Kody Swanson (left) and Tyler Roahrig battle it out at Indianapolis Raceway Park. (David Nearpass photo)
INDIANAPOLIS — Maybe an hour after the last checkered flag of the night, less than 10 minutes after exiting the parking lot at Lucas Oil Raceway Park, I dropped the apartment keys on a rack just inside the door and hung up my jacket.
I sat on the sofa and replayed the evening in my head: Tanner Swanson won the USAC Silver Crown 100 while older brother Kody was crowned champion for the seventh time; Tyler Roahrig leads the 500 Sprint Car Tour and Kody Swanson takes that championship too; Bobby Santos III leads the National Pavement Midget Championship, clinching the 2022 AJ Foyt Trophy in the process for most points earned in all open wheel divisions at the track.
fair audience. Mild temperatures. good race
And that was it. Another season over.
I felt a wave of unrest. It wasn’t a silly longing for another race; you reach a point in life where you face the approaching winter with simple acceptance, an alien conception, when you’re 19 or 25 or 32. No, it was a nagging feeling that I should drive through the night on some freeway or check into an airport hotel to prepare for a morning flight back to where I live.
It had been more than 45 years since I had a racing season end so close to home.
This life is one of spring hellos and autumn goodbyes. Greetings in the sunshine. If we’re lucky enough to walk around, it’s going to be in Daytona or in some bullring in Arizona or California. For most Workingman racers and fans, it will have to wait until April or May when the local track opens.
When we say goodbye, we are less picky.
It’s a duty to see things through to the end, whatever Mother Nature throws up. When I lived in New England, the last race on the calendar was either the multi-division World Series at Thompson Speedway in Connecticut or the Thanksgiving weekend Turkey Derby for tarmac modifications at Wall Stadium on the Jersey Shore.
I’ve been to both events when you hardly needed a sweatshirt, but those days were rare. People were more often happy when the thermometer showed a little over 50 degrees.
I loved going to Virginia for the Cardinal 500 at Martinsville Speedway, which brought together the best NASCAR short trackers from the East in late October. The mods ran 250 laps and then the late Sportsman cars did the same. Sunday night they said goodbye to friends you may not see again until the following March, when Martinsville brought us all back for another doubleheader.
After moving to Indianapolis 25 years ago, I realized something odd: I now lived in a state with dozens of racetracks, yet every fall meant a big trip.
On the hunt for open-wheel heroes in California, I’ve seen the mix of Midwestern and West Coast sprint car talent that make up the Oval Nationals at Perris Auto Speedway, and I’ve had many Thanksgiving dinners on paper plates in the stalls at the Ate Irwindale Speedway and fueled up before the Turkey Night Grand Prix.
I’ve boarded many flights to South Florida for the NASCAR finals at Homestead-Miami Speedway, which for my money was both the hottest track in the Cup Series and the absolute best spot for the championship round.
Speaking of Florida, I grew up reading about the Pensacola Late Model Jamboree called the Snowball Derby and was dying to see it. As it turned out, I saw several. Some of those Snowball weekends were cold enough to live up to the name; others had what old announcers called “Chamber of Commerce weather,” warm and inviting.
If you’re looking for a highly diverse gathering of short track stars, it’s hard to beat the World of Outlaws World Finals at the Charlotte Motor Speedway Dirt Track every November. North Carolina is an unusual place to see winged Sprint cars and big-block DIRT mods, but there they are, along with every late model shoe worth mentioning, and always playing to huge crowds. I have witnessed this action many times and I hope to do it again.
So you see why ending 2022 so close to home felt weird. Forever, when the last race engine died and the teams began loading their rigs, I knew exactly what was coming next: a big coffee, a freeway slip and a night drive, or a last look at the next morning’s airline schedule and in the meantime hopefully a comfortable bed.
Now, less than five miles and four turns from Raceway Park, I was on my doorstep.
At least there were a few “safe travel” handshakes to make things feel familiar. I pictured three proud parents smiling all the way home: Ellen and Bob Santos Jr., mother and father of Bobby III, would be heading back to eastern Massachusetts, and Mike Swanson, once a standout driver of supermodifieds at the West Coast and father of Kody and Tanner said he would get up at 6 a.m. and fly to Fresno.
As every year, the tribe scattered, riding on the road or in the wind. It just felt weird not driving it.
Comments are closed.