Rain delay turned out just fine

Maybe I’ve told this story before.

At my age, that happens.

But the Indianapolis 500 got me thinking about things, and one memory triggered another.

It was back in the early 1970s, back when the Indy 500 wasn’t just a big deal for a day or a weekend. It was a big, big deal for the entire month of May.

And the race itself wasn’t just a big, big deal, so was the process of qualification. Instead of being condensed into a couple of days, it stretched over two weekends.

Connie and I had never been to the 500, and at that point we weren’t in a position financially to buy tickets to the race. But the qualifications were something else. More affordable and also more raucous.

So we came up with a plan.

Ken, an old friend from high school, was living not far from the neighborhood of the Speedway. (Ken has a memorable nickname, but one of the best ways to remain friends as you get older is to put the nicknames aside. So let’s just stick with Ken.)

He was dating a lovely young woman named Jan (no nickname as far as I know). In fact, their first date was dinner at our apartment in Indy.

She had never been to the qualifications either, and she knew Ken was a big “car guy.” We’re talking a Mopar guy with a muscle car gas guzzler. But they were in love.

So the four of us decided that the smart thing to do — given traffic for qualifications and other complications — was for the two couples to “camp out” at Ken’s place then get an early start to the track that Saturday morning.

Trouble is, Ken’s place was a little small to accommodate two couples.

It was, in fact, a converted interurban car. (I’ll pause now so younger readers can check on Wikipedia for information about the interurban.)

And a contraption that made sense as low-cost transportation between Indiana cities and towns in the late 19th and early 20th century didn’t make much sense as a dwelling.

It was about eight feet wide and maybe 11 feet long.

What passed for Ken’s sleeping accommodations was a bench-like section along one side. There was a kitchenette of sorts.

And at one end there was Ken’s entertainment center: His aquarium.

There was no TV. I’m not even sure if Ken’s domicile had a phone.

But it did have a radio. Not that we needed it.

Ken, as I recall, gallantly gave up his sleeping bench to Jan. Then he and Connie and I slept on the floor, filling the available space.

The radio might have been useful, except for the rain.

It started in the late evening, began to roar after midnight, and kept pounding on the roof of that forlorn little interurban car all night long.

By morning, it was clear that we’d have to jump over puddles to get to our cars.

It was also clear that the big first day of qualifications at the Indianapolis Speedway simply was not happening.

So what do you do in a situation like that?

We laughed about it. We made the best of things. We goofed around for pretty much the rest of the day.

And it must have worked.

Ken and Jan were married a couple years later. Connie and I made the trip up to South Bend for the wedding, and I was one of the ushers, clad in a powder-blue tuxedo that had to have been seen to be believed.

So something must have worked.

Qualifications went on, though delayed. The race went on.

And as for Ken and Jan, they’ll be looking at their 50th wedding anniversary a couple of years from now.