(And we’ve just got here!)
Wake up darling… they’re knocking
The Colonel’s standing in the sun
With his stupid plastic glasses
And a gun*
© 2004 Bill Ott
Thursday, Sept. 2
Indianapolis Raceway Park
It must have been about the same time that I was starting on my third cup of coffee when the bad news arrived. But I should have already figured out that things have been going along way too smoothly these past four days. After all, the few little glitches along the way are a part of what has coalesced up to this point to make this whole trip interesting. A blown trailer tire in Westfield, Mass. A malfunctioning power generator in Erie, Pa. A major over charge for fuel in Cambridge City, Indiana. Oh, then there’s driving right by the main entrance to Indianapolis Raceway Park ("Damn it Todd, it’s on the right… not the left!") then winding up dazed and confused in the parking lot of some biker looking bar trying to negotiate backing maneuvers between chrome plated scooters in an eighty five foot long vehicle that bends in the middle. Can you say lost again?
But that was then and now that the stainless parts on the truck and trailer are all shiny again, it’s time to prop the feet up on one of the work benches, slip a Conway Twitty disc in the player, and enjoy this last cup of morning coffee while it’s still quiet. But once again, I’m getting just a little bit ahead of myself.
We arrived at these hallowed grounds Tuesday afternoon and were directed to park on pit row over at the adjoining circle track. Wednesday afternoon Mr. Steve Gibbs showed us our assigned parking area on the Drag Strip grounds. And what a parking area it was… literally everyone who was going to sit in the West Grandstands would have to walk by our transporter. AND… we had a straight shot of the starting line out our right side windows… AND a straight shot of ESPN’s starting line cameras. Sy moved the transporter from the circle track to this new location under cover of darkness while the track was closed to avoid the congestion and crowds. He also did a skilful job of parallel parking the unit in what couldn’t have been more than a 100’ slot.
Now… try and picture yourself in the following scenario on Thursday morning - You’re one of the ‘powers’ within the NHRA/PowerAde conglomerate. You arrive at your assigned workstation located on the second floor of the headquarters/timing tower at about 8:00 AM on this beautiful sunlit morning, cup of coffee in hand. You step into your office (with its huge smoked plate glass window) to an unparalleled view of the starting line area. Next, you lean back in your padded chair sipping on that still warm coffee. As your eyes sweep the pristine starting line area you can’t help but be proud of the shiny new safety equipment, the brooms all standing at rigid attention. And perhaps proudest of all about that four wheeled cart parked adjacent to the starting line with its stately boom extending phallus like towards the heavens, ESPN camera dangling from the top… at the ready… waiting to transmit images from this facility worldwide. Your eyes continue their sweep, focusing next on the long white and stainless transporter parked immediately beside the starting line and therefore also beside that ESPN camera. As your gaze continues along the side of the parked transporter, in the upper rear corner of the trailer, in about 12" tall letters, you read the following…
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That unfamiliar sound you just heard was that of your cup of coffee dropping to the floor sending its contents soaring.
Now back over on my side of the track I’m starting to get real comfortable in this feet up position, maybe half of the cup is gone, and ol' Conway can’t be into but maybe the third song of the CD when the previously mentioned Steve Gibbs appears at the trailer door… motioning me to step outside with his index finger while the 2-way radio in his other hand is squawking away. A quick glance at the clock shows it’s just shy of 8:10AM. "Bill," he says, "we’ve got a problem here." Pointing to the top rear corner of the trailer with his free hand, as the 2-way continues it’s staccato in static. "The boys across the way are pretty upset about that IHRA logo, especially in front of those cameras. That’s gotta be covered up with something. Anything you can find will work, even old sheets or blankets, anything." I tell him I understand and will see that it gets taken care of.
My first impulse was to call Soaps By Betty and tell her to FedEx one of her banners down here real quick… cause she’s gonna get some primo air time over the next five days. Next I thought to myself "Hell… let’s just put the word out that this space is available… to the highest bidder." Returning to my earlier comfy spot in the trailer, visions of riches beyond my wildest dreams were filling my mind as Conway sings ‘One for the money’.
Within the next few minutes a rather official looking fellow (matching NHRA/POWERade shirt, pants, and golf cart) dropped by. "Son, I’ve got some bad news" he informs me. Acting stunned by his announcement I asked what possibly could be the problem as I stared, squinting from the sun into his inert plastic sunglasses. Pointing at the offending insignia he says, "That’s gotta go… this is an NHRA event." Again I said I’d get right on it but he interrupted me with "I’ll send over a few POWERade banners to hang in front of that!" I don’t think he could say, or perhaps wasn’t allowed to say… ‘IHRA’. Damn. There went our newfound riches right out the window!
But there is a bright side to all of this. It ain’t MY problem anymore! The balls’ in NHRA’s court now and they’ve probably got three of their best guys on it as we speak (remember that commercial?). Little did I know?
In about two hour’s time ‘ol Mr. Bluesuit (and his cheap sunglasses) returns… but not alone. No sir! Riding with him in the golf cart are two genuine, brand spanking new, never before unfolded, blue NHRA/POWERade banners. But that’s not all… he’s got not just one, but two guys trotting along behind him and his prized cargo. And behind them (perhaps as an incentive to stay caught up with this procession?) one HUGE forklift! I’m tellin’ ya… this rascal’s got tractor tires on it, and what sounded like a Caterpillar Diesel engine!
So each of these two guys hop on the blades of this massive forklift, and before you can say "Holy Toledo Elevators, Batman!" they lift off skyward in a cloud of diesel smoke. But… just before they reach orbit altitude one of them realizes they left the tape behind. So while they’re returning to Earth, Mr. Bluesuit retrieves a roll of 200MPH tape from his matching golf cart, and slams it into one of the cosmonaut’s hands just as they touch down. Again our duo blasts off skyward and before you can say "Holy hang glider, Batman!" its ‘Mission Accomplished’!
Again these two brave individuals return to Earth undaunted, dismount from their weird conveyance, calmly wipe off their sweaty palms, and disappear into the gathering masses. After just a few putt – putts the forklift is gone leaving behind ‘just the smell of diesel in the dust’. And ‘ol Mr. Bluesuit? Hidden behind those sunglasses was the expression of a man who had just looked adversity right square in the eye… and stared it down.
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| The Band-Aid can be seen at the upper left corner of the trailer |
And as for myself? I’m already taking bids on those POWERade banners. "Sure… c’mon back Monday night, and we’ll talk about it." Nod, nod, wink, wink. More old B.S. later.
