This is a story I posted on forums.autosport.com back in June of 2004 (the forum was managed by AtlasF1 at the time, later purchased by Autosport).  I have cleaned up some typo’s here, but otherwise it remains the same.

You can see the original post and feedback from readers, if you’re interested.

I attended the 2004 US Formula One Grand Prix alone this year. I don’t mind traveling alone but I do miss having someone to talk to, especially a person who shares a passion for racing.

This year, I was lucky to be sitting in the stands with a gentleman named Ron Alexander, who has lived a few miles away from the fabled Indianapolis Motor Speedway since the late ’50s.  This was Ron’s first trip to a Formula One event. Except for the dismal EV response to Ralf Schumacher’s high-speed rendezvous with the wall on the main straight, Ron liked what he saw.

Ron had some great stories to tell about the 500, the Brickyard 400, and other events that he has attended around the country. I’m always fascinated by the people who can take you back forty or fifty years. I vaguely remembered watching races on television in the 60’s. Even in the 70’s racing was a crazy business. Drivers got killed with alarming regularity. Ron brought some of those stories to life.

“My wife hates racin’,” he told me.

“She does? Does she mind you coming to the races?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, she hates that too.  I always drink a few beers and she don’t like that.”

Ron is retired from the Allison Transmission plant just south of the track. We talked about the big Allison V-1710 engines that were used in so many early fighter aircraft during World War II. My father was stationed in London during World War II with the 351st Fighter Squadron so I grew up sharing his interest in “war birds”. I could tell Ron was proud of the company he worked for and I enjoyed asking him questions. We talked about racing, airplanes, retirement, pensions, politics, you name it.

Ron and I sat in the stands long after the races ended that day. I could have talked forever. I lost my dad to cancer in 2000, and I miss him. But sometimes it seems like he turns up in the form of guys like Ron. Affable, small-town guys with a touch of southern “twang” in their voices (Pop was born in Alabama but moved to Wisconsin as a boy). They seem only too happy to just sit and shoot the breeze. I find myself very comfortable with guys like Ron and I feel very respectful toward them.

We were soon asked to clear out. I told Ron that my parking pass had flown out the window during a spirited drive on the freeway after qualifying the day before, and that I was forced to park a half-mile from the track. I was proud that I had found a spot for free that close.

“Did you park down by a big brick wall to the south?”

I said yes, it was a great big place that spanned the road – some kind of plant.

“That’s the Allison plant! That’s where I worked. I parked down there, too. Some cop tried to get me to turn around but I showed him my building pass and he let me in. I’ve lived here too long, hell if I’m paying to park.”

As we walked to toward the gate, Ron went to duck into the bathroom. I reached out to shake his hand and told him how much I appreciated talking with him. I figured he probably wanted to be going home.

His mouth dropped open and he reluctantly shook my hand. “Well, I thought maybe I could show you around Gasoline Alley. You’re parked near me. I mean, it ain’t what it used to be but I thought you might like to see it. Some of the greatest names in racing got their start over there.”

I felt foolish for trying to break away. What’s the hurry? I was none too eager to embark on the 8 hour journey back to Maryland.

“That sounds great, Ron. I’ll wait here for you.”

We walked thru the main gate lot in the hot sun and Ron talked about the businesses that had come and gone on the south side of the track. When we got to Ron’s truck, he said, “Just hop in, I’ll drive you to your car and you can follow me. We’ll drive to Gasoline Alley and then I can lead you out to the freeway.”

The state police had blocked the road where my car was parked, but the crowds were long gone. Ron slowly cut around the road block — keeping an eye on the cop who was keeping an eye on him — and proceeded to my car. “It’s just another block to Gasoline Alley,” he said. Gee, I didn’t know I was parked anywhere near such a place. I thought Gasoline Alley was simply the name of the passageway between the pits and the garages at the track.

After finding our way around another road block, Ron escorted me slowly up the quiet wooded street. The street sign said Gasoline Alley, sure enough. All the shops are still there, high performance shops, parts, supplies. Most of the big names — names that a 41-year-old like me would recognize — are gone, but I still felt like I was driving through history. We drove up the street and then Ron looped around and turned into a parking lot. I pulled up next to him.

Ron apologized and said things had changed a lot. But you could still feel his enthusiasm. He said that the shop at the end of the street, called Beast Enterprises, is named for former engine builder and racer Bob East. “Bettenhausen had a shop over there,” Ron said. The list went on. “Lot of great names got started here. It’s close to the track, you know, and it’s just where everyone came – it was the center of the racing world.”

The street was silent. It was Sunday and nobody was around.  Just a gentle breeze on a warm race day afternoon. No tourists, no hot dog stands, no cameras. Just me and Ron.

And a street full of racing dreams.

He wrote on the back of a business card. “This is a card from my son’s car repair business but I’ll write my address and phone number on the back. You gonna be here next year? I can tell you some places to stay that are a lot closer to the track. Or if you need anything else, just gimme a call.”

I thanked Ron, told him I’d be back and that I’d give him a call. He gave me directions to the freeway but said he’d lead the way. When we were a half block from the ramp, he motioned for me to move to the left lane for the eastbound entrance. He was going west. We waved to one another and went our separate ways.

Thanks, Ron.  Hope to see you next year at Indy.