“The month of May. That might not mean much anywhere outside of Indianapolis, but for one month out of the year, Indiana is the racing capital of the world. The Indy 500 is quite possibly the most important race in all of motorsports. It is equal parts legend, future, and fantasy.
“There was a time when people could build a car out of scrap in their garage and bring it to the track. If it could qualify, it could race. If it could race, it could win and forever be remembered. That’s the embodiment of the American dream.
“In today's uber-corporate world where money it's far more important than talent, some say that the American dream is dead. I say no. It might be on life support, but it sure as hell ain’t dead.”
The reporter nodded along as Chance Pierce answered the question about why the Indy 500 was so damn special. He was pulled into Chance’s energy and passion, a wide grin appearing on his face, causing Chance to smile himself. Anybody who interacted with Chance got that look on their face. They knew they were talking to a future winner and champion.
“Just one more question, Chance.”
He shrugged and gave the camera a cocky, sensual look. “For you I’ve got all morning.”
“What’s the chance that you’ll be drinking the milk at the end of those two hundred laps?” The man gave Chance a wink and a nod. They loved making puns when it came to his name.
For a second, he didn’t answer. He knew the odds were slim to none, but reporters didn’t want to hear that. Thirty-two other racing drivers would be clawing their way around the oval at two hundred and thirty miles an hour, and that would only be if he qualified. Chance knew that if he could get a ride, he could qualify.
The interview wouldn’t just be on the local news that night, it would be all over the world. Chance did two things well: drive, and sell himself. “What are the chances? There’s only one Chance, and I will win the race.”
Silence. Utter silence, like the vast and empty grandstands sucked up all sounds they came in contact with. Come race day, they do the opposite, with a crowd pushing five hundred thousand cheering so loudly that the drivers can hear it over their engines. Eight hundred horsepower beasts that launch the cars around the track at nearly two hundred and fifty miles an hour, and the crowd can still overpower them.
The Indianapolis Motor Speedway was two and a half miles of history, legacy, and a shot at eternal glory. From above, the straights and four banked turns make the track look like a rectangle with curved corners. Just about every free spot along the track is skirted with grandstands, and just about ever seat is full on race day.
Chance stood looking down the more than half a mile front straight, his mind playing a rags-to-riches story out before him. His overconfidence in the interview was humbled as he stood on that hallowed track. He knew it was a million to one shot, but he stood and dreamed anyway.
Million to one if I can get a damn ride, that is.
“Y’ain’t supposed to be here.” A slow drawl made Chance spin around. The old man was not more than five feet tall, with more cracks scattered across his face than a long-dried riverbed. The yellow button-up only added to the caricature. Despite his fragile look, his eyes were hard. Chance saw a glint of light reflect off of the man’s badge. He was a senior member of the safety patrol. They may not have had much real power, but the old man did have a radio and the ability to get him banned from the track.
“Didja hear me? Y’ain’t supposed to be here.”
I sure as hell am, Chance thought, a smile creeping onto his face. Turning his attention back to the race track, Chance said, “Just getting in a little quiet time.”
“Well,” the old man chuckled like it was a joke, “Go on an’ get your quiet time somewhere else. Y’ain’t allowed out here. No official track activity today, anyway. Only engine’s you’ll hear are gonna be haulers.”
With a nod, Chance swung a foot over the low concrete wall that would separate the cars from the crew on race day. It looked barren and so spacious with no equipment or war wagons in place, but Chance knew that the place was worse than the 405 during the race.
Once the old man was satisfied and Chance was past some gate that was now locked, “Ain’t nothin’ to do but wait ’til things start up, now, ya hear?”
“What time do the haulers roll in?” Chance had plenty of work to do, and it all started with the haulers.
Annoyed at Chance’s question, the yellow-shirt pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. He held it close to his face, squinting in the dim light. Chance pulled out his phone and fired up the flashlight app.
“Christ, son. I’m near-sighted, not blind. Get that shit outta my eyes.” The old man turned away, his annoyance growing into something closer to disgust.
Chance remembered being in awe of the yellow-shirts when he was a kid. They practically ran the track. A friend of his dad’s had brought him to the 500 when he was six, and it had blown his young mind. They walked through the garage area, seeing drivers up close, just like they were real people. His favorite driver had won the race, and from that day on, racing was the only thing on Chance’s mind. He got older and made just enough room in his life for women, but gasoline ran through his veins.
“Six thirty. That’s when the haulers start rolling in. Now, get on outta here until then. I ain’t gonna walk you all the way to the museum, but that’s where I expect you to head, y’understand?” The words were stern, but Chance saw a bit of the devil in the old man’s eyes.
With a chuckle, he nodded. “I’ll head straight for the museum, sir.”
“You’re damn right, sir.”
With that, the old man shuffled off towards the dimly lit pagoda that stood eleven stories tall at the start finish line. Chance shook his head. The track was filled with characters, men and women who remembered the old days, when it was dangerous and a sport for heroes.
A question from the interview the night before gave Chance pause.
“We all know you don’t have a ride, so what’s the plan?” It haunted him as he watched the sun start to paint the eastern sky.
He had been a rookie, as green as they come when he first slid into the cockpit of his first IndyCar. The first practice session ended with Chance’s car slamming hard into one of Pocono’s three banked turns. The team managed to put the car back together, working long into the night to get it ready for the race. He started dead last.
His race engineer gave him a simple strategy. “Only drive fast enough to keep from getting disqualified. I don’t care how many times the leader laps you, I don’t care who wants to race with you, and I don’t give a god damn how much talent you think you have. If you wreck this car, you’re done. Not just with this team, not just with this season, but with this sport. You are the risk that no one wanted to take. Got that, Chance?”
Loud and clear.
He finished the race dead last, which was just out of the top ten because of attrition and one major wreck that took out seven cars. Chance knew that he could push the car faster. He liked the setup, and it felt good beneath him. In some ways, he felt like a boxer paid to throw the fight. He didn’t talk to anyone after the race, not his engineer, not the owner, not the media. After everything he had done to get into the sport, part of him felt cheated.
A smarter man might have understood the opportunity he was getting. A smarter man might have towed the line. Chance wasn’t those men.
The second-to-last race of the season was a brand new street circuit that wound through South Boston. Chance wasn’t well-known for making anything but left-hand turns. He made it his mission to prove them wrong. It was a brand new course, so for the most part, all the racers were equal.
He pushed through from start to finish, ending up sixth. Lentz Brothers Racing scored their first points of the season, Chance his first ever, and his name was all over the racing world overnight.
It took me fifteen years to become an overnight sensation…
It didn’t last for Chance, though. Everyone had high expectations going into Sonoma, the last race of the season, a race where the points scored were doubled. After tangling with another rookie at the start, Chance struggled with an ill-handling race car for nearly two hours.
Lentz Brothers lost their title sponsor, and they pulled out IndyCar over the off-season, leaving Chance without a ride. He hoped his hard charge in Boston would be enough to secure a ride with someone. Hell, Team Kedzie had four cars running, but no other teams could scrape together the cash for one?
The first race of the season came and went, with Chance nowhere to be found. An announcer mentioned him once or twice, but the name faded into obscurity fast. Chance wouldn’t let that happen.
Chance leaned against the cinderblock wall of the bathroom. Even from there, he’d hear the haulers rolling into the infield. Laying his bag on the sink, he pulled out a toothbrush and a disposable razor. Brushing his teeth was uneventful, but the cold water and empty soap dispenser did nothing to help him out shaving the two days of scruff from his face.
After checking his face for missed spots, Chance decided his skin couldn’t take any more abuse, so he gave up. A splash of cold water on his face, and he grabbed for his white t-shirt. His hair dripped water down onto his face, and he ran his fingers through, wishing he’d grabbed a comb before heading to the track, wishing he had a comb in the first place.
One last check in the mirror, and then Chance loaded all of his possessions back into his duffel bag. He wedged the previous day’s shirt into the side, over the small lock box.
As the deep sound of eighteen-wheel haulers rumbled up through the concrete floor, Chance zipped up his bag, containing everything he owned along with fifty-five thousand dollars in cash - maybe enough to buy himself a seat.
It had to be enough.