The terms “value” and “Formula One” are rarely used together.
Yet, I still have my father’s 1961 USGP ticket from Watkins Glen. It cost $4, including tax, so the $60 for weekend infield and open grandstands Friday and Saturday at IMS had some precedent.
By the way, my dad exploited the ambiguity of the phrase “under 12 free” to get yours truly, age 12, through the gate back in ’61. That may have been a subliminal hint I was destined for a media career.
Anyway, with the prospect of four nights of wingless sprint-car racing to seal the deal, I pointed Air Malibu (that’s Chevy, not Piper) westward through the haze to join up with gracious host Pat Sullivan for an unexpectedly dusty USAC sprint-car show at Gas City (Ind.) I-69 Speedway. Friday at IMS was spent exploring the various infield spectator berms, learning helmet colors since the nose numbers are only visible from overhead, and staying hydrated. Saturday I ventured to the upper deck of the main grandstand for F-1 qualifying, which is where this tale really begins.
The Indianapolis Motor Speedway road course will never resemble Spa, the original Nürburgring, Watkins Glen or Road America. It’s flat because central Indiana is flat. But so is Monza, and with the frontstraight encased by the stands and pits and Ferrari’s red army pouring in, it made a reasonable facsimile of the historic site of the Italian GP.
The Midwestern tifosi mainly use faces painted red and Ferrari flags waved and worn cape-fashion to show their loyalty, with an original touch provided by Pope Enzo I, who circulated in pseudo-priestly garb blessing the Ferrari faithful. 
The F-1 establishment has tweaked its qualifying system on an annual basis, and as one highly respected observer was quoted as saying, “I don’t know if it was genius or luck, but they got it right this time.”
The format, with three rounds squeezed into one hour, was intensely dramatic. The first round of 15 minutes reduces the field of 22 to 16, the second round cuts the number to 10 and the final 15 minutes settle the grid positions that count, and, in fact, the realistic chances to win on Sunday.
Naturally, the real contenders toyed with the first two segments and only showed their hand in the final five minutes. The tifosi reaction registered on the Richter scale when Ferrari briefly seized the top-two spots, but the McLarens asserted their superiority as the lights turned red. For once, the demands of television have helped to create a better show for the live crowd.      
I don’t recall seeing any McLaren apparel, but there were a few Renault and BMW shirts around, a variety of Red Bull logos and one father and son who reminded us we were in Hoosier sprint-car country. Dad wore his Justin Marvel sprint-car shirt, and junior displayed Daron Clayton colors.
My original destination for race day was to be the berm that overlooks the turn back onto the oval, a spot I’ve used for the 500 in past years to get a good backstraight view, but the heat drove me to the head of the infield backstretch, closer to both shade and water. The crowd on the berm was an eclectic and knowledgeable bunch. There was Don from Wisconsin Dells with his original CanAm logo shirt and a retired couple from Florida.
The race was, in contemporary F-1 fashion, interesting without being exciting by my definition. Dave Darland working a non-winged sprint car from 19th to second at Kokomo that evening was exciting. There is, nonetheless, something to be said for watching the most sophisticated cars and the highest-paid drivers approach perfection. My only passionate plea is to add readable numbers to the rear wing as Honda has done. 
For all F-1’s issues past and present, you don’t get to hear 19,000 rpm every week. And you rarely get to enjoy the company of the crowd on the berm. Let us hope both endure at the corner of 16th and Georgetown.