Saint Petersburg, Florida
April 3, 2005
Honda St. Petersburg Grand Prix
What follows are the observations and half-hearted thoughts of a total racing neophyte, an automotive bum who wouldn’t know a spark plug from a flux capacitor.
Our hero is PJ Chesson, the 26-year-old racing driver from gentrifying horse country NJ. This is his second year competing in the Menards Infiniti PRO series, which is like the minor league of IndyCar. He racked up 3 straight wins and multiple top 5 finishes in his first year of pavement racing. PJ is driving for a new team this year and things are tense, he crashed during qualifying in the first two races this season. (The drivers themselves are responsible for damages if they occur outside of the race itself). The team is a real step down from their rookie season and the car reflects that. His girlfriend is Echo Johnson, she is slightly older than PJ (although I lack the conviction to ask how much) she is a former Playboy model from Austin, Texas.
PJ didn’t seem affected by the same thoughts I was having when I entered the ‘hot well’. My first thought when approaching these tiny fighter planes, with an extra wheel, was something like “you’d have to be a jockey to fit into one of these little sons of bitches.” … The national anthem is over, it worked. finished with a clever butcher for some American Idol stunt. The honorary holder is Andrew Firestone, I’m sorry to report that it looks like the Queer Eye Guys have gotten another one. The engines roar and Echo and I are told to pull off the track, an order we ignore only because it was said with little authority… Lap two warm up is over and the green flag is raised, supposedly. , although who the hell knows, it’s too strong and the Florida sun is too bright to notice the little things. I will tell you, dear reader, with complete honesty and full disclosure that I am fully recovered from the debauchery of a Friday night in New York, although I had the flight to think about it.
As PJ predicted there was a first lap disaster, apparently the first turn is at the end of the straight and quite dangerous when the field is all bunched up. A young Brazilian named Jamie Camara was eliminated 3 seconds into this race, although I couldn’t see much from here in the pit lane. We can’t feel bad for him since he’s apparently the son of Brazilian Ted Turner, but certainly a wonderful Portuguese flair that Ted’s mustache could never match. But you can hear the slippery little missiles zipping past you at over 150 mph on the straightaway, you can feel the power of the engines, you can smell the exhaust of rocket fuel.
Another spin at the 21 lap mark gives us a chance to assess PJ’s race. He’s 5mph off the pace of the leaders, it looks like his own because he not only looks a little inferior, with his faded blue and white paint, but he runs that way too. The good news comes in the form of a gangly and somewhat slippery Aussie, no doubt the descendant of a long line of pocket pickers, assures Echo that PJ is getting faster with every lap, 2 seconds quicker before the last. caution flag. The flag gives him, and all the other stragglers, a chance to catch the leaders and condense the race. A much-needed mulligan, costing someone money and a possible trip to the school nurse. I hadn’t given it much thought before, but I guess it’s designed to make the race more exciting, tighter for the fans, since there’s no speed limit for anyone as long as you don’t pass the guy in front of you.
Eventually, he is able to catch up with the leader who is being held back by an extremely ugly pace car (actually a truck). A push for the little one. A refuge for democracy in an America where evil empires and dynasties reign.
Anyway, I forgot to inform you that the slippery looking ‘guy’ also told Echo that PJ was saying his brakes were coming loose, even to me this didn’t sound promising. Apparently all the drivers reported the same thing, they’re not used to heavy braking on an oval track, which most of these guys have worked on. PJ doesn’t strike me as someone who’s ever considered using her breaks for any reason.
Echo seems to be quite the distraction for the SPFR firefighter next to us, standing behind an open 40-gallon water barrel. The good that he will do is totally suspect. 10 laps to go, pray there are no fires near me needing this brave lecher’s attention… The sparse crowd has risen to a round of applause, I can tell by the subdued nature of the joy that it isn’t a fiery clash that these vultures are applauding, but a slick pass somewhere out there. Marco Andretti is beating other riders with names like Unser and Drake, most with JR, III or IV. PJ has moved up to 7th place with another driver hanging around.
I want to get a bottle of water from the cooler next to me, but I dare not offend the natives, with their colorful clothing and funny hats. Clearly, I am an outsider invading a world of inmates. Luckily I know one of the bosses and I’m with his beautiful concubine.
5 lapses to go, surely only a disastrous miracle will propel our man to victory lane, or close to it. But no one was expecting a win except me, who knows less than any of the morbidly obese kids who start filling the stands behind me in anticipation of the big car races later today. The drivers and their girlfriends, however, are descended from a different lineage than their fans. The brides are easily identifiable among all the other women on the runway by their bleached and surgically enhanced good looks. Is it my imagination or are they all taller than your men? More research is needed, I’ll have to poll you on this at the next race and get back to you… Race car drivers may be the only short men with fast cars able to successfully make up for their lack of stature .
It looks like Marco Andretti, the 18-year-old phenom, will hit victory lane. Another victory for heritage, empires and dynasties everywhere, but a well deserved victory for the boy. The media swarms over the champion, many Japanese media come running down the pit lane, with his wonderful straight black hair. But wait, here come the blondes, very impressive. Clearly, he should have been behind a wheel, not a golf ball, from a very young age.
They help PJ out of his car and he looks very pleased. He gets a big hug and kiss from Echo and congratulations from several guys who look like officers. We are standing watching the circus unfolding around the winner’s car. I feel like he’s happy with finishing 7th and I ask him, “I finished the damn race in 2005, baby”, he clearly took a weight off his shoulders… PJ talks to some of the other riders and his team for a while . We all jump on the PJ scooter, I echo next, as I realize this is the closest I’ll ever get to a playmate.
As I stand under the car lift platform, attached to the back of the custom 18-wheeler, trying to find some relief from the relentless Florida sun, I hear a soft moan. The sun/shadow line moves slowly down the track, as I come to the conclusion that the mischievous natives are letting me know my place in the strict social hierarchy of their highly evolved culture. I try to appear cool and collected, calm in the face of his passive aggressive behavior. Just as I avoid being slowly crushed by the powerful hydrolic monster, I can hear some deep growling.
Maybe now that I’m sitting here at the Tampa airport, with a family from one of the outer boroughs, all of us on our way back to JFK and God only knows where from there, verbally abusing two generations of the family, one in a wheelchair and one in a baby carriage, and my head is totally free of canopy cobwebs. I can tell the pit crew didn’t see me standing under the car lift and they weren’t there to spill some blood, what a warm cloudless Sunday afternoon in St. Petes, but if I don’t believe it, neither should you.
JFK arrived
April 4, 2005
These drivers, and more PCs than any I’ve met thus far, are afflicted with an atavistic need to compete for resources, to participate in the hunt, with death not in the shadows but right in front of them, all around them. This Infinity Pro series looks even more dangerous than its older IndyCar brothers, which race on the same circuits, only a few seconds faster per 1.8-mile lap. Why is it, or does it seem, more dangerous if the cars are smaller and a bit slower? The danger lies with the drivers themselves, as I look up from my rough writing to realize that my Arabic friend, whose name I would no doubt need George Tenet to pronounce for me, is hurtling us ever closer to safe fear. and possible destruction. him while he plays with his cell phone in one hand and touches his nostrils with the other. I have the distinct feeling that we are walking a tightrope at this point and his Israeli girlfriend is yelling at us not to look at her… The point I so callously deviated from was that these drivers are more dangerous because they are less experienced and are driving to save their lives (no endorsements here in the minors). However, I will say that their girlfriends appear to be almost as attractive as those of the IndyCar drivers, with Ashley Judd being a more polished exception.
This car ride home is getting really hairy right now. We barely made it across the Williamsburg Bridge with our lives and now my driver is getting nervous, he can smell the finish line, victory lane is within his reach and no one will stop him. There may not be a horde of media and groupies, and the purse is barely enough to cover gas, but these guys are competing for reasons neither you nor I can begin to understand.