It's a mad rush to the airport in Las Vegas at 9am. We're running considerably late, but arrive just in time to catch our Southwest flight to Chicago, connecting and continuing to Indianapolis. Now, you know Southwest, the cattle carrier of airlines. And, you know Phil is 6'9", essentially "plane handicapped," so we request and receive priority boarding for the plane. We pick out two spots that look as it they'll be at least somewhat comfortable, and we're off - and off to sleep off what was, in all seriousness, a Friday night of epic proportions in Las Vegas. [Note: it is not a coincidence that this report starts on Saturday. Some things are best left for the tell-all book due to hit the bookstands just after the tour concludes. Reserve your copy now.]
We breeze through Chicago Midway, and then onto a 25 minute connecting flight to the great city of Indianapolis. As we're nearing the Indy airport, the 2.5 mile oval was visible out the right side of the plane through the smoke from hundreds of barbeques tinting the sky over the track.
We skillfully collect our bags and flag a taxi. A non-English speaking taxi. We're desperately trying to describe the site of our accommodation for the weekend, somewhere near Lot 6, somewhere near the track, on some street we have no idea the name of. And, after four cell phone calls, a consultation with an online map, and an hour battling Indy traffic, we finally arrive.
We're greeted by our friends, Wayne and Jeff. Now, Wayne works for a large online sports media company and has always wanted to see the Indy 500. Jeff is Wayne's old roommate. These guys have been envious of our tour since day one, and seeing that we weren't able to bring the USA RV to the track due to the World Series of Poker, they wanted us to feel right at home. So, what did they do? They rented the four of us an RV for the weekend, of course!
It's a little 30 footer, but plenty comfy, and Wayne and Jeff had her generously stocked with beer and refreshments. We crack one, of course, and then another. It's about 7pm, and time to see a little bit of the street party.
Georgetown St., parallel to the backstretch of the Indy track, is about a mile long. There are fast food stands, memorabilia trucks, ticket brokers, bead salesmen, scanner suppliers, tattoo artists, and just about every other commercial venture under the sun set up along the entire length of the road. We hit a few stands for food, then head in what seemed to be "against the traffic" and up the road.
Within seconds, we spotted our first Mullet. "Hey guys, check out THAT mullet!" Phil says, "That one is real business in the front, and total get-drunk-and-laid party in the back." Wayne and Jeff were already playing "name that mullet," so we join in. First to spot a mullet gets to name it and hit the other guys on the shoulder.
There are, by unofficial count, over a hundred thousand people walking up and down the road. Many are sporting beers and cigarettes. The more intelligent of the partygoers bring beer with them by pushing a stolen shopping cart or by pulling dysfunctional little red wagon. Several of the more severely alcoholic had both.
In the course of an hour, we walked nearly a mile down Georgetown. And while there wasn't much to see in terms of good looking women, there were plenty of Mullets. Hence, this list of NAMED MULLETS. Visualization is left to the reader.
Frankenstein Mullet
Preacher Mullet
Electric Blue Mullet
Tattoo Mullet
Mullet Mullet
The Mullet Family Robinson (3 mullets, mom, dad, and 7 year old)
Tired of mullets and red wagons, and also out beer ourselves, we head to a bar. It's a total dive sporting a very bad cover band, price gouging drinks, and virtually no women. We stay for three piss beers each, and decide to head to what we hoped would be greener pastures.
Now, do not be confused, we are having an absolute blast. The mullet naming contest has been exhilarating. The occasional glimpse of a cow-like woman displaying her breasts to the shrills and shrieks of adoring tobacco spitters is not to be missed. Still, we longed for a place where four unmarried guys could go and catch some quality vibe.
Out of the bar, and into another taxi. "Take us where the cute high school girls hang out," Wayne and Jeff demand. It's 11:30pm, and in twenty minutes we're deposited on the other side of town at a college bar near the University of Indiana. The line is around the corner, but we bribe our way past it for $20 and we're quickly inside at the bar.
Gentlemen, we have arrived in Nirvana. There are college girls everywhere, and the ratio is good. We repeat, the ratio is good. Shots seems like a very good idea, of course, as we want to get back in the groove after the cab ride. Another shot seems like a good idea, as Jeff has met two cuties in the first three minutes inside the bar.
We've been in the bar for about an hour, and slowly but surely, these little college kids are getting the picture. We are the center of the universe. We own this place. We rule and our attention is in demand. Of course, it may not have been like that, but the shots definitely cloud your mind and send you to a higher plane.
Phil spots some cute coeds and heads over for a chat. He's in there for a good two minutes with some very good new material, when the unexpected happens. Girl #1 has a boyfriend, and she's the cutest. OK, so maybe that wasn't unexpected. The unexpected is that the boyfriend is in the bar, has been overhearing the bullshit, and comes over to investigate and pick a fight...
"You play poker for a living," he says. "Yeah, right. That's bullshit."
Phil insists that it is somewhat the truth and spews forth a couple of facts about the World Series of Poker and World Poker Tour. The guys eyes just light up and he gets a silly look on his face. "Oh my GOD," he says, "it IS YOU! I'm one of your biggest fans." Well, whatever, dude. Sorry to hit on your girlfriend.
Minutes later, he has all his friends gathered around Phil, buys shots, and is introducing Phil to a few of the cute (and single) girls that were in their party. Transitioning from getting your ass kicked to getting your ass kissed in three minutes is a good thing.
But, eventually it gets late, there is a last call, and we're ushered out the door. Phil and Wayne are hungry for pizza, as are a few of the girls. About eight of us head off to the pizza parlor, order up a slice, and chow. Rafe and Jeff, misreading the signs, decide to bail and leave Wayne and Phil behind. Bad, idea boys. Within minutes, Phil is on the phone and the boys are back, picking Phil and Wayne up, and we're all on our merry-but-babeless way back to the RV.
It's 3am, we're very lubed. Rafe and Phil pass out, or rather they attempt to. Wayne and Jeff have a "better" idea: let's shoot off some fireworks! They'd picked up a small arsenal on the way in to Indy, not realizing that while it's legal to buy the damn things, it's not legal to shoot them off. Narrowly avoiding jail the previous night, Wayne and Jeff were not phased in the least. They start up the Mission Impossible theme song and skulk out to a clearing in the middle of a bunch of RVs. Ten seconds later, it's like a scene out of Platoon; the entire night sky is lit up and it sounds like a war zone. Our "special forces" unit dive back into the RV and cut the lights just before the cops drive by, trying to figure out where the commotion is coming from. They eventually leave unsatisfied. The trail wasn't even cold yet when Wayne, counter to Jeff's pleas, says "Let's do one more!" And so the cycle begins. Fireworks, hide, cops, fireworks, hide, cops. We were certain that we'd all end up in the slammer, but to Wayne's credit he had a perfect sense of timing and the cops never caught on.
Race Day! Hangover! We all awoke in the RV at 10am with only an hour before race time. Why, in the name of God, does this race start at 11am? There is no good reason, in our opinion. The race officials are clearly out to punish those that partied too hard Saturday night. We certainly fit that description.
Blind without his contacts and fishing around his bag for a toothbrush, Phil pulled his hand out in horror, a good 1/2 centimeter of his right index finger missing and bleeding profusely. Let it be known that Gillette Mach 3 razors are the absolute best razors in the business, and for the record, they cut fingers as well as they cut beards.
But, no time to cry, he patched it up with a bandaid and we all headed out to the track. Wayne generously supplied the grandstand tickets through his company, and soon enough we were parked about twenty rows up just outside of turn three.
Stock cars at Daytona are loud. They grumble, a kind of low, guttural, obnoxiously loud bellowing. Indy cars, however, are designed to go more than 40 miles an hour faster than the fastest NASCAR car. These things are loud in a higher, dog-hearing range. When they come by at 230 miles an hour, lets just say your ears, eyes, stomach, and brain all take notice. We could stand Daytona, trackside, without earplugs. At Indy, we were all sporting the plugs after five minutes. And, even plugged, they were loud.
Left turns, and not much else for the next hour or so. Very little action, really, and since before the race neither of us could name a single driver with any conviction, this event was more about the people. Rafe did his best to fight off sleep, while Phil took the camera out to the infield, which surprisingly sports a nine hole golf course!
Seeing a medical tent set up just outside the grandstands, Phil got the bright idea of getting his finger some professional treatment. "Hey, could you guys look at this?" he said pointing to a bandaid completely soaked through with blood. "Cut it on my seat a minute ago." OK, small white lie.
After applying some antibiotic and a professional gauze job, the medic suggested that stitches were probably in order. But, whatever, there is a race going on, and this isn't the Ultimate Hospital Adventure, it's the Ultimate Sports Adventure. And we've heard that beer can make pain go away, at least temporarily.
We can't particularly say that the race itself was all that interesting. Sure, there were moments of awe and gasps of excitement, but overall, there just isn't a lot to do at the Indy 500. We forgot our playing cards, or for sure, there would have been a game of Chinese Poker right there in the stands.
About fifty laps into the race, a car hit the wall just to our left in the corner and spun a few times, coming to rest just against the rail. Now THAT was exciting! The only woman driver in the race, hit the wall and hit it hard. On replay it didn't even look as if she was tapped. Just lost control of the car in the turn. Of course the fans around us had a field day with the women driver jokes.
Then just as we were all about to nod off, a driver got a little loose down the straight away, hit the wall with a huge crash, flipped the car over and skidded down the track about a half a mile. Spectacular! And better yet, most of it happened within our view. Miraculously, the driver was just fine.
OK, so the race finally finished. Penske had a great day, as did Brazil, finishing one and two with Gil de Ferran and Castroneves.
We fought our way back to the RV, popped a brew, and bid farewell to Wayne and Jeff. They were excellent hosts and great to party with for a weekend. That being said, both of them have a little too much "game" and we were quite happy to be able to hit the bar scene without their competition.
After a much deserved nap, we eventually head down to the downtown area in search of post-Indy vibe and food. Surprisingly, three hours after race time, the streets were deserted, the food stands dismanted, the street fair over. All that remained was the stench of stale Pabst Blue Ribbon and a couple of hundred thousand cigarette butts.
We caught a taxi to downtown and settled in at an Indianapolis icon, the Slippery Noodle. Now, dear readers, we know you think this is a strip club. Believe it or not, it is not. It's Indy's oldest blues bar, established in 1850 or so. But, the food was great, the live band passable, and the beer quite cold. We watched some of the NBA semi-final game between San Antonio and Dallas, and then called it an early night. We're heading back to Baltimore to pick up the USA RV and go straight to New Jersey for the Stanley Cup Finals!
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