Impressions (Not Facts) of the U.S. Grand Prix

Feeling a bit like a marshmallow lately, I wanted to go to the sauna and sweat out all the toxins ingested in recent days. Toxins like organic ice cream, cheese puffs, and potato chips. There’s nothing like baking in the heat and taking in the relaxing and soothing scent of eucalyptus essential oil to erase all the sins that accompany summer cook outs. But when I did actually de-puff, I took in a different odor entirely - namely that of hot dogs, sweat and beer.

This is because I was at the Formula One U.S. Grand Prix. And the temperature went well into the nineties. Ugh.

My husband, Bjoern, is a Formula One buff, being a German and a huge Michael Schumacher fan and all, and since we live in a north side Indianapolis suburb we take advantage of our proximity to the F1 action. Bjoern enjoys the cars, and I enjoy the cosmopolitan atmosphere which allows me to forget, for just a brief while, as if I had traveled abroad. Both, this year, did not disappoint. The detox was an added bonus.

After parking our techno blue New Beetle on the lawn of a really nice Speedway neighborhood lady, we made our long, hot hike to the best seats in the house, singing “Ole! Ole ole ole!” with the Polish fans on the way. Bjoern thought they might have really liked their Foster’s. Oh, that jovial atmosphere makes me feel like I’m back home in Germany at a soccer game. Anyway, we always sit in Stand H of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which is where everything good happens.

We sat down in our nosebleed bleacher seats in section 10, row KK (this was after the national anthem, during which an American standing in the aisle and blocking our way as we tried to climb up to stairway to heaven barked at my husband to WAIT! and would not let us pass until the song was over), and immediately started spraying each other with our daughter’s Disney World spray bottle with the little fan. She so graciously lent it to us for the day, reminding us not to drop it in water like she once did. What we quickly realized, though, is that the nosebleed bleacher seats came with two unique advantages - a breeze and a good view for people watching.

Cooling off, I tried to pick a new favorite driver by looking at our driver information card found in the program. It’s just not the same anymore after Schumi retired. Should I pick Kimi Raikkonen, his replacement? Or Lewis Hamilton, the rookie? What about familiar faces like Fernando Alonso and David Coulthard?

Well, as usual, I picked Ralf, Schumi’s younger brother. Bjoern advised me against this, because he’s not been doing so well, but I think it would be hard to live in the shadow of such a successful older brother. So I rooted for Ralfi, as I call him.

Like I said, everything good happens where we sit, as we can see the cars coming down the straightaway at 320 kilometers per hour, attempting to make the first ninety degree turn as fast as they can while blocking everyone else behind them. The first chicane is where the action is, and we can almost guarantee that the turn will claim at least one car on the first lap, on which the race actually looks more like a derby.

This year the first chicane claimed Ralfi.

(Okay, so that wasn’t good. And I’m beginning to think I’m his bad luck charm. Last time we were at the race, he had a horrible accident requiring hospitalization. I secretly kept hoping I’d get a phone call to come interpret - Mrs. Gottschild! Ralfi is delirious and speaking only in German! We can’t understand a thing he’s saying! And then I’d come, save the day, and bring Ralfi Ritter Sport chocolates and good sausage. Then I’d meet his brother, introduce him to my husband, and they’d become fast friends and would one day go turkey hunting together.)

So off went Ralfi in the golf cart. (I was thinking about how that must be such a letdown. You drive a car worth millions of dollars, wreck it, and get driven away in a golf cart? Talk about disappointing.)

I immediately needed a new favorite driver (after all, one can’t mourn forever) and picked Lewis, the rookie. He was easy to spot, being in first place and all in his white and bright orange Vodafone car. Fernando followed in the exact same car, then Felipe Massa in his red Ferarri, and Nick Heidfeld on his tail in his BMW Sauber F1 Team car.

With these four drivers taking the lead, it seemed as if the race was an exclusive event between the quartet. The others cars trailed way behind, practically bumper to bumper, in what looked like their own race, duking it out for what I thought would probably wind up being ninth to twenty first place (Ralfi we already knew, had placed twenty second). The little orange car that putzed along behind (if you can putz at those speeds) seemed to be racing only itself. This seemed easy enough to follow for the untrained eye.

Ha!

Sooner or later, they all began to either; spin out, drive through the grass and pass the other drivers, or do something reckless like get gas or more air for their tires. (Okay, Bjoern is laughing so hard he’s red in the face and crying. Turns out, they don’t get more air in their tires; they get a whole new set of tires. Shows you how much I know.) That completely messed up the order I was following, and I was rather irritated that someone who was in fourth place could wind up in twelfth after a pit stop. Creating further mayhem in my tracking skills, Hamilton, still in first place, lapped the little orange car, which made me think, the last will be first and the first will be last (that’s about as deep as I’m going to get today). Confusion then set in and the colors started to blur, so, upset that they can’t just paint the cars one silly sold color and the initial them for better driver recognition, I resorted to people watching.

The race fans attending this event, most of them men, come from all over the world, and I like to try to figure out who is from abroad and who is not. It’s actually not all that hard to tell - the European men wear beautiful pastel colored polo shirts in pink, apricot, lime, and turquoise - always with the collar up, like I did in the fourth grade. American men, with their collars down would never wear such colors, except for my brother who was sitting next to me wearing peach. He is very dapper. European men also wear very sleek sport shoes with no socks. (Canadian men do not-Ed.)

Flags are a must for the fans of F1. Giant Brazilian flags, British flags, German flags, and especially Ferrari flags. You’d think Ferrari had its own nation for crying out loud.

If an F1 fan doesn’t have a flag, then they must have a hat, and I have decided that this is a very lucrative business for the hat-makers. Here’s why: You go to the race and buy a blue Kimi hat because he drives for some blue team - don’t ask me which one. Then you go back to the race a year later, and Kimi no longer wears blue, but red. And you’re stuck with your hat (like the people sitting across the aisle from us - I felt sorry for them). So you buy a new, red one. Team names also seem to change as often as the names of certain telephone companies creating an altogether similar hat problem.

My people-watching was interrupted, as a blue and white car belonging to Nico Rosberg pulled up of right in front of us - in flames! I told you all the good stuff happens here! The driver jumped out with his high tech million dollar steering wheel and punched the air with his fist in great frustration knowing he would soon be hanging out with Ralfi as the little uniformed men in headphones came running out with fire extinguishers.

And another one rides the golf cart.

The race ended five laps later and the rookie Lewis Hamilton won his second consecutive race. Then a sea of red (and I’m not just talking Ferrari shirts here - more like lobsters) made its way out of the Motor Speedway in waves and headed immediately for the airport, where they were anticipating large crowds of people heading straight home after the race. Why stay in Indy any longer than you have to? Especially when you’re cosmopolitan? (Unfortunately, it seems that Formula One “supremo” Bernie Ecclestone might feel the same way).

Hm. Well I have a few answers to that question, but they are beyond the scope of this article. (Though perhaps I could share them with Ecclestone?)

We, now ten pounds lighter, in need of electrolytes and still missing Schumi headed home.

To eat more ice cream.