Race Day Dispatch: 69 Years of Speed, Snacks, and Side-Eye
Well folks, it’s Race Day Sunday and YES, this is my 69th Indy 500 — and YES, I will be saying that fact all day long until someone hands me a plaque or at least a deviled egg with a sparkler in it. You only live once, and sometimes, you do it 69 times around the track. (First time when I was 2 1/2)
Today I’ll be posted up in Turn 4, the only place where a human can properly judge both racing lines and tequila pairings. I’ve got my cooler packed with deviled eggs (classic), tequila (doubles as sunscreen), and yes, because I’m classy like that — a touch of caviar. If that offends you, go cry about it into your $18 track beer and processed cheese nachos. Some of us comfort-eat with intention.
Because after all the trauma and drama of living under our “dear leader” — who thinks empathy is weakness and higher education is a liberal virus — I deserve a little indulgence. So caviar goes on the eggs, and nobody better say a damn thing unless you’re here to offer me a lime wedge and say “thank you for your service to sanity.”
Now let’s talk about the race.
First of all, nothing — and I mean nothing — screams America like burning fossil fuels in a circle while 350,000 people eat pork tenderloins the size of hubcaps and greasy hotdogs. I say that lovingly. This is my kind of pageantry. Loud, fast, a little dangerous, and blessedly free of campaign speeches.
In the back row, we’ve got the two penalized Penske drivers—a.k.a. Team “We Thought the Rules Didn’t Apply.” And while I appreciate the tradition of rooting for a comeback story, I’m saving my emotional energy for something more inspiring. Like one of the three international drivers up front, whose leaders names Trump probably can’t properly pronounce or remember and whose countries he’d ban in a heartbeat if they crossed him. (Israel, Japan, Mexico)
Yes, I’m rooting for them. All of them. Because in today’s America, international often means intelligent, capable, respectful of law and science, and let’s be honest, we may need one of them to grant us political asylum by next spring if the courts keep rubber-stamping this regime’s nonsense.
Speaking of nonsense, let’s pause for a moment to acknowledge the latest hate-spew from Mount Trump: a new push to ban international students from American universities. Because what this country really needs is fewer smart people with global perspective and more angry dudes in golf carts yelling about gas stoves and gender.
Apparently, educating smart kids from abroad is now seen as a national security risk. Unlike, say, insider stock trading from congressional offices or encouraging a coup. No, what’s really dangerous is a PhD candidate from Sweden studying climate policy at Harvard. Run for the hills!
Anyway, that little tantrum from the Oval Office helped me decide who I’m cheering for today. It’s personal now. These drivers represent a global standard of excellence, and I’m here for it — in my sun hat, with my deviled egg, giving the side-eye to everyone wearing a “Trump 2024: Make Gas $9 Again” t-shirt.
Today is about escape. About joy. About watching something that takes precision, planning, risk, and sheer nerve — all qualities that have been tragically missing from government service lately.
So crank the engines. Bring the noise. Pass the hot sauce. And let me bask in this one perfect, ridiculous American tradition that still makes my heart race in the good way.
And if my 69th race ends with an international driver sipping milk in Victory Lane? Well, I’ll raise my tequila glass and whisper, “Please adopt us.”
Happy Race Day from Turn 4. Over and out.
Julie Bolejack, MBA
