S
ince I was a little girl, I’ve been captivated
by cars. Seemingly born with my hands at
ten and two, I started driving on dirt
roads when I was seven-years old. My first car
came at the age of thirteen–a classic, mint
condition ’66 Mustang. That’s also the age I
discovered my lead foot. A simple turn of the
key and the rumble of the 289 V-8 engine left
me feeling euphoric.
During the late ‘80s there was no Danica
Patrick for inspiration, thus my dream of
becoming a professional race car driver faded,
while more practical occupations took its place.
As fortune would have it, nearly three decades
later my racing fascination was reignited with
an invitation to Indiana—during the
Indianapolis 500.
Come the month of May, the eyes of the racing
world are firmly planted on Indianapolis. Since
1911, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway has
played host to “The Greatest Spectacle in
Racing,” otherwise known as the Indianapolis
500. On the last Sunday of the month, in
conjunction with Memorial Day weekend,
thirty-three of the best drivers compete for
the honor of having their name and face
immortalized on The Borg-Warner Trophy, one
of the most coveted prizes in sports. The
trophy and a place in history aside, the winner
also nabs a piece of the approximately
$12,000,000 purse.
Indianapolis is the birthplace of IndyCar, and
racing courses through the veins of this city. I
was made acutely aware of this fact the
moment I stepped off the plane. Signage
touting the weekend’s events covered the
airport. Passengers wielding smart phones
cla