Just Another Race?

“You must treat this track with respect or it will bite you.” 

So said 1969 Indianapolis 500 winner and million-times “almost winner” Mario Andretti to Formula 1 driving ace Arie Luyendyk when he came to Indianapolis as a rookie in 1985. Luyendyk went on to win the race in 1990 and 1997.

Gripped by the aura of the Indianapolis 500 several years ago, the following piece came together for me. Perhaps the poem makes sense only to those who have lived within the gravitational pull of the Brickyard for a lifetime.

I recently read noted native Indianapolis author John Green’s public letter in tribute to the Indy 500 and I remembered this 2007 piece—my own tribute to The 500.

Every year brings fresh stories of victory and heartbreak. A few well-resourced teams tend to dominate the month of practices and qualifying. But on race day, it’s anybody’s win for the taking. The best have lost here. The unexpected have had a celebratory drink of milk in Victory Lane. 

The average speed for qualifying will always be the fastest of any auto racing series. Indianapolis-based Sam Schmidt Racing, owned and operated by a former Indy racer who was mangled and permanently paralyzed in an IndyCar crash years ago, will have competitive cars qualify. And there is always the local, ever-hopeful Ed Carpenter. 

There are older and younger drivers who have mortgaged everything to get into the Indy 500. They should not be here. But here they are, choking back tears as they get one more chance to drive in—and win—“The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.”

What is the mystique of this oval,
this ribbon of banked asphalt
that it winds its way into
the hearts and hopes of
many a would-be conqueror?

Is this not merely pavement,
One more course to be driven,
One more track to be subdued?
And is not Indy just another race?

Why, then, are the greatest
not considered so until they have
proven their mettle here?
Why do the sport’s most promising
strive a lifetime to win The 500?

Once run, Indy asserts a
greater grip on its pursuers.
It shadows their other victories.
It haunts their off-track pursuits.
It lures them back to its graceful sweep.

Other races simply mark the calendar
as tests and rehearsals for another
chance at The Brickyard.
Only the very swiftest qualify here
and only a select few win.

Here, May turns men into boys,
turns boys into speed demons—

and women into winged warriors.
Indy defies anyone to call it “just another race,”
but honors all who offer due respect.

John Franklin Hay

Indianapolis, Indiana