We had just left the infield parking lot after a day enjoying the AllState 400 at the Brickyard (held at the legendary Indianapolis Motor Speedway) and like any race attended by over 180,000 fans (holy cow, Batman!) the local police had all vehicles going outward with no traffic being allowed to come into the general area.  Now, I applaud the traffic gurus who came up with this ingenious idea for getting numerous people out of IMS in a reasonable amount of time, but there’s also an unhappy smile on my face for this practice creates confusion (frustration, irritation and a rather cross version of Angi) for anyone who doesn’t call Indianapolis area as home.   

So there we were being funneled (forced!) out in a direction that we eventually realized was completely opposite (go back!) from where our motel was located (oh, for the love of Bob why??) and I had to smack myself for in my state exhaustion (a direct result of inhaling racing fuel exhaust fumes in the heat for close to 4 hours) I had stupidly left my Garmin GPS unit in the trunk of the car for safekeeping (*smack*). 

Well, you can only imagine my response (imagine fits of uncontrolled laughter bordering on near-hysteria) as it dawned on me that we were essentially navigating completely blind (*smack*), that we were headed into a slightly “scary” area (why am I suddenly thinking about that scene in National Lampoon’s Vacation where the Griswolds get lost in East St. Louis) and that there was now a guy behind us playing his car’s stereo so freaking loud that my seat is actually vibrating (hey, mister, I’m going deaf up here and my butt feels kind of funny!).  Yes, our prospects were growing dim and I could already see the newspaper headlines about how our remains would be found one day having been ravaged by wild Indianapolis dogs.  Uh, have I mentioned I am a bit of a fatalist?

Anyway, while I may suspect that every headache is possibly a brain tumor I am also a firm believer in that old adage about survival of the fittest (well, except for the fact that the only shape I’m in is round).  But such dire moments can lend to greatness (triumph over adversity!) so I took up the charge by quickly calculating that we had a half bag of Combos, three cans of Diet 7-Up, four sticks of gum and a bag of Cheetos that mom had been gnawing on all day.  Yes, the pickings were a bit slim (especially as I wasn’t touching those Cheetos with a 10 foot pole), but our odds were better than I thought as we could possibly survive maybe an hour or two if my stomach didn’t start rumbling.  We just needed to stay calm. 

So my little sister began slowly rationing out the Combos (it is the official cheese snack of NASCAR, you know!) as I resisted the urge to get out of the car and send Mr.. Loud Music Man into next week (truly how long and one’s rear end vibrate before something needs to be done?)  And just as the last of the Combos were being consumed (oh, no!), a beacon of hope so incredible appeared just on the horizon.  At first, I thought I was dreaming but I soon realized that my eyes were seeing a tiny bit of heaven.  Yes, just up ahead in the plaza on the left was a branch of our favorite St. Louis Mexican dining establishment El Maguey.  Oh, behold the power of margaritas and chicken nachos.  

So we made the unanimous decision to wait out the traffic (as we were now probably hundreds of miles from our motel) by going into El Maguey for some refreshment.  Well, it sounded like a great plan up to the point where we walked inside.  Do you remember that scene in that movie where some unsuspecting travelers walk into an local establishment (was it a restaurant or a bar?) and the music stops suddenly and all eyes are upon those poor travelers? 

Yes, it happened just like that.  Okay, maybe not exactly like that but pretty close.  I mean I guess it could HAVE something to do with the fact that we were sunburned, disheveled and decked out in NASCAR attire (not to mention looking rather kind of desperate).  It’s not like we walked in there drunk, barefoot, wearing a “wifebeater” shirt and smoking a cigarette (though I’m pretty sure I saw a few of those over at the race track).  And I guess that “Welcome, Race Fans” sign outside was meant for someone else and what Mexican place doesn’t serve margaritas on the rocks?  Isn’t that like punishable by death or something?

Anyway, I guess the lesson we learned is that El Maguey in St. Louis don’t always translate to El Maguey in other cities and never leave your Garmin GPS in the trunk of your car when leaving a race. 

And what heck is an “El Maguey” anyway?

Toodles,  
Angi

 

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