WYATT
Today is D-day for me.
Today is Dad’s funeral. Dad’s final ride into the Brickyard.
We flew out on the family jet around seven this morning, and arrived at the hotel in Indianapolis with a few hours to settle in beforehand, and now as we proceed on the route, I’m doing my best to ignore my mother. Giving Dad the peace he deserved from us in death is my gift.
We, the family, will ride along the path in a set of black limousines, sporting white crowns on the sides, the symbol of Crown Industries.
Riding through the slow procession, that has been snaking its way around the Indianapolis streets, we enter the tunnel for the infield of the Indianapolis Raceway. I don’t miss the noise of the crowd. We all grew up on this track and others just like it, listening to the roar of the fans.
This, though, is a sight. Nowhere in the world could you find this. It was one thing to know the venue was sold out and that the roadways were packed to the hilt with every type of person imaginable, but to see the paddocks with flags flying low, purposely jammed up with Indy cars, Le Mans and NASCAR racers, the feeling is immeasurable. This is a receiving line unlike any other.
Each of these racers are the same. Sure, they may ride or drive different beasts, but oil permeates their skin. Octane enriches their pounding hearts, as the steel steeds roam the hallowed paved roadway, all chomping at the bit to proceed. Speed pushed them all forward like a snapped rubber band, but passion is what engages their souls. Every one of them are different, but all are of the same mind. Dad died doing what he loved.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish to go down in flames, but I do wish to be a part of what he embodied. I told Mother that I wanted this just as much as him, which incited a new fight. Doll and Whiskey were able to separate us enough to calm it before things escalated too far, because to me, there was no way we weren’t going to do this. Nothing would stop me from graciously accepting their praises and their love. The unusual and unconventional condolences on behalf of a Dad I loved. All the stories they had about him as the racer, and as their friend, would be something I’d treasure for years to come.
I’d always dreamt of going around the stadium on a two-wheeled devil, banking and cornering while I scraped my knees on the edges of mechanical ghosts. But, today isn’t about me. I may have wanted the applause, and the congratulatory pat on the back from my father to say ‘you made it, Wyatt,’ but that’s a pipe dream of epic proportions.
It’s truly amazing, the care and love being shown here, and I only wish for a fraction of this adoration when I leave this world. My father won’t be here when I wake up from this dream. He’ll never see me do what I do again, and never offer praises to Doll again. That’s my job now. And as I take one last look around before pushing my heart deep inside, drowning the emotions that seep to the surface so I can make it through today in one piece, I feel excitement.
“You all know my stance on this,” Mother says tightly. She wants us to stay in the car, ignoring the fans until it was absolutely necessary, forgetting that this is even happening. But we won’t. We can’t.
My brother, Whiskey, known for speaking his mind, crassly pipes up. “No need to be nice, Mother. We all know your stance. We know you don’t wish to be a part of this.”
Truer words have never been spoken. Glancing at Doll, I notice she’s trying to ignore the whole interaction. She has zero choice in any of this. Age once more dictates her involvement, and after the stunt of coming to get me in India, Mother is being horrible to her. She only has a few more months before she can decide her own fate, making her own way in the world of Crown racing. It will be her choice.
“If you want, stroll out looking heartfelt and warmed-over by their shows of affection. Accept the fan’s gratitude, Mother, or do nothing. You owe them nothing, and you have no words of wisdom from father to impart. I, myself, will graciously accept the love from the fans, racers, and team members that he’s lived with for years as his other family. Embrace it or hide from it, it’s your choice.” Popping the door, stepping out of the stationary car, my sister and brother join me. We won’t go through this without being a part of it.
Immediately to my left is a group of racers I know well. The one closest is Carior, the French Porsche driver, and beside him is Taratallo in his Chevrolet. Directly across is Magnota. His face shows weariness, stress, and loss. Walking up slowly with purpose, the group of normally loud racers grows still.
“Hey, Carlos. How you doing today?”
Staring at the ground, clearly afraid, he lets out a light breath. “I’m good, kid. How you doin’? You all right with me on the track during this? ’Cause I can step back, but I—”
“Yeah. You two were close. He’d want you here.” Tapping him on the shoulder, I confirm, “I want you here.”
He relaxes a bit. “Thanks, kid. I’m glad.”
“There’s a lot of rides here. Mind if I ride with you?”
Adjusting his stance, seeming a little prouder, he smiles. “I’d be honored.”
I turn to see my brother and sister, waiting just behind me. “You good to meet me at the front when Mom comes around?” I need to be here. Carlos needs me to be here, accepting his apology.
“Doll’s riding with Dad’s carriage, and I’m gonna walk up to the finish.”
“Whiskey, come on. Dad would—”
“Understand my need to avoid her for as long as I can. I’ll be up there, kid. When it’s time, I’ll be there. Enjoy your ride.” Whiskey’s gravelly voice brokers no room for argument. He’s been on his own, away from her prying and involvement for over ten years now. Being in her presence this week, living in the house, enduring her quirks again must have been stressful without us as a buffer. But, it’s only been one week. After today, he’s on a flight to New Zealand for powder and training.
After I’m left alone, I look around at the group I’m in. Each approach me, or Doll, with unusual and unconventional condolences on behalf of Dad.
Turning back to Carlos and his ride, I take it all in, absorbing the reality of it. His Indy car, of course, can’t lap the track with a passenger, so after a bit of persuasion, and a request made to the officiates, we were offered the use of another set of wheels.
As the various men and women prepare for the run around the track, I settle into the idea that this is the first and only time I would be going around this track in a car. It’s staggering to have it all come soaking into my bones at the same moment, and yes, Mother may not have wanted to be an integral part of this event, but I was chomping at the bit to give Dad his due. That final moment in the sun, as it were, before the stone is placed over his feathered ashes.
The day is spectacular, the weather is perfect, and the venue is superb. The sounds of the milling crowd are still sensational, but now that they know the procession will form up on the track with cars and drivers alike, they’ve quieted considerably.
“Ready?” Carlos asks, more frightened of my reply than that of the consenting audience.
I nod. “Yep.”
Without pomp and circumstance, the Pacemaster official gives the cue to all those in attendance.
“Gentlemen, start your engines!”