The 92nd Running of the Indy 500: Sights, Loud Sounds, Drunken Debauchery, and Debating Why The Tallest Building in Indianapolis is "Stupid"

Whether or not you believe the Indianapolis 500 is still the "Greatest Spectacle in Racing" is not what this post is about. It's not about Scott Dixon, or the merger of the IRL and Champ Car. It will be a little bit about Danica, but nothing to do with the events of the race. What this post IS about is the experience of the race, and why it's so special. As I have said before, I would never watch or care about the 500 if I had never been there. It's just something you have to be apart to understand why it's so special and great.

With that said, I took all these pictures to give you an idea of my experience was like:



Downtown Indianapolis as we drive towards the speedway. Departure time from the hotel we stay at every year: 6am. Amount of sleep before the race: 0 minutes thanks to Noce snoring louder then a fucking freight train. Scale of drunkenness/hungover: 7.5 thanks also to Noce who decided one more double Jack and Coke for Dr. C before leaving the bar was a good idea after we watched B.J. Penn destroy that pussy Sean Sherk.



This is the grass parking lot outside of turns 3 and 4 where we usually park. The field is about 5 or 6 football fields long, and fills up pretty damn fast. As you drive along you'll see the dedicated few already doing beer bongs at this hour in the houses along street to the entrance. These people will never watch the race in its entirety.



It's around 10:15 at the time of this picture. We cracked open our first beer around 8-8:30 after breakfast. One of the great things about the race is the people around you serving as your new little community for a few hours. Almost everyone is really friendly, and more then willing give you food, beer, etc. It makes for a great atmosphere as you get ready to head to the gates.



At around 11:30 is when we decided to head in for the race. Since we got there pretty early, and ahead of a bunch of other people thanks in part to the secret passage way which will remain a secret, we were pretty close to the gates. When you get to the gates, there's about 4 or 5 security people there to check your stuff and your ticket. As I forgot, there is a limit to the size of the cooler you can bring (no longer or wider then 14 inches on either side. They don't have rulers out there, so if it's close you'll be fine, but don't get too crazy with what you think can bring in). So I bought a cheap Styrofoam container and filled it up for the walk:



I used to be pretty good about working out a few years ago. Now, outside of 12oz curls, I don't really lift anymore. So carrying this fucking cooler to our seats and walking up the stands was not too far off from Prometheus pushing the rock up a hill continuously for his punishment of giving man fire. The fucking thing weighed at least 50-60 pounds. But, I did what I had to to make it work (only took one break, promise).

While we were taking this break, my friend's brother ran into some people he knew. While he talked them, his girlfriend stood with us as she didn't know them. This girl is smoking fucking hot (lucky bastard), and while we were waiting, the social experiment of how many guys would turn to look at her while passing by was easily the funniest moment of the day. Her ability to turn 99% of male heads made a 20 car pile-up look like a joke.



Turn 3 looking into Turn 4



Backside straightaway



Monitor, overlooking the infield in turns 3 and 4



Warm-up laps



First lap..I think



I put this picture up to give you an idea of how tight of an area you get. You're sitting on a metal bench with a small number on it, and as you can see to the bottom left, alot of people purch seatback rentals for the race. What does this mean? A fucking balancing act and a half as you try to get past people on your way to the bathrooms. As the race went on, I had a hell of a time trying to weave in and out of people thanks to drinking oh say 7 or 8 Miller Lites, a couple jello shots and quite a few Vodka-Red Bulls before lap 100 (200 laps in all). Needless to say, I was stumbling anywhere I went past people in the rows, and I'm sure I kicked over drinks and stepped on many toe. Shit happens, people. Deal with it.



One of the ladies working the event. She was hot.



Not sure at what part of the race this is, but it's my best getting all the cars in there.



Around lap 150 I was pretty hammered. I decided to see if anyone else was considering a break over on the golf course which is next to the track, and has a few holes inside of it. Low and behold, I was right. I think sat down for like 20 laps enjoying a cigarette before heading in for the finish.


LET STUPIDITY RING: So the race ends, Dixon wins, blah blah blah. We went back to our cars, and we had a designated driver for us, which was my friends dad's frat buddy from back in the day. As he drives me, Noce, and our other buddy, I look over at the Chase Tower in downtown Indianapolis and declare, "That building sucks. It's not that tall. Why the fuck does it need the two prongs at the top of it? Sears Tower is way bigger and hence needs it. Noce: probably because it's the biggest building in the area for planes. Dr. C: Well, its still fucking stupid. Someone should get rid of it." That was pretty much the entire debate, yet it must have last the whole 20 minute car ride back to the hotel and it got pretty intense. That's what Chicago Bull is all about. Debating the stupidest fucking thing you could possibly imagine, but yet taking it seriously. I look back on now thinking if I was my friend's old frat buddy, I would have told us to shut the fuck up or be dropped off in the ghetto.

DANICA IS REALLY NICE TO HER FANS: Alright, I happen to have met someone who is associated with one of the teams that were in the pits quite a few times in going to the 500, and when we started talking about the race, here's the conversation:

Person: Do you like Danica?

Dr. C: I don't have anything against her.

Person: Well, I can tell you that she's the biggest diva bitch I've ever met.

Dr. C: Really? I could see that.

Person: Having been here for this week with all the qualifying and events, everything I've seen from her and heard from everyone else is nothing but bad. I haven't heard one good thing from her. When she was doing an autograph session, a nice older woman came up to her table with her daughter and something for Danica to sign. When she finally got up to Danica, she handed the item to her, and said something to the extent of my daughter is a begin fan of yours. Before she even got done saying that, Danica immediately said, where's your pen in a pissy tone. The woman apologized saying she thought there would be one up here that Danica was already using. In the middle of her explaining that, Danica got up, grabbed a pen from another person in line, signed it quickly while saying "maybe next time you'll remember to BRING it".

I'm sorry, but what a fucking bitch. I understand that people have bad days and everything, and if it was just the lady by herself who didn't know any better, I could give her a pass. But not when you have her and the daughter who wants nothing more then to meet her "idol" and get an autograph. Grow up you fucking bitch and act like you actually care about your fans. Maybe Midol can sponsor her next autograph session.

The Greatest Drinking/Sports Event In The Midwest, If Not the World: The Indy 500

I have never been to a Super Bowl. I've never been to a World Series, an NBA Finals game or a Soccer game for that matter. I hear the World's largest outdoor cocktail party game between Georgia and Florida is great. But I can only speak of the experiences I have had personally, and for my money, it doesn't get any better then the Indianapolis 500. There are several reasons why, and some you just can't appreciate unless you're there to experience it. But I'll do my best to give you an idea of what the Indy 500 is like from the 5 times I've been there, and try to convince why you must go to the largest sporting event in the world.

1. Even if you hate racing, you will still enjoy it.

Before I went to my first Indy 500 back in 2001, you couldn't pay me to watching any form of racing. NASCAR, Open wheel, fuck, you could have topless girls driving..and wait...ok I'd definitely watch that, but you get the point. Well, back in 01' I was not of legal drinking age. But I did enjoy throwing shit at the people who passed out on the lawn below our seats.

Anyways, on Sunday when you go to the race, you'd be better be at the track waiting in line to park by 6am, or else you're going to be walking your candy ass a long ways. A friend of mine's dad has been going to 500 since '61, and has only missed two or three years. He has a secret street that he uses to get by a ton of the crowd, and would probably kill me if blurted it out on here. I'm not sure if the street really saves you that much time, but even saying the street's name out loud in the car pisses him off.

When you finally pull into the area in which you're going to park (we generally park in a huge grass field near turn 3). You can A: sleep in your car for a couple hours, B: Set up shop and start making breakfast, or the ever popular C: Start drinking like a fucking maniac who's sure to pass out on the golf course adjacent to the track.

Now being of age to legally crush Miller Lite cans on my forehead after finishing them in the field, I usually go with option A, followed by B and C. This is because I'm still drunk from the night before when we go drink at a pub down the street from the hotel we always stay at. At around 8:30, it's time to get up. The race doesn't start until around 1, so you have plenty of time to drink. Remember, the race is fucking long, and YOU ARE ALLOWED TO BRING COOLERS INTO THE STANDS. let me repeat that; you can bring as much alcohol as you please to the metal bench you will sit on.

Once you get inside the race, it's an amazing sight to see 300,000-400,000 people within a 2.5 mile radius of you. It's probably even more amazing how much alcohol is being consumed on the day alone. But what's most amazing of all is the sound of the engines.


I cannot begin to tell you how fucking loud they are. Imagine a billion bees that have little rockets on their back, are really pissed, and are going around in a long cirlcle. That's the best way I describe it. Once the race starts, you have 15-20 second intervals to talk. In other words, start a sentence, wait...finish it. For husbands, this is 3 hours of having your wife shut up and not asking you questions.

And holy shit are those cars fast. Watching 230 mph Indy cars = boring. Watching them in person = crazy. I don't how those fucking drivers do it. The second they come into your turn, they are gone just as fast. And while you're wondering where they went, they've already passed you again.

Right around when the race might start to get boring is when the people around become their show. Keep in my mind that most of these 'people' are going to somewhat hickish, and double digits deep into the Budweiser. Whether its tits being flashed, the beach ball bouncing around that knocks over an old person walking along the concourse, or the 4 year old boy standing outside of a men's last year holding a Busch can looking pissed off, there's something for everybody.

Last year during the rain delay, we went to the top of our section and screamed down at women to flash. While you take the good (20 year with a nice rack) with the bad (saggy 50-year old fatty titties), tits are still tits.

2. Drinking is cheap

Let's face it; you want to get the most bang for your buck and get shitfaced. That's makes tailgating for baseball so important. I certainly don't enjoy paying 6.25 for a cup of Miller Lite if it's my first beer. Me, Noce, and our buddy each drank a case of beer over the course of 12 hours.

Needless to say, I banged my knee into the metal benches at some point, and later looked down to find a Mississippi River of O+ positive mostly alcholic blood stream down to my shoe. Not having any napkins, I just Macgyver'ed my a portion of shorts by cutting them and making a little turniquet. Did it work? Not really, but shit I was proud of my handy work.

I spent 13.99 for that case of beer. I drank every last one of them. Your wallet will thank you, but your liver sure as shit won't.

3. Pick a horse and hope to win



This is Dan Wheldon, winnner of the race and IRL in 2005. He's British, so he talks like a douche, and has the gayest hair ever, which makes him more of a douche. But, boy can the motherfucker drive. I would never root for this tool. But I did in 05' when we cut up the Indianapolis star with the all the drivers, and drew randomly for $3 bucks a car. I ended up winning 30 bucks. Not a ton of money, but mostly fun for the fact that you can have some to root for even when you have no clue who the fuck anyone is.

Going into this year, I still don't have a clue about most of the drivers in the field of 33, but I recognize some of the names. I guess when you think about it, it doesn't really matter who wins the race. It's me. I'm the winner. I get to spend my entire day outside, enjoying multiple cold drinks with my buddies. Just writing this post has excited for Sunday. I'm going to be bringing my digital camera this year since I never fucking use it, and I'll get as my photos as possible to pass along to you.

My Pick to win: Tony Kanaan.

My Pick to crash first: Danica Patrick

Unofficially the greatest day ever invented

This may look like an innocent street corner on a regular Big Ten campus. It usually is, but it won't be tomorrow.

"Drink until you're Irish."

That's the motto for my weekend, and I'm not alone.

It might not be March quite yet, but that hasn't stopped the great organizers of Unofficial St. Patrick's Day at the University of Illinois from planning the greatest drinking day since the day before Thanksgiving.

Tonight I will leave the Windy City and drive two hours south to Champaign, where I will join thousands of other people who are anxious to celebrate Unofficial by drinking my weight in alcohol.

Unofficial is the one day a year where kids (and adults in my case) forget about everything they have to worry about everyday, put on a green shirt and proceed to get shitfaced. Now those of you who might yawn at the idea of a college campus getting drunk, I assure you, this is not a typical .25 cent beer day. Kids wake up at 7am to get ready for this event. Kegs are tapped by 7:30 and by noon you are more likely to find someone puking on a corner than someone who could tell you directions to the quad. Illinois is a great school academically but all that flies out the window of the local watering hole tomorrow, because tomorrow is Unofficial.

Last year, my senior year, I was supposed to work at Piccadilly during Unofficial. Piccadilly is a liquor store for those of you not around here, and let me tell you working at a liquor store on Unofficial is the equivalent to working for the Janjaweed on a typical African Tuesday: it's a compelte and utter shitstorm. So last year I had only been working at this crappy job to supplement the meager pay I earned from working as the Sports Editor for the student newspaper at Illinois and I really didn't give a shit about the job.

I convinced myself that I needed to go into work that day but I could still handle drinking a little beforehand. Hell, my boss used to let us drink on the job so what the fuck does he care if I come in to work a little drunk? It's not like I'm operating on fucking Heath Ledger here, I'm selling 30 packs of Keystone to every Jane, Dick and Sally with an ID that looks 50% like the kid handing it to me.

Anyway, I went out and drank in the morning like any good student would and planned to go into work at 3pm like I was scheduled. After about 10 beers, some shots of green shit (sidenote: everything is fucking green on Unofficial, and I mean everything. T-Shirts, scarves, mittens, beer, shots, fuck even the cocaine is green on Unofficial that's just the way it is) and maybe a couple screwdrivers to get the taste of beer from the night before out of my mouth, I was well on my way to intoxication.


At this point, I'm perfectly fine to go into work but I'm starting to feel like I have other things I'd rather be doing than spending the rest of my day not drinking.

So a few friends and I head back to my house and we run out of beer after like a half hour because of course, chicks don't ever bring beer they just expect other people to hand it to them. Most of the bitches at U of I won't even open their own beers, that's how spoiled and gay they really are. So I get the bright idea to go get a keg! And what better place to get a keg than the very place that I work for, Piccadilly? It's right across the street from my apartment, shit I can practically read the time on the wall, why wouldn't I go in there? Oh yea, because I have to be in there for work in 3 hours. Does that stop me? No. I head on over with the intentions of buying a keg.

I apparently was more drunk than I thought because as we walked into the store I couldn't figure out that the door pulls open so that people delivering kegs can just back them out. Pretty smart huh? Apparently too smart for me. So I'm sitting there pushing and pushing and the door is winning by a mile, until my manager opens it, calls me a retard and asks me what the fuck I'm doing. I tell him I'm here to buy a keg, and no it's not for me, I'm just getting it for them because I'm a nice guy and that's what nice guys do.

So I wheel the keg on over to my apartment and forget that I have the little cart that we use to carry those fuckers to the cars. We only had like 5 of those carts for the whole store and there are probably about 300 kegs sold on this one day alone so that's roughly 60 kegs per cart. Well they were one light after I left because I was not about to wheel that bitch all the way back there (things tend to appear much further away when you don't need anything from them don't they?) just so my boss can call me an idiot again. I'll just bring it back later.

Long story short, or at least shorter, I never went to work, got fired and didn't bring the cart back until a week later when my boss left me a profanity-laced voicemail threatening to get me arrested for stealing property.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty productive day. I can't really remember anything past 4pm so this is where the story ends...until I return on Sunday with more tales of the finest day of the year.

Pray for me.