Boo-Boo Breff & The 500

My Memorial Day weekend plans were a little fuzzy at the onset. A guy without a plan doesn’t normally take home any cake. By Sunday night I'd seen a Rampage and been to the Indy 500. A large number of Budweiser Heavies were also consumed.

Another ringing endorsement for last minute road trips.

I decided to mosey to Indianapolis on Saturday afternoon. My good friends Matt and Dan Burns were back in town for their sister’s engagement party. When an extra ticket to the race turned up Sunday morning, my stay turned into a weekend affair.

The engagement party was a great way to kick-off the long weekend. When two energetic, genuine people are getting married, everyone benefits through association. You can’t help but enjoy their positive energy. Such was the case Saturday night.

Plus, upbeat parties can effortlessly segue in virtually any direction as they wind down. Our directive was a pay-per-view event: the latest Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC).

For anyone who hasn’t seen UFC, think of it as WWF meets Roman Gladiator. It’s a no holds barred match which combines boxing, kick-boxing, and body slams (sans gloves or protective gear) between two contestants. A fighter wins when the other is pinned down, on the verge of unconsciousness, or can’t defend himself.

It’s as primal a legal exhibition as you will ever see.

The main bout on Saturday featured UFC’s most emblematic star, Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell versus Quenton “Rampage” Jackson. Liddell’s nickname might conjure memories of naval aviators, but one look at his buzzed mohawk and you'd now the Octagon (the UFC’s fighting ring), not an aircraft carrier, is his rightful home.

The actual fight lasted less than two minutes. Jackson landed a hard right hook, and for the first time in nearly four years, Liddell stumbled to the mat. The MGM Grand came to its feet (notable attendees included Andre Agassi, Steffi Graf, and Mandy Moore) as Rampage pounced on the fallen Liddell, repeatedly landing shots to the head. By the time Liddell snapped to, the fight was over.

It was a short-lived affair. Fortunately, the UFC is only partially about the Octagon. It’s as much spectacle as sport; the personalities make the stage. And in that department there's no equal to Quinton “Rampage” Jackson. He is a category unto himself, emitting anticipation.

Note a few of Jackson’s previous Q & As with the media:

Interviewer: What do you see as the future outcome of this fight?
Jackson: Man I ain't got no crystal ball, I just got two balls, know what I'm sayin?

Interviewer: Where do you see yourself in 2 years?
Jackson: Right now I’m 23, so in 2 years I see myself at 25.

Quinton Jackson: man, myth, and microphone magnet. Better still, Rampage saved his best one-liner for the UFC’s brightest lights, uttering these words after beating Liddell on Saturday: “for all the people that boo me....add another boo to that....that's what your breff smell like: boo-boo.”

Boo-boo breff: redonkulously fantastical.

I have no idea how long it took Jackson to think that one up. It's already paying dividends: our motley crew admiringly recycled the quote a hundred times throughout the weekend. If the UFC is smart, boo-boo bumper stickers will be available online any day.

After dreaming about future Rampage press conferences, I woke up to rainy skies on Sunday. Fortunately, by mid-morning there was hope for racing at the Speedway.

Some racing enthusiasts will argue the Indy 500 has lots its luster since IRL and CART split just over a decade ago. Maybe it has, and I just don’t know any better, but I don’t see it. The 500 isn’t Tony George or the IRL; it’s an American ideal and a tradition that supersedes any one individual or racing team.

In a nation of iconic sporting events, the Indy 500 might be the most representatively American. The 500 draws in every income bracket and demographic. It also attracts veteran race fans & one-and-done visitors who want to see the pageantry. It's not a coincidence they call it the greatest spectacle in racing.

The 500 is part of our national DNA.

Plus, Indianapolis is one of those authentic “what you see is what you get” Midwestern cities. It’s not trying to be a museum town or a nature preserve. It simply oozes Middle America. Billboards adorn local personalities and the Holiday Inn comes with an overseas children's fun park (Caribbean Cove). Indy is rural, urban, and entirely Midwest. It’s also the perfect locale to host a 500-mile tour de speed.

Highlight reels from the 500 always focus on wrecks and bottles of milk, but the 500 has always been about speed. The engineers set out to build durable, safe race cars that can handle every turn and track angle, but above all else, they build cars capable of going as fast as humanly possible. It’s a super-sized American challenge.

Nowadays, it takes the drivers a meager forty-one seconds to cover the two-and-a-half mile oval (approx. 225 mph). As a spectator, your neck hurts by lap 50 if you choose to follow the drivers through the turns. You either focus your line of sight on a specific section of track or start popping Advil.

Our day at the Speedway was cut short. The clouds opened up around lap 100 and dampened the festivities (which by that juncture we’d taken to the infield for sight seeing). A four-hour break in the action ensued. By the time they went racing again, our clan was back at the casa drinking Bud Heavies & lighting the grill.

When all was said and done, Dario Franchitti’s timing got him to victory lane. He guessed right on fuel mileage and a second downpour. His face will now adorn the famous Borg-Warner trophy alongside racing legends like A.J. Foyt, Al Unser, and Rick Mears: all four-time champions.

In truth, I didn’t mind missing the checkered flag. From my vantage point the winner of The 500 is of secondary importance. The focal point is the race itself.

The 500 puts America on display and showcases our over-performing, entrepreneurial engine. Every time the aerodynamic, microscopically chiseled Indy cars reach speeds of 220+ mph, it’s a memorial to the American way.

How appropriate that racing's greatest spectacle is hosted in Speedway, Indiana: a town that wears its pride 365 days a year.

If you’ve never spent a Memorial Day weekend in Speedway, you should circle the ‘08 calendar now. Rent an RV with friends, resurrect collegiate t-shirts with juvenile slogans, stock up on Budweiser, and take your place alongside America.

When the Hulman family greets you and 300,000 of your closest friends with “Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines,” you won’t be disappointed you made the trek.