It was a 3-day weekend in Oregon. One of the first warm days of the year in the Pacific Northwest, which means everything. My grandparents' house in Gresham. Good food. A more relaxed time. The kind of day you remember because it felt safe.
And in the background, a radio.
Sid Collins calling the Indianapolis 500. I was 7 or 8 years old. I couldn't see the cars. I couldn't see the track. But I could hear the urgency in his voice when someone made a pass, and I could feel the silence when something went wrong. From those radio calls, I built the race in my mind - A.J. Foyt's distinctive red Coyote, the piercing yellow of the Pennzoil Chaparral, Lone Star JR's helmet. The Pagoda. The balloons. The water tower in Turn 2. Back Home Again in Indiana.
I had no idea where Indianapolis was. I just knew it was somewhere far away and important. Like Oz - except I wasn't sure it was real.
Where I Come From
I should tell you something about where I come from, because it matters for what comes next.
My childhood wasn't easy. My father was verbally and mentally abusive - to me and to my mother. "If you worked for me, I'd fire you." He said that to me starting at 5 years old. About yardwork. About washing the car. About everything. My mother was always there, in the background, doing the best she could. But everything was hard.
I looked for escapes. Not in drugs - in sports. In staying up past bedtime with a transistor radio pressed to my ear, listening to the San Francisco Giants even though we lived near Seattle. In dreaming of something bigger without having any idea how to make it happen.
I was smart but lost. Like a puzzle poured out on a table with no picture on the box top.
The People Who Changed Everything
The first person outside of my household who ever appeared to give a damn about me was my high school basketball coach, Jerry Groenig. Coach Groenig had been a teacher, but somewhere along the way he and his brother developed condos and homes in Yakima, Washington. By the time I met him, he no longer taught school. But he taught me how to be more. Not yet a man - but to show up and work.
Then there was Bob Lesh. When my family moved to Yakima from the Seattle area, my brother spotted a race car parked in a yard. He pestered my dad into taking us to the Saturday night races. One of my dad's clients had just bought a race car driven by Bob.
Bob Lesh was something out of Central Casting. A man's man. Cowboy hat. Tough as nails. Would never back down from a fight. A talented, self-taught racer who held his own against the likes of Derrike Cope, Hershel McGriff, and Jack Jeffries. He owned his own restaurant and video game arcade. And he took the time to care about a kid who needed someone to care.
I wasn't mechanical. Not even close. But Bob taught me anyway - tires, radios, toolboxes, lap times, checklists, setup and teardown. The rides to the track with him instead of my father were a much-needed break from the constant noise at home. Bob let me be me. That's the greatest gift a mentor can give.
Tell Me How the System Works
I joined the Air Force on my 18th birthday. I wanted to go into armed forces radio and TV - I'd been hosting a radio show in the evenings to earn money. Instead, I got orders for Security Police school. To quote John McEnroe: you cannot be serious.
But that detour led me to the US Air Force Presidential Honor Guard in Washington, D.C. Everything Coach Groenig and Bob Lesh had taught me - positive attitude, thoroughness, showing up and doing the work - suddenly clicked. I graduated honor grad from tech school. And when I heard the 1st string team complaining about having to handle logistics for an embassy party, I volunteered to do it all. I jumped from 3rd string to 1st string overnight.
Tell me how the system works and I will figure it out. That's been the thread through everything.
From the Honor Guard, life took me through college, sales, government contracting, a tech startup that grew to 400 employees and died the night before its IPO when the dot-com bubble burst, consulting work flying to Long Island every Monday morning, and eventually a career in real estate that lasted nearly 25 years. Each chapter taught me something. Each mentor shaped me. And through all of it, one thing stayed constant.
Racing.
Every Memorial Day weekend. Every year. The Indianapolis 500.
Like Oz, Except It Was Real
The year was 2000 when I finally walked into Indianapolis Motor Speedway for the first time.
I had dreamed of it since I was 7. I had seen the pictures on ABC. None of that did justice to the massive size of the place. So vast, yet the straightaway so narrow. You knew immediately that it took a special person to drive this track and drive it well.
It exceeded everything I had imagined. The place I had built in my mind from radio calls and TV glimpses - it was like Oz, except it was actually real.
I've been back every year since. Twenty-five straight and counting. Never sat in the same seats twice - always a different viewpoint, a different experience. Same race, same traditions, same song. Different story every time.
Back Home Again
I admit that as I get older, I get more emotional about it. I get tears in my eyes during Back Home Again in Indiana. And I have never lived in Indiana. Not even close.
But that song isn't about Indiana. It's about belonging. It's about the one place where the kid from the difficult home, the guy who has started over in every career, the outsider who is always the new guy - finally has a constant. Twenty-five years. Same weekend. Same song. Same feeling.
You Just Watch Cars Go in a Circle
People tell me "you just watch cars go in a circle."
No. Every time someone takes the time to learn about the men and women involved - the stories behind them, what they overcame to get there, what prepared them to make split-second decisions at 230 miles per hour - they move from watching to rooting. They take a true interest. How these drivers deal with adversity is as important as victory. And once you know the story, you can't not care.
That's why I started the 33 Dreams of Indy podcast in 2019. Thirty-three spots in the field. Thirty-three dreams. Hundreds try. Only thirty-three make it. The stories of the ones who do - and the ones who don't - are what make the Indianapolis 500 unlike anything else in sports. The drama doesn't happen in chapters. It happens in laps and pit stops that come together into something you could never script.
I told those stories for 34 episodes. I built real relationships with drivers and teams across the Road to Indy. And then life got busy, and 33 Dreams went quiet.
People Need to Hear Your Perspective
My wife Stacy changed that.
She can't watch a race with me without saying: "People need to hear your perspective." I call strategies before the commentators do. I explain what's happening and why it matters. And Stacy keeps telling me I do it as well as anyone on TV - if not better.
That encouragement is priceless. Especially from the person who knows me best.
The truth is, I'm a teacher at heart. Always have been. From the pits at Yakima Speedway to the Honor Guard to real estate to right here - I've always been the one who shares what he knows. I can't help it. If I understand something, I want you to understand it too.
Welcome to This Week in Racing
So here I am.
This Week in Racing is the daily motorsport briefing I always wanted to read. F1. IndyCar. NASCAR. IMSA. Every race. Every series. Every morning.
I'm not a journalist. I'm a fan who's been in the stands and in and out of the paddock and pits for nearly 50 years. I follow everything so you don't have to - and I tell you what it all means. The way I'd want to get the information if I were you.
The news is free. The analysis - the strategy breakdowns, the insider takes, the 33 Dreams stories - that's for the people who want to go deeper.
And once a year, I'm going to take a group of fans to the track. Because the best way to understand racing isn't reading about it. It's being there.
33 cars. 33 drivers. 33 stories. 33 dreams.
Welcome to This Week in Racing.
- Robert Earl, The Earl of Indy