June 30, 2005
Car Racing Enlightenment
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

The first time I attended the Indy 500 I was in high school. I was invited to a suite with my boyfriend and his family, and wore a dress. Many giggles and stares ensued from people heading to the snake pit.

My second and third time to the track, years later, remembering how long and boring a day it could be, I brought books: the first, “Of Human Bondage” by Somerset Maugham, and the second, “Skinny Legs and All” by Tom Robbins. Both attracted sideways glances, scoffs and more giggles.

My fourth time, by then a glutton for punishment, I attended the first Formula One race, where it was raining and roughly 30 degrees in September. I arrived bookless (my then boyfriend threatened our relationship if I dared mix reading and spectating), and wearing open-toed shoes.

Confined to cold feet (used both literally and figuratively with me), I was, as most Brits agreed, bloody miserable.

This year I was invited to Formula One again. With a disclaimer, past evidence, and a note from my mother, I warned my friend that my ticket was probably a waste of his hard-earned money. But with some coaxing, a suite involving good company, and a beautiful day forecasted, I agreed to go.

Our crowd was fun and talkative, the suite modern and cozy; the auto-racing motif seemed, uh, pretty unique. I hovered near the food table, quickly unveiling my penchant for the bite-sized snack. It took me only ten minutes to spill Coke all over my friend’s leather shoes.

The outside of the suites is atavistic, built more like barracks or a motel than exclusively crafted retreats. Due to my incurable case of foot-in-mouth disease, I said to the owner of ours, “I feel like I’m at an old dog track in Florida!”

I’ve never been to a dog track in Florida, but judging from his wince, I may have touched a nerve.

With two cameras, a pen and paper, I set up shop on the terrace for the great American photo essay. I would help bring F1 to the forefront of American culture. I’d single-handedly get Europeans to love us again. I would begin to care, meaning, I would watch the race!

But the details of the race were quickly elucidated. With only six cars racing, the parade lap never ended, and a conundrum for officials unwilling to compromise renounced the fans.

I got up and ate another French fry, learning this lesson: Never go to the track without a good book.