“Oh Sir Frank doesn’t like him. He is very adept at telling if people are genuine or not.” Gordon answers. I beam with joy, as I think that he must feel that way about me! And I cannot believe that they are talking about racing related stuff with me here, I feel very privileged. Then there is a break in their conversation, as we all take a sip of beer. Then the older man asks me “How long have you known Sir Frank?”
“Well, for about a year I guess.” Then follow it up with a “But we don’t hang out or anything.”
“We all met at a gas station in Canada last year.” Gordon offers, as I instantaneously make the connection with his smile. He is the guy who took the photo of Frank and me!
“That`s a great story!!” the old guy exclaims.
“I know, I know!” I respond. “But it`s just you, me, and Sir Frank that thinks so. I’ve mailed it off to publishing houses, newspapers, but nobody seems to care.”
“Well I’ve got to hear about this, could you give me your address?” He asks in the most sincerest manner. I’m trying to put a make on this guy, but I don’t have a clue who he is or what he does.
“I’ve known Frank for thirty years.” He beams in his American accent.
OH boy! I think to myself, I hope I get to hear some stories, this guy must have loads of them!
“Sir Frank will really like that blue in your hair.” The old guy says, pointing at the new streaks in my hair.
“Man, I’m glad. I wanted to show some support for my team, now that I finally have one to cheer for. I was hoping not to come off as too much of a nut-case. I asked the salon-girl for navy blue, but it turned out sort of Renault-ish.” They both give a hearty chuckle at that, and then Gordon goes upstairs to get my Pass. I write down my address for the guy, but he never wrote me back. He either misplaced it, or my bad breath permeates even the largest of rooms.
Back on the couch Gordon gives me the Pass. Its a beautiful shiny red and white color, with a brand new cord. I put it around my neck as Gordon tells me not to lose it, because it is the last one they have. So I tucked it inside my shirt.
We finish our beers and I ask the old guy if he is staying for the race. “Oh no, I’ve got to get back home to California. My plane leaves tomorrow morning.” We say our goodbyes, and I go gently out into the good Indianapolis night.
I decide not to go to the Noodle, but head back to my tent to get a good night’s sleep and be ready for the next day. I get lost on the freeway for three hours, going around and around, but it’s okay because my mind is going a million miles an hour, and I have great tunes, ‘Riding with the Driver’, Motörhead.
Back at my tent I cannot sleep. I train my camcorder at the full moon but it won’t focus. I hold the Pass in front of my Toyota Echos’ headlights, and video tape it. Suddenly, a moment of supreme lucidity passes upon me. I am not normally a very extrovertly-social person, but I instantly become aware of the fact that I am in a huge campground, surrounded by F1 fans, with this incredible story. I decide to grab four beers out of the cooler, and go and meet as many people before it gets too late. With the Pass tucked inside my shirt for no one else to know, I leave my tent higher than a kite.
