At the Edge
At the Edge
May 19, 2015 at 8:02am
Many people who have never been to an auto race think those who go do so to see the drivers crash. That we are there to see high-speed demolition derby. They don't get the lure of the engine, the women and men who live on the razor's edge, the beauty and the tradition. They don't see the bonds of family.Saying that we go to the race to watch the drivers crash is like saying that fans of track and field go to events to watch the athletes hurt themselves. So very far from the truth...
They have never been there when a crash happens. They have never felt the palpable somber silence that takes a crowd of a quarter million people (yes that is the right number) from excitement and chatter through hearing protection to utter and complete stop. A quarter million people holding their breath. No one moves except the safety crews. If one sits on the side where the pits are, the eyes might dart to the crew and family waiting there - to see them holding their breath with you. Then there is the wave of relief if the driver gets out of the car under their own power. Everyone knows then they will be ok. Everyone breathes. Nothing is heavier than the air inside the track if the safety crews have to get the driver out and the stretcher gets used to take them to the in-track hospital. As things get cleaned up and the race continues, there is still a hush and the cars, even through protection are so much louder than before. The crowd sits in a state of pause, holding space for the crew and family until word comes from the hospital of the driver's condition.
This week our breath has been held more than once as drivers testing the limits of their reflexes and skills and the new aerodynamics kits ended up spinning out of control, some even going airborne, into this or that wall. Four times we were lucky. The driver got out, walking away with nothing more than bruises. Yesterday, the luck ran out. A sweet, funny young man going 223 miles per hour had a part break in his car's steering as he was going into a turn. He became a passenger in a missile that spun and smashed and even briefly caught fire. He couldn't get out on his own. For several hours things just stopped, and even once the drivers were allowed to practice again, it was with that hushed waiting to hear news of that happy-go-lucky young man who was in surgery. I am happy to say he came out of surgery ok. He won't be able to race this coming weekend, but he will again some day soon. It could have been worse, so much worse; but the car did what it was designed to do and took the energy of the impact away from him.
Will I be attending the Indianapolis 500 this weekend? Yes, absolutely - and so will a quarter million other people. Our thoughts will be with the driver at IU med center. Our eyes will be on the track watching brightly colored pieces of engineering artistry go by us at 220+ miles per hour - each one containing a man or woman that we have gotten to know. Whose autograph we have, who stopped for a chat, a photo, a hug. Each one is there for the same reason we are: because this place has magic. The drivers know that what they do is dangerous, and so do the people who come to watch them drive. But when it goes right, it is artistry. A ballet of sound and color at speeds that make it hard for the eyes to follow - like so many high-speed butterflies. When I was a little girl I dreamed of driving one of those cars. So did every driver out there as a child. They live the dream, and they know that when they are out there, we are sharing a dream and for that shining time, we are together - at the edge.