Instead of conjuring images of Thelma and Louise, we're decked out in sponsor-laden, fire-retardant coveralls, balaclava, gloves and shoes. With a blonde at the wheel and the Midwestern sun overhead, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway never looked better.
Shoehorned in a purpose-built two-seater racing car, sitting behind Indy 500 darling Sarah Fisher, I'm ready to hit the world's most famous racetrack. Who said women can't race?
The youngest female to make Indy history at the age of 19, Fisher, now 28, holds the record for fastest qualification lap by a woman at 229.675 miles per hour – that's 369.626 kilometres per hour – and won the IndyCar Series's most popular driver award three years in a row.
The squealing whine of an Indy racecar pierces my helmet as a Honda-powered Dallara throttles by faster than a speeding bullet. Celebrity passengers Morgan Freeman, Angie Everhart and Hilary Duff have shared the thrill of torpedoing around the speedway with Indy Racing Experience, with A-list Indy legends Al Unser Sr., Mario and Michael Andretti and two-time Indy 500 winner Arie Luyendyk at the helm.
When long-time Indy revellers Scott Jasek, Joe Kennedy and Jeff Sinden started the company in 2001, people thought they were crazy. “How do I convince a privately run company like the [Indianapolis Motor Speedway] to put these cars with people inside and offer them high-speed rides?” Jasek asks.
“It's a dangerous experience, but we make it safe.”
The company supplies safety crew members at the track, and outfits riders and drivers in authentic fire suits, fireproof head socks, gloves, shoes and racing helmets. “Perhaps most importantly, we do not leave the pits unless the rider is comfortable,” adds Jeff Smith of Indy Racing Experience.
Comfort is not the word that comes to mind as I cram my frame inside the claustrophobic cockpit of the Italian-made Dallara.
“Make sure your legs are as far down as you can get them,” says a muffled voice from the pit as a member of the crew buckles me into a five-point racing harness.
Panicking, I know there's nowhere to go but full speed ahead. He slams my helmet visor down. Then, with a thumbs up and in a soothing Midwestern lilt, he tells me to “go ahead and have some fun.”
An Indy 500 car accelerates from 0 to 100 mph in less than three seconds. I'm pulling G-forces, my face flattens, cheeks flutter backward, saliva dries, my eyes are stuck wide open – and a drunken giddiness takes over.
Turn one approaches at 175 mph (281.6 km/h). The car remains on the outer lane near the famous wall that has been the site of many spectacular crashes. In a stream of consciousness, I remember my dad, a racing-car nut, with me on his lap, my younger brother at his feet, all of us glued to the old Zenith as we watched the Indy 500, screaming at every turn to the excited staccato commentary by Jim McKay. In 1965, the year Jimmy Clark won the Indy, Dad won a ¼-mile drag race in Deseronto, Ont., in a 1963 Ford Fairlane. I dedicate this three-lap ride of a lifetime to him. Unlike me, a granny driver, he would have opted to race the car himself.
Turns two, three and four fly by, and then it's the final straightaway past the lineup of the next contenders. In my speed-induced hypnotic state, I can't hear anything but the supersonic engine clocking 180 mph (289.7 km/h).
Much has changed in the 100 years since founder Carl Fisher opened the oval in 1909. The 2.5-mile track made from crushed rock and tar was of such poor quality that in the opening season, the final day's 300-mile race had to be cut to 235 miles. The drivers motored in primitive vehicles at speeds averaging 55 mph (88.5 km/h) and wore thick sweaters to shield them from flying stones.
