There’s something almost Willy-Wonka magical about these tickets.

Sunday at the track is the real deal. It’s a friendly sort of tense for riders and fans alike, as the former go about the business of the morning warm up sessions, and the latter nurse their hangovers and get ready to cheer on their favorite riders. Even the tickets for Sunday are more impressive, larger and in full color.

The traditional Sunday morning brunch.

As soon as we arrived in the morning, I went off to get my standard Sunday morning brunch for the GP, which includes an oil can of Fosters and a giant smoked turkey leg. Then it was up to the stands to watch the morning sessions and eat, enjoying the perfect weather and the gentle breeze passing through our shaded seating.

The seats we get every year are really excellent, allowing you to see a large portion of the track. Indy is not known as a good spectator venue, as its sheer size prevents you from seeing very much. But we can see the whole front straight, all the way through the turn 4 complex, and everything else is shown on a jumbotron directly in front of us.

No words can adequately describe the sensations of being at a GP race. The sound of the bikes is unlike anything you’ll hear anywhere else, and they are such fire-breathing monsters that you can feel the roar and smell the race-gas exhaust and carbon brakes all the way in the stands. For motorcycle roadracing fans, the first time you attend a GP is an almost spiritual experience.

I’ve been fortunate to attend GPs at Indianapolis and Laguna Seca, and each venue brings its own flavor to the event. I camped on the hills at Laguna, feeling very much like I was in the GP, rather than at it. The track is entirely too small for a MotoGP bike, but it is so well laid out, and so legendary, that they race there anyway. Indianapolis, by contrast, is by all accounts a mediocre track, being laid out in the infield of an oval (well, rounded rectangle, but you get the idea). But the draw of Indy itself, of the relatively ancient and storied track, and the huge promotional machine that is IMS, make the event worth attending. And while there’s no denying the romance of the sound of race engines echoing through the California hills at Laguna, sitting in the stands at Indy while the same sound reverberates all around you isn’t to be missed.

Having attended several weekends already, we have our routine pretty well established. By Sunday morning, we’ve seen all the displays and booths we wanted to see, bought all the t-shirts we wanted to buy, and all that’s left is meeting up with old friends, and watching the races. We all got our fill of overpriced beer and concession food, and relaxed in the shade through the afternoon as each class, in turn, took to the track and raced their hearts out, to the delight of eighty thousand onlookers.

The view from our seats. If I’d have panned right, you can see all the way through turn 4!

Haunting me through the weekend this year, though, was a feeling that it was somehow different. Going to the GP, for me, felt very much like reuniting with an old friend who was once very close, but has since drifted. I still enjoyed myself immensely all weekend, and the races were as good as the company, but it was missing that edge of excitement that it used to hold.

Part of the reason for that was apparent. Usually I have my race bike along with me for the weekend, and we go out to Putnam Park on Monday for a track day, trying to emulate the superhuman feats of riding skill we watched all weekend. A shift in financial priorities this year has kept my race bike parked, though, so the weekend lacked its usual climax.

But it was more than that. Attending the GP forced me to come face to face with a feeling I’ve had for a couple years now, as my interests have shifted somewhat away from motorcycle roadracing, and on to other things. Those of you who have known me for the last decade will know that I was utterly consumed by roadracing for most of it, watching every race of every series I could get my hands on, getting to know the riders and teams, and learning everything there was to know about the sport. I was fortunate to even get to meet and hang out with several riders in the AMA series, get paddock passes at a few races, and conduct interviews here and there.

Then it faded a little, for me. Part of it was due to a series of circumstances that curbed my participation in the sport itself. I spent all of 2011 off the bike because I was travelling, and only got out a few times last year. The chances of getting it out this year are dim as well, as I mentioned.

Perhaps at the heart of it is that I feel like I learned everything I wanted to know. I knew the bikes, the riders, the teams, the technology, and the politics. I spent five years feverishly studying every magazine, race video and website I could find. I learned what made racing tick, and sometimes that was not a good thing. I found some of the politics and behind the scenes chicanery to be off-putting, particularly when it concerned talented riders getting sub-par equipment, or worse, no ride at all.

And I can’t discount the effect of tragedy. Watching gifted young riders like Craig Jones, Shoya Tomizawa, Pete Lenz, and Marco Simoncelli get killed in this sport that I loved hurt me deeply. These riders were brothers to me in a strange way, and to have such promising careers, such outstanding people extinguished well before their time damaged the relationship I had with the sport as a whole.

So some of the shine is gone, for me. I have to confess that between work and my training regimen (and this little project), I haven’t had time to sit down and watch a race, other than the Indy GP, all year. That may chance next season, if I can get the bike out again, but I don’t think it’ll ever be quite the same. And while the passing of a personal era comes with a small amount of sadness, with everything that lies ahead, I can’t be disappointed.

Any day you get to hang out with a pretty lady like this is a good day.

A reliably good whiskey.

Mid August brings warm weather, hazy skies, and the MotoGP circus to Indianapolis. This year was the sixth running of the Red Bull Indianapolis Grand Prix, and also the sixth running of the annual MotoGP party at the home of our dear friends, Chuck and Sarah. This year marked our fourth attendance, having missed the inaugural event and one in 2011, both due to my work obligations.

The crowd at the party is a little different every year, both in size and composition. What began as a get-together for a motorcycle forum has taken on a life of its own in the years since, even as the forum has subsided. I’ve met people at this party that I’ve known for years online, which is always pleasantly surprising. Most of the neighbors turn out as well, and while the crowd may change, the vibe of the party is the same: very chill, very relaxed, and just the right amount of rowdy. (The cops have shown up a couple times, but that’s only because the hosts are friends with a cop…)

Another constant is the almost shocking amount of food and drink that shows up. There have been deep fried turkeys, grilled chicken wings, and this year a catered spread from Qdoba. The neighbors all throw in sides, and Chuck orders a keg, and we all set to work right around sundown, putting as much of it down as we possibly can.

This year, when I went to pick up the keg with Chuck, I couldn’t resist a bottle of Tully, which is Katie’s favorite whiskey, and one of mine. It’s nothing terribly special, as whiskeys go, but it’s reliably good, and a pretty smooth shot, if you’re so inclined.

We were so inclined.

Time to start the party!

Friday of GP weekend is always a little frenetic. We got into town on Thursday night, as is our custom. And late, which is also our custom. We started staying with Chuck and Sarah years back, when they’d host us the night before a track day at Putnam Park. From the very first time we stayed with them, we’ve always managed to arrive 3 hours after we had planned. One year for the GP, we arrived uncharacteristically early, only to figure out that we had left our tickets at home, so we had to double back.

So we got in late on Thursday, which meant we got up later than normal on Friday, which meant we barely made it to the track.  Friday at the track is actually a good bit of fun, because the crowds are down and you can get to see whatever vendors and displays you want without a lot of fuss. But our sense of urgency was lacking this year, so we rolled into the track, walked around for a few hours, and then left to go get ready for the party. After a frantic few hours of setting up tables, tents, chairs, plates of food and the rest, the guests started trickling in. We lined up some shot glasses to kick things off, then I tapped the keg, and then the party fairly well ran itself.

There was a lot of beer pong (at which I took turns being amazing and terrible), a few more rounds of shots, a few games of flip cup, and not a few plates of delicious food. At one point, Chuck sank a no-look shot at beer pong that nearly brought the house down. It kept going well into the wee hours of the night, when I finally settled down in front of the little fire pit, soaking up the heat and the experience that is the start of a GP weekend.

Winding down next to a perfect little fire.