine with an Indianapolis logo emblazoned somewhere and somehow. I purposefully hold off purchasing anything on Saturday – I feel it may yet jinx us. Imagine buying a t-shirt for an event which we miss due to rain.
While ambling the pit lane we bump – almost very literally – into Brazilian legend Emerson Fittipaldi. His craggy features may have aged since the days when his luxurious sideburns defined the F1 paddock but his smile remains undimmed and there’s a magical moment when he stares straight into my camera lens wearing a grin a mile wide. I’ll treasure that one. Almost immediately he’s lost to a scrum of autograph hunters and well-wishers. Being an Indy legend looks like hard work.
We close the day by jumping up into the ‘stands to watch Mario Andretti turn a few spirited laps aboard the IndyCar two seater. He’s a guy who will never stop driving quickly and amen to that.
Once back downtown (the circuit is actually in Speedway, about half an hour from our hotel), we track down the parade which takes place over several closed roads in the CBD. This is pure, wonderful American pageantry. Marching bands play, girls twirl star-spangled banners and inflatables the size of Yorkshire terrace houses bounce incongruously along the boulevards.
among all the floats and rattling snare drums is Johnny Rutherford, standing proudly next to the Borg Warner trophy. All 33 2017 race entrants and their families are toured through the streets in open-topped Camaros. Naturally we give our man Fernando a rousing cheer. Not being terribly familiar with this kind of event, it reminds me of Ferris Bueller’s escapades in Chicago.
It’s easy to believe that nothing could be more American than the parade but that’s just the warm-up...
Sunday dawns clear and, remarkably, the forecast is for fine weather all day. We can’t quite believe our luck but, fearing for the worst, I won’t believe the race is actually going ahead until I hear the war cry, “drivers – start your engines.”
Race day is busy. Actually, it’s really very busy indeed but what do you expect when 250,000 race fans descent on one spot; albeit a vast one? Our coach has a police motorcycle rider guiding it in and it’s a blessing though we still queue plenty. With bags inspected, we make our way straight to the museum. We had debated visiting on Legends Day but decided it would have been too much of a rush to really enjoy.
The building itself is relatively understated but the collection lurking therein is truly remarkable. The main hall features a huge selection of past Indy 500 winners. It’s something of a shock – the outright victors just keep coming. I reckon there must be 30; maybe more. These span every era from Ray Harroun’s Marmon Wasp which won the inaugural 500 in 1911 through to Alexander Rossi’s 2016 fuel-sipping Dallara.
The highlights are plentiful, with many of my absolute favourite IndyCars on display: Wilbur Shaw’s brutal Maserati 8CTF which won in both 1939 and 1940; both lurid Johnny Lightning Specials which carried Al Unser to consecutive wins; Mark Donohue’s 1972 McLaren which provided Penske’s first laurels at the Brickyard; and the coolest of them all – Johnny Rutherford’s Chaparral 2K, the very yellow, ground-breaking, ground-effect challenger which triumphed in 1980. Much like the Donington Collection or the Schlumpf in Mulhouse, the sheer volume of important cars is quite overwhelming.
Also of considerable interest is a temporary exhibition dedicated to AJ Foyt. With Foyt having raced so rarely on ‘our’ side of the pond, it’s easy, as a European, to underestimate his importance and achievements in his homeland. The exhibition showcases all aspects of his career: from midgets through to IMSA GTP weaponry. Many of the cars turn demonstration laps of the Speedway later in the morning.
Perhaps the most unusual and diverting vehicle among the displays is the Oldsmobile Aerotech. This futuristic-looking machine is essentially a March IndyCar fully enclosed in an aerodynamic body, featuring an Oldsmobile engine with the boost cranked to an ungodly level. Foyt used the Aerotech to set a scarcely believable closed-course lap record of 257mph.
The rest of the museum houses a number of important American open-wheel cars of differing provenance. From diesel to gas turbine and front-engined behemoths to slinky modern projectiles, it’s a wonderful reminder of the diversity of the race’s history. Traditionally, it has encouraged innovation, and risk-taking – technically and on track – is backbone of the race. It’s sad to think the future of the race and, by extension, the museum is sequence of identical Dallaras. Hopefully the series can return to full health and welcome a disparate and innovative field once more.
The morning is passing quickly and I finally feel sufficiently optimistic about the weather that I am ready to purchase a commemorative t-shirt; and it’s much less naff than my recent efforts from Charlotte and Lucas Oils Raceway.
We make our way to our seats, ready for the pre-race pageantry to begin. This is, as Mrs Motorcardiaries correctly calls it, “peak America”. I can’t remember, nor could I begin to document, all of the celebratory events that take place.
There are more Camaro parades – this time featuring former Indy winners and legends including the likes of Bobby Rahal, Gil de Ferran, Kenny Bräck and Dario Franchitti from my era. A thundering B52 bomber performs a heavy metal – and very smoky – fly-past.
Most unusual is a display from the 101st Airborne Division. Known as ‘The Screaming Eagles’, the 101st is mooted to be the most potent division in the entire US Army so it’s quite an honour to see them in action. The service personnel clip themselves to a line suspended from a helicopter before being pulled into the sky and flown out of the stadium, suspended 20 metres below the chopper. Needless to say, an American flag is unfurled beneath the brave participants.
The 500 takes place over memorial weekend – a date of great importance in this part of the world. Serving and veteran service personnel are acknowledged and lauded on multiple occasions during the build-up to the race. In fact, such is the depth of sentiment around this particular date, I read one online commentator express dissatisfaction over the nationality of the eventual race winner due to past conflicts between his home nation and the US. It runs deep in these parts.
Eventually a pick-up truck sails along the front stretch with the most enormous star spangled banner billowing out behind it: “peak America”.
Then we’re ready: “drivers – start your engines!” My body is aquiver with goosebumps and the air is filled with sirens, whoops, hollers and the furious sound of 33 race-ready turbo motors. Four tours to get us up to speed and then Scott Dixon will lead the pack across the yard of bricks to launch into life the 101st Indianapolis 500. This is freakin’ awesome.
The first full-bore pass is a shock of noise, colour and dense speed; 33 runners through in one stupendous instant. You can scarcely move your head fast enough to track one individual car’s progress. It’s mesmeric. It’s also bloody scary. The speed requires some adjustment, as does the sheer proximity of the cars to one another – and right from the go these guys are at it hammer and tongs. It feels more like a Formula Ford race than the fight for the biggest crown in racing, such is the ferocity and pace of the action.
Even heavy with fuel and running in packs, the best are turning in 220mph average laps. This means dropping into turn one wide open at something in the order of 230mph. Seeing and hearing the cars scything through there with total conviction and no hint of a lift is enough to moisten my eyes. The efficiency of movement and outright speed doesn’t become normal – even after 200 laps.
If the spectacle of one car turning 220mph laps isn’t enough to give me a lump in the throat, the actual racing does an equally convincing job. The pack is pretty evenly matched but it’s apparent from the off that you’ll need a Honda engine if you’re to stand a chance – and ideally one sitting in the back of an Andretti Autosport Dallara.
Pole sitter Scott Dixon is in the mix while fellow front row starter Ed Carpenter drops back. As the race develops, the Andretti Autosport runners really come to the fore. Alexander Rossi hits the front and is joined by our transatlantic hero, Fernando Alonso. A little way back their team mates, oval master Ryan Hunter-Reay, and Takuma Sato are well in contention.
It’s at this stage that Alonso becomes a genuine victory contender. He started the race slowly, losing a couple of places on the first lap before slowly picking off his rivals. His composure in these dog fights is remarkable – he looks comfortable running way low on the apron and isn’t afraid to look around the outside of other cars into that fearsome turn one. His spatial awareness is amazing and at no stage does his judgement look questionable. Three wide down the front stretch? He looks born to it.
The race runs green for 50 laps and the pace is absolutely fierce. It’s a war zone out there with passes everywhere; they say the Indy 500 chooses its own winner...today the drivers are forcing the issue. Suddenly the big screens are broadcasting something that looks akin to an aviation accident. Scott Dixon is flying upside down through the air before landing with sickening force on the concrete barrier inside the chute between turns one and two. The crowd’s gasps are audible over the sound of the engines.
Far louder, though, are the cheers when the Kiwi emerges from his wrecked Dallara, a victim of extreme misfortune to be out of the race but infinitely greater fortunate to be walking away from a shunt on a catastrophic scale. The catalyst for Dixon’s accident, Jay Howard, is out while Penske favourite and celebrity dancer, Helio Castroneves, literally dives under Dixon’s car while it is mid-flight.
This is a terrifyingly vivid illustration of the speed and energy of an IndyCar at flat chat on a superspeedway – and the consequences of any error.
The race is red flagged while debris is cleared, with Alonso leading the pack. He heads the train when the action restarts and looks comfortable leading the Indianapolis 500. This is a driver of very special talent.
It’s at this stage that you start to appreciate that Indy really is an endurance race, albeit one happening at outrageous speed. A lap is ticked off every 40 seconds, not every three and a half minutes like Le Mans, but the race runs for over three hours. Strategies start to diverge and drivers are shuffled around the pack. Dixon’s absence is noticed but a bigger shock is the sudden expiration of Hunter-Reay’s Honda, a chap who looked every inch the possible winner. Nervous glances are exchanged on the pitwall at Andretti Autosport.
During this middle phase of the race, Rossi suffers a long pit stop and drops down as low as 24th while Alonso finds himself outside the top ten for the first time, having been caught out by an inopportunely timed full-course yellow. To the surprise of many, Max Chilton leads more laps of the 2017 500 than anybody else. In fact, with less than 15 laps to go, it feels like we might be crowning an unlikely winner. Having beaten up Daniel Ricciardo on occasion in British F3, Chilton’s talent has been apparent for years but his reputation as a pay driver sadly precedes him.
While Chilton is composed, he doesn’t look like he quite has the absolute speed to be an outright winner on race day and he is soon under threat from the old hands behind him. Not before the latest big shock though: Alonso toils down the front stretch in front of us, a gentle plume of smoke rising from the back of his Honda engine. Having left the claustrophobia of a disastrous F1 season with the Japanese giant, he has once again been blighted by its unreliability.
It’s an enormous shame and no reward for a phenomenal performance from team and driver. The Spaniard is running seventh and still a very credible contender when the engine expires...one of motor racing’s most vexing ‘what ifs’.
With the orange arrow of Alonso out, Rossi mired in the pack and Hunter-Reay another Honda victim, it’s for Sato to uphold the honours for a team which has dominated on pace all day long. In the bad old days, one wouldn’t have bet a dime on Sato handling pressure on this scale but his progress during the latter stage of the race has been uncharacteristically serene. First Castroneves dives past Chilton to take the lead. It’s an amazing effort from the Brazilian; Penske’s beautiful machines have been off the pace all month and never look like a factor. Castroneves is a Brickyard legend, though, and puts a recalcitrant car where it has no right to be.
In spite of Castroneves’ heroics, Sato drafts past him down the back stretch with five to go. Can he handle the pressure? To everyone’s relief, he can. The Japanese who so thrilled us in British F3 has claimed the biggest scalp in American racing – and done so convincingly. Every driver in that race has earned their stripes but Sato has played it perfectly – a textbook demonstration in how to win on a superspeedway.
It’s hard to compute everything we’ve just witnessed: the disorientating speeds; the frantic energy of the racing; the 15 different leaders; the 871 individual passing manoeuvres. This is one of those races where you find yourself panting; breathing becomes a distraction from the action. It ranks as the most exciting race I’ve ever seen in person and without question the facility’s bold claim that it provides ‘the greatest spectacle in racing’ is no immodest boast.
It’s so refreshing when a proper bucket list event exceeds all expectations. Indy is truly staggering and one of the very few places which make you feel genuinely emotional. If you have the chance to go, book tickets now...don’t hesitate: it’s something every petrolhead simply must experience in their lifetime.
We started the weekend feeling trepidatious about whether we would get to see a race at all after the horror weather forecasts. Mercifully we see one of the all-time great Indy 500s. The sun shines through Sunday and Monday so we explore downtown Indianapolis before catching our flight back to the UK. It’s a quite charming city and very clean with pleasant public spaces and impressive architecture. I’m not sure it would warrant a special trip but a few hours spent exploring certainly don’t feel wasted.
Meanwhile, the airport is a startling building, full of light and with Arie Luyendyk’s 1996 Reynard proudly on display. This is the fastest vehicle ever to lap the Brickyard, with a one-lap average of over 239mph. *Gulp*.
Honeymoon over; back to reality. There is some comfort though – while waiting in the airport to board our plane home we secure ferry tickets to the Isle of Man TT 2018. Let’s see how 133mph laps of the Mountain Course compare to 233mph laps of the Brickyard. Just like Indy, only true gladiators need apply.
The most striking aspect of the Speedway is – as one might expect – its size. The grandstands are less looming and lofty than we found the previous weekend at Charlotte but it’s their sheer reach which is so staggering. Stand around the yard of bricks and you need to squint ahead to see turn one and behind you to pick out turn four. It is simply enormous – on a scale you can’t quite believe until you’re stood there, gazing towards the horizon in all directions. The only comparison I can make is the pit straight at Monza; no other circuit of my experience stands up as a reference in terms of pure, flat(ish) real estate.
Legends Day is a pretty relaxed affair. One often reads about how open and accommodating American events are, but Indy redefines how major race meetings can facilitate their fans. Every car is freely available to view; many of the garages are open so you can wander around. Cars rest with engine covers lying to one side to allow the earnest punter the opportunity to scope out the plumbing of the Honda and Chevy V6 motors.
The garages sit behind the main pits – Gasoline Alley in local parlance – and all the vehicles are undergoing scrutineering ahead of the big race. They’re being wheeled between the inspection bay and their own garages on dollies, with delicate front wings mounted high for convenience. As we potter between the various teams, Simon Pagenaud’s lurid yellow Penske appears in front of us. Already feeling emotionally charged from the enormity of being at the Speedway – a place I’ve yearned to visit for 25 years – the sight and proximity of a Penske is enough to have me welling up.
This is absolutely one of the defining moments of my racing life: Penske at Indy is like Ferrari at Monza or Porsche at Le Mans. There’s an alchemy about the Speedway and a magic in the air that defies explanation and rational thought. It’s very, very special and an apparently innocuous moment has reduced a grown man to tears.
Having made some effort to recompose myself, we continue to explore. Scrutineering is known as ‘tech inspection’ in these parts and it’s entirely visible to the punter – akin to Le Mans. Everything happens in public and the cars are out in the open queuing up to be inspected. In fact, if one were so inclined, it would be perfectly plausible to hop into the cockpit of one of the cars, such is the easy-going nature of the access here. It’s a real pleasure just to mooch around and soak up the atmosphere, permitting oneself a little giddiness at the reality of the whole affair. And it’s not raining! Yet.
Track action is relatively limited and the 500 field itself isn’t running today. However, there are three groups of historic IndyCars doing high speed demonstration laps and they’re hugely evocative in their own right. While notionally behind a pace car, they’re still travelling pretty quickly and we adopt a perch on the infield ahead of turn one. The fields showcase everything from spindly 1920s racers through to chunky 1980s turbo cars, with everything in between represented.
The fabulous ‘roadsters’ of the late-1950s and early-1960s are particularly fascinating and, for this European, hugely redolent of the era. While front-engined open wheel racers effectively died out with the 1.5l GP formula of 1961 in Europe, these brutes continued to enjoy success for several more seasons Stateside. AJ Foyt was carried to victory at the Brickyard in a roadster as late as 1964. The ultimate iterations of these behemoths might be cited as the last purpose-built cars of their type. With laydown engines and booming Offenhauser four cylinder engines, they are thrilling to observe running together in small packs. One can only imagine the terror of 33 of these monsters barrelling into turn one during the early-1960s when average lap speeds were nudging 150mph in qualifying trim.
While the blood and thunder of the Offy roadsters stirs the soul, equally intriguing is the quietest car in action: one of the quartet of Lotus Type 56 turbine wedges is whistling around the Speedway at pace. Heralding a new era of aerodynamics, the vivid orange ‘carrot’ sought Indy glory using a Pratt & Whitney helicopter-type gas turbine engine. Joe Leonard claimed pole and led the 1968 Indy 500 before retiring just a handful of laps from the end of the race in one of those great ‘could have been’ moments in motor sporting history. The sight of the Type 56 and its incongruously silent progress remains a Legends Day highlight.
Closing out the demonstrations are Johnny Rutherford and Mario Andretti. In tribute to McLaren’s much-vaunted return to the Brickyard with Fernando Alonso, Rutherford turns laps in his 1974 500-winning McLaren M16C/D. Alongside is Mario Andretti in a later M24 – the car he raced for Penske at Indy in 1977. This is an event which pays due reverence to its heroes of the past while still acknowledging that the most important Indianapolis 500 is the next one.
The final piece in the Legends Day jigsaw is the driver briefing. Not locked away behind closed doors, this takes place on the front stretch, facing the grandstands and everyone is free to attend.
The competitors line up neatly in starting order and it’s fascinating to observe the dynamic between them. Some are obviously pally, while others stare at their phones. Fernando Alonso carries himself quietly and seems to enjoy interacting with old rival Juan Pablo Montoya, the pair chatting for several minutes. Alonso also dives into a spirited engagement with reigning IndyCar champ Simon Pagenaud, the duo illustrating their words with that enduring racer’s dynamic explanation, the outstretched hand.
The briefing does contain some element of, “don’t crash into each other and obey the flags” but it’s mostly pageantry. Each runner is presented with a participant’s ring by somebody terribly important, whose identity escapes me, while 2016 victor Alexander Rossi is awarded a miniature Borg Warner trophy and delivers a short impromptu speech. He receives a warm reception and his success, along with that of compatriot Joseph Newgarden will be critical for IndyCar to regain any kind of foothold in the mainstream domestic conscience moving forwards.
Indy is also particularly good at looking after its long-standing visitors. One old boy, who has been attending the 500 since Adam was a lad rises to his feet from the spectator stands and delivers his view on contemporary IndyCar racing. I was staggered to learn that Speedway president Doug Boles calls ten loyal Speedway customers every single evening on his commute home – just to tell them how much he values their custom. It underlines how seriously traditions and the dynastic element of racing are embedded in this part of the world.
It’s interesting to note, as we file away from the briefing, that the pit garages erected for Formula One compliance are now redundant. Rather than filled with expensive racing machinery, they are replete with merchandise stalls selling everything you can possible imagine with an Indianapolis logo emblazoned somewhere and somehow. I purposefully hold off purchasing anything on Saturday – I feel it may yet jinx us. Imagine buying a t-shirt for an event which we miss due to rain.
While ambling the pit lane we bump – almost very literally – into Brazilian legend Emerson Fittipaldi. His craggy features may have aged since the days when his luxurious sideburns defined the F1 paddock but his smile remains undimmed and there’s a magical moment when he stares straight into my camera lens wearing a grin a mile wide. I’ll treasure that one. Almost immediately he’s lost to a scrum of autograph hunters and well-wishers. Being an Indy legend looks like hard work.
We close the day by jumping up into the ‘stands to watch Mario Andretti turn a few spirited laps aboard the IndyCar two seater. He’s a guy who will never stop driving quickly and amen to that.
Once back downtown (the circuit is actually in Speedway, about half an hour from our hotel), we track down the parade which takes place over several closed roads in the CBD. This is pure, wonderful American pageantry. Marching bands play, girls twirl star-spangled banners and inflatables the size of Yorkshire terrace houses bounce incongruously along the boulevards.
among all the floats and rattling snare drums is Johnny Rutherford, standing proudly next to the Borg Warner trophy. All 33 2017 race entrants and their families are toured through the streets in open-topped Camaros. Naturally we give our man Fernando a rousing cheer. Not being terribly familiar with this kind of event, it reminds me of Ferris Bueller’s escapades in Chicago.
It’s easy to believe that nothing could be more American than the parade but that’s just the warm-up...
Sunday dawns clear and, remarkably, the forecast is for fine weather all day. We can’t quite believe our luck but, fearing for the worst, I won’t believe the race is actually going ahead until I hear the war cry, “drivers – start your engines.”
Race day is busy. Actually, it’s really very busy indeed but what do you expect when 250,000 race fans descent on one spot; albeit a vast one? Our coach has a police motorcycle rider guiding it in and it’s a blessing though we still queue plenty. With bags inspected, we make our way straight to the museum. We had debated visiting on Legends Day but decided it would have been too much of a rush to really enjoy.
The building itself is relatively understated but the collection lurking therein is truly remarkable. The main hall features a huge selection of past Indy 500 winners. It’s something of a shock – the outright victors just keep coming. I reckon there must be 30; maybe more. These span every era from Ray Harroun’s Marmon Wasp which won the inaugural 500 in 1911 through to Alexander Rossi’s 2016 fuel-sipping Dallara.
The highlights are plentiful, with many of my absolute favourite IndyCars on display: Wilbur Shaw’s brutal Maserati 8CTF which won in both 1939 and 1940; both lurid Johnny Lightning Specials which carried Al Unser to consecutive wins; Mark Donohue’s 1972 McLaren which provided Penske’s first laurels at the Brickyard; and the coolest of them all – Johnny Rutherford’s Chaparral 2K, the very yellow, ground-breaking, ground-effect challenger which triumphed in 1980. Much like the Donington Collection or the Schlumpf in Mulhouse, the sheer volume of important cars is quite overwhelming.
Also of considerable interest is a temporary exhibition dedicated to AJ Foyt. With Foyt having raced so rarely on ‘our’ side of the pond, it’s easy, as a European, to underestimate his importance and achievements in his homeland. The exhibition showcases all aspects of his career: from midgets through to IMSA GTP weaponry. Many of the cars turn demonstration laps of the Speedway later in the morning.
Perhaps the most unusual and diverting vehicle among the displays is the Oldsmobile Aerotech. This futuristic-looking machine is essentially a March IndyCar fully enclosed in an aerodynamic body, featuring an Oldsmobile engine with the boost cranked to an ungodly level. Foyt used the Aerotech to set a scarcely believable closed-course lap record of 257mph.
The rest of the museum houses a number of important American open-wheel cars of differing provenance. From diesel to gas turbine and front-engined behemoths to slinky modern projectiles, it’s a wonderful reminder of the diversity of the race’s history. Traditionally, it has encouraged innovation, and risk-taking – technically and on track – is backbone of the race. It’s sad to think the future of the race and, by extension, the museum is sequence of identical Dallaras. Hopefully the series can return to full health and welcome a disparate and innovative field once more.
The morning is passing quickly and I finally feel sufficiently optimistic about the weather that I am ready to purchase a commemorative t-shirt; and it’s much less naff than my recent efforts from Charlotte and Lucas Oils Raceway.
We make our way to our seats, ready for the pre-race pageantry to begin. This is, as Mrs Motorcardiaries correctly calls it, “peak America”. I can’t remember, nor could I begin to document, all of the celebratory events that take place.
There are more Camaro parades – this time featuring former Indy winners and legends including the likes of Bobby Rahal, Gil de Ferran, Kenny Bräck and Dario Franchitti from my era. A thundering B52 bomber performs a heavy metal – and very smoky – fly-past.
Most unusual is a display from the 101st Airborne Division. Known as ‘The Screaming Eagles’, the 101st is mooted to be the most potent division in the entire US Army so it’s quite an honour to see them in action. The service personnel clip themselves to a line suspended from a helicopter before being pulled into the sky and flown out of the stadium, suspended 20 metres below the chopper. Needless to say, an American flag is unfurled beneath the brave participants.
The 500 takes place over memorial weekend – a date of great importance in this part of the world. Serving and veteran service personnel are acknowledged and lauded on multiple occasions during the build-up to the race. In fact, such is the depth of sentiment around this particular date, I read one online commentator express dissatisfaction over the nationality of the eventual race winner due to past conflicts between his home nation and the US. It runs deep in these parts.
Eventually a pick-up truck sails along the front stretch with the most enormous star spangled banner billowing out behind it: “peak America”.
Then we’re ready: “drivers – start your engines!” My body is aquiver with goosebumps and the air is filled with sirens, whoops, hollers and the furious sound of 33 race-ready turbo motors. Four tours to get us up to speed and then Scott Dixon will lead the pack across the yard of bricks to launch into life the 101st Indianapolis 500. This is freakin’ awesome.
The first full-bore pass is a shock of noise, colour and dense speed; 33 runners through in one stupendous instant. You can scarcely move your head fast enough to track one individual car’s progress. It’s mesmeric. It’s also bloody scary. The speed requires some adjustment, as does the sheer proximity of the cars to one another – and right from the go these guys are at it hammer and tongs. It feels more like a Formula Ford race than the fight for the biggest crown in racing, such is the ferocity and pace of the action.
Even heavy with fuel and running in packs, the best are turning in 220mph average laps. This means dropping into turn one wide open at something in the order of 230mph. Seeing and hearing the cars scything through there with total conviction and no hint of a lift is enough to moisten my eyes. The efficiency of movement and outright speed doesn’t become normal – even after 200 laps.
If the spectacle of one car turning 220mph laps isn’t enough to give me a lump in the throat, the actual racing does an equally convincing job. The pack is pretty evenly matched but it’s apparent from the off that you’ll need a Honda engine if you’re to stand a chance – and ideally one sitting in the back of an Andretti Autosport Dallara.
Pole sitter Scott Dixon is in the mix while fellow front row starter Ed Carpenter drops back. As the race develops, the Andretti Autosport runners really come to the fore. Alexander Rossi hits the front and is joined by our transatlantic hero, Fernando Alonso. A little way back their team mates, oval master Ryan Hunter-Reay, and Takuma Sato are well in contention.
It’s at this stage that Alonso becomes a genuine victory contender. He started the race slowly, losing a couple of places on the first lap before slowly picking off his rivals. His composure in these dog fights is remarkable – he looks comfortable running way low on the apron and isn’t afraid to look around the outside of other cars into that fearsome turn one. His spatial awareness is amazing and at no stage does his judgement look questionable. Three wide down the front stretch? He looks born to it.
The race runs green for 50 laps and the pace is absolutely fierce. It’s a war zone out there with passes everywhere; they say the Indy 500 chooses its own winner...today the drivers are forcing the issue. Suddenly the big screens are broadcasting something that looks akin to an aviation accident. Scott Dixon is flying upside down through the air before landing with sickening force on the concrete barrier inside the chute between turns one and two. The crowd’s gasps are audible over the sound of the engines.
Far louder, though, are the cheers when the Kiwi emerges from his wrecked Dallara, a victim of extreme misfortune to be out of the race but infinitely greater fortunate to be walking away from a shunt on a catastrophic scale. The catalyst for Dixon’s accident, Jay Howard, is out while Penske favourite and celebrity dancer, Helio Castroneves, literally dives under Dixon’s car while it is mid-flight.
This is a terrifyingly vivid illustration of the speed and energy of an IndyCar at flat chat on a superspeedway – and the consequences of any error.
The race is red flagged while debris is cleared, with Alonso leading the pack. He heads the train when the action restarts and looks comfortable leading the Indianapolis 500. This is a driver of very special talent.
It’s at this stage that you start to appreciate that Indy really is an endurance race, albeit one happening at outrageous speed. A lap is ticked off every 40 seconds, not every three and a half minutes like Le Mans, but the race runs for over three hours. Strategies start to diverge and drivers are shuffled around the pack. Dixon’s absence is noticed but a bigger shock is the sudden expiration of Hunter-Reay’s Honda, a chap who looked every inch the possible winner. Nervous glances are exchanged on the pitwall at Andretti Autosport.
During this middle phase of the race, Rossi suffers a long pit stop and drops down as low as 24th while Alonso finds himself outside the top ten for the first time, having been caught out by an inopportunely timed full-course yellow. To the surprise of many, Max Chilton leads more laps of the 2017 500 than anybody else. In fact, with less than 15 laps to go, it feels like we might be crowning an unlikely winner. Having beaten up Daniel Ricciardo on occasion in British F3, Chilton’s talent has been apparent for years but his reputation as a pay driver sadly precedes him.
While Chilton is composed, he doesn’t look like he quite has the absolute speed to be an outright winner on race day and he is soon under threat from the old hands behind him. Not before the latest big shock though: Alonso toils down the front stretch in front of us, a gentle plume of smoke rising from the back of his Honda engine. Having left the claustrophobia of a disastrous F1 season with the Japanese giant, he has once again been blighted by its unreliability.
It’s an enormous shame and no reward for a phenomenal performance from team and driver. The Spaniard is running seventh and still a very credible contender when the engine expires...one of motor racing’s most vexing ‘what ifs’.
With the orange arrow of Alonso out, Rossi mired in the pack and Hunter-Reay another Honda victim, it’s for Sato to uphold the honours for a team which has dominated on pace all day long. In the bad old days, one wouldn’t have bet a dime on Sato handling pressure on this scale but his progress during the latter stage of the race has been uncharacteristically serene. First Castroneves dives past Chilton to take the lead. It’s an amazing effort from the Brazilian; Penske’s beautiful machines have been off the pace all month and never look like a factor. Castroneves is a Brickyard legend, though, and puts a recalcitrant car where it has no right to be.
In spite of Castroneves’ heroics, Sato drafts past him down the back stretch with five to go. Can he handle the pressure? To everyone’s relief, he can. The Japanese who so thrilled us in British F3 has claimed the biggest scalp in American racing – and done so convincingly. Every driver in that race has earned their stripes but Sato has played it perfectly – a textbook demonstration in how to win on a superspeedway.
It’s hard to compute everything we’ve just witnessed: the disorientating speeds; the frantic energy of the racing; the 15 different leaders; the 871 individual passing manoeuvres. This is one of those races where you find yourself panting; breathing becomes a distraction from the action. It ranks as the most exciting race I’ve ever seen in person and without question the facility’s bold claim that it provides ‘the greatest spectacle in racing’ is no immodest boast.
It’s so refreshing when a proper bucket list event exceeds all expectations. Indy is truly staggering and one of the very few places which make you feel genuinely emotional. If you have the chance to go, book tickets now...don’t hesitate: it’s something every petrolhead simply must experience in their lifetime.
We started the weekend feeling trepidatious about whether we would get to see a race at all after the horror weather forecasts. Mercifully we see one of the all-time great Indy 500s. The sun shines through Sunday and Monday so we explore downtown Indianapolis before catching our flight back to the UK. It’s a quite charming city and very clean with pleasant public spaces and impressive architecture. I’m not sure it would warrant a special trip but a few hours spent exploring certainly don’t feel wasted.
Meanwhile, the airport is a startling building, full of light and with Arie Luyendyk’s 1996 Reynard proudly on display. This is the fastest vehicle ever to lap the Brickyard, with a one-lap average of over 239mph. *Gulp*.
Honeymoon over; back to reality. There is some comfort though – while waiting in the airport to board our plane home we secure ferry tickets to the Isle of Man TT 2018. Let’s see how 133mph laps of the Mountain Course compare to 233mph laps of the Brickyard. Just like Indy, only true gladiators need apply.
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