It had been over 500 days since my last flight, a staggering amount of time inside my house since returning from India in early 2020. We’ve all gone a bit nuts. I am absolutely no exception. My hobbies have evolved from welcomed distractions to obsessive and weird. Currently, I’m going deep on books about fungi. Like real deep.

So you might understand why there was a smidge of trepidation in catapulting back into the throngs of humanity. Allison had also stocked up on COVID tests in anticipation of me bringing the Delta variant back to Alabama. Her goodbye was riddled with all the feels.

My destination was Indiana for two jam-packed days. NASCAR and Indycar were both racing on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway road course, in the type of event that gets me all jacked up. It promised to be a loud, exciting and buffet-filled weekend.

But there would be lots of people - three dimensional ones. Overwhelmingly, my personal interactions as of late have been virtual. We introduce ourselves with well-worn bios, try not to talk over each other for a bit and then follow-up with an email. Along with having to remember where I stored my pants, this trip would also force me into situations where I was hanging out with a lot of new faces. Luckily, I was loaded up with some sweet mushroom fun facts. Let’s do this.

The airport protocols I walked into weren’t that big of a deal. I wouldn’t say wearing a mask is really an inconvenience, because it acted as a barrier between my nose and airplane smells. The bigger challenge was that they are notably understaffed in all positions. Finding paper towels or ordering a meal was a much more challenging experience than before. The angry face buttons on the bathroom cleanliness surveys were all assuredly covered in COVID.

Since I’m all healthy and stuff (also the Chick-fil-A line was insane), I opted for a smart travel snack pairing of a bottled water and bag o’ trail mix. I went with the budget nut brand, instead of a well-packaged offering of ‘Nut-rition.’ So after building confidence and optimism on the puddle jumper to Atlanta, I prepared for a tasty snack on my Indy flight. Not having one of those ‘tear here’ notches probably saved me 2 cents, but I would have happily shelled out the difference after spraying my nut assortment clear across the airplane. I. Was. Mortified. The guy beside in a “Baby Yoda is my Patronas” t-shirt shirt asked if I needed help in a way that came off as very insulting. I had interrupted his Parks and Rec viewing slash game of Candy Crush.

Indianapolis has a cool downtown area. It smells slightly of poots (steam?), but offers lots of pleasant green space, a man made canal and great views of the White River. I love a good water feature. They need to chill on the ubiquitous scooter rentals though. After 10pm, you are taking your life into your own hands when traversing the sidewalk.

f you know nothing about Indianapolis Motor Speedway, know that is has brought upon the kind of racing fan devotion that involves a man building a treehouse in someone else’s back yard just so he wouldn’t miss seeing last year’s 500 in person. He couldn’t even see the whole track from there.

This hallowed site has been hosting automobile races since 1911, when “The Brickyard” nickname alluded to the 2.5 mile oval’s surface original brick surface. 500 miles of that would have been rather chafe inducing. The facility in its modern form is so unbelievably massive that you could fit Vatican City, The Taj Mahal, Churchill Downs, Yankee Stadium, Rose Bowl Stadium, the White House, Liberty Island and the Roman Colosseum inside the track simultaneously. The most repeated phrase from our weekend group was, “Got my steps in!”

was geeking out as soon as we came out of the tunnel. To you, cars going around and around for hours may be super boring, but a race track is my happy place. The noise, the danger, the smells of burning rubber and exhaust awake my senses. These individuals that pilot shiny 200+ mph machines are my heroes. I was given a pass that would let me go just about anywhere, and I was going to use every bit of that freedom.

Having never quite known how to act around famous people, I decided to go with the “make them think we know each other” approach. My dad uses this method with great success. A normal human can only remember so many names and faces. If you are Joey Logano and get introduced to hundreds of people every week, you’re going to smile and wave back when someone says hello with a certain level of confidence. I had an absolute blast exchanging cordials with drivers, broadcasters and legends of the sport, including the greatest mullet-haver in racing and a portly NASCAR icon who is so very appropriately sponsored by Oscar Meyer.

When a lull in the on-track action came Saturday afternoon, I set out to procure some authentic trackside merch. It has become standard practice to fetch souvenirs for the girls whenever we travel. Money can’t buy love or happiness, but it can help your kids forget that you abandoned them for a stretch.

My oldest occasionally watches along with me on Sunday afternoons and she doesn’t pick losers, so I knew Maggie needed a Chase Elliott car. I promptly stepped up to his designated vendor and asked for such. “You want the Hooter’s sponsored one?” asked the lady. “Umm, this is for my 6 year old daughter, so maybe let’s go another route,” I responded with a half-judgy laugh. We settled on his usual NAPA Auto Parts livery.

declined both bag and receipt, because the case was small enough to go in a pocket and, you know, the Earth. Target one acquired, I quickly ducked into a tent next door to find Libby a Scott Dixon Indycar replica. She hadn’t declared her allegiance specifically to the 6-time champ, so this was admittedly a bit selfish on my part. I also like winners.

While casually twirling purchase 1 in my left hand (still in original packaging) and thinking nothing of it, I look up to see a huge display of Chase Elliott cars before me…the exact same edition I’m holding. No question, I 100% look like a shoplifter if I do anything other than walk this to the register. I scanned the area for employees, started to sweat a bit, and concluded that Jesus knew the truth. In the most suspicious looking sequence in history, I slid the plastic case into my pocket and scooted toward the exit with my cool guy face on. Safely out of range and feeling uncomfortably damp, I hastily deconstructed the packaging before Chase Elliott himself could appear out of nowhere and yell “J’accuse!”

Back to the mission at hand, I simmered a bit and tracked down mini Scott Dixon. Feeling a renewed sense of accomplishment, I make for the checkout. About that time, I look down and see blood…a shocking amount of blood.

My shorts are stained red. My thumb is dripping all over the grass below. I can’t think of anything else to do, so I choose the least COVID-friendly course of action and put the affected area in my mouth. The plastic must have sliced my hand during the hasty escape minutes earlier. Panic returns. I take off in search of a bathroom. There’s no easy conversation with strangers about where all the blood came from, so I do my best to stay optimistic about stain removal possibilities.

Did I mention it was a real bad weekend for finding paper towels? Yeah, this is when the scarcity really hit home. Rather than conveniently wrapping my open would in absorbent materials and making some inroads on the problem, I was left to squeeze as much utility as I could out of soap and water.

With shorts that were mostly soaked through and a thumb that I kept as far from my body as possible, I figured that since I walked clear across the plaza to get here, I might as well pee. Let me at least empty my full bladder with the shred of dignity that remains. But no, dear reader, with a bumbling one-handed approach, I failed to get all my business properly back in its place before the zipper tragically caught some of it.

Y’all, it’s truly a low moment when you are sweating, covered in water you threw on your own blood-stained shorts while franticly evaluating the severity of a self-inflicted penis wound in a public bathroom. This tends not to happen when you are watching the race broadcast from the comfort of your couch. I got lucky, folks. It was touch and go for a bit, but I thankfully did not require a trip to the infield medical center.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, I eventually rebounded and nobody knew the difference. All my wetness and anxiety evaporated in the 85 degree heat. I was once again happy not to be somewhere other than my living room on a Saturday afternoon.

I used the opportunity to wander around and take in the event from as many angles as I could. I talked to the volunteers, got a little too much sunshine on my face, and eventually returned to a delightful set of mixed company. All in all it was a great weekend.

Upon my return home, Allison eschewed pleasantries in order to first stab me in the nose with a COVID test. It came back negative.