It feels a lot like jealousy, but with a heap more anticipation. Maybe it’s the feeling of missing out? Or maybe it’s homesickness wrapped in a blanket of Hoosier pride. Whatever it is and whatever you call it, I miss the Indianapolis 500.

It didn’t hit until just this weekend when the sun came out (as did the shorts and t-shirts, #sunsoutgunsout) and my friends near and far posted photos online of them at Carb Day, at the parade, at the Snakepit Ball, and any of the tens of other festivities throughout Indianapolis this weekend. But with every picture I saw, this feeling – homesickness, restlessness, anticipation for an event I knew I wouldn’t be attending – punched me in the gut.

You see, the Indianapolis 500 is a Hoosier tradition, rooted deep in Americana and glistening with pageantry. One doesn’t simply go to the Indianapolis 500; you become it. You rise at 5am; you cheer when a ceremonial cannon sounds at 6am; you pull yourself from your seat or campsite at 11:30am to gratefully applaud our men and women in uniform; you involuntarily become one giant goosebump when you hear the engines roar; you yell at the top of your lungs at the green flag and yet you can’t detect your own voice through the deafening noise.

Everyone has a 500 story. Ask any Hoosier on any given day, and they’ll sit you down with a Fuzzy’s and recall sitting on the porch with their grandparents, listening to the 500 on the radio. Or tell you about the time they ran into Mario Andretti at St. Elmo’s. Or keel over laughing at the antics they got into on Georgetown Road. So grab yourself a Bud Light, put on your American flag print bikini and jorts, and gather ‘round for my Indianapolis 500 story.

A Race Steeped In Tradition

The Indianapolis 500 literally changed my life. This is a statement I never thought I’d make. You see, as a kid, I remember listening to the radio broadcast piped through my home’s intercom system. I was uninterested, not understanding how anyone could listen to cars go around in circles for hours. Even my dad took a nap partway through.

As I got into college, I had friends who would go and watch from the infield. But I wasn’t ever really interested in drinking before sunrise, much less in the middle of a field that was either so muddy you ended up a mess or so hot you ended up with sun poisoning. I resigned to the fact that the 500 wasn’t for me.

That didn’t mean that I didn’t appreciate its traditions. The pageantry aspect of the Indianapolis 500 always grabbed my attention. I watched the Mini-Marathon on WTHR on the first Saturday in May. I would stop eating dinner to see interviews with the 500 Festival Princesses. I would laugh as the drivers would pour milk over their heads, wrapped in laurels like the Kentucky Derby winner. I always knew the Indianapolis 500 was something special, but I could never really understand the allure of racing.

And then I decided to interview to become a 500 Festival Princess. At the time, I only had one more year of eligibility before I graduated university, and I desperately wanted to be a part of Indiana tradition. The Indy 500 had drawn me in. But being a 500 Festival Princess meant I needed to learn something about racing! I knew about the 500 traditions, but knew nothing about the race itself. Out of necessity, I studied and I learned. I was determined to walk into my two interviews and not make a fool out of myself.

Luckily, I learned enough to get me by and was chosen to represent the Indianapolis 500 as a 2009 500 Festival Princess. But that didn’t even come close to the knowledge I’d learn during that May. Fortunately, there were Princesses who knew much more about racing than I did, and I was not shy about asking questions. I met a good friend Abby who worked as public relations for one of the teams, and she helped explain pit stop strategy and downforce and tire wear. The more I learned, the more I finally understood how someone could listen to cars go around in circles for hours. It was the strategy and set up combined with a whole lot of luck. And it was always luck that made the best headlines in the Indianapolis Star on Memorial Day.

At the end of the month of May, our final duty as 500 Festival Princesses was to watch the race alongside the board members. We were planted in the Pagoda with a million dollar view of the festivities, the pageantry, and the racing. I distinctly remember the moment when Mary Hulman George said, “Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!” I heard the deafening growl of 33 engines and saw the scattering of race teams high-tailing it back to the pits. It was all I could do to hold back tears – my stomach in my throat and the rush of goosebumps rising from my toes to my forehead. I leaned over to my friend Rachel and mouthed, “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Because of that singular comment, my PR friend Abby invited me to Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course to see a road course. She said, “If you think an oval is cool, just wait until you see a road course.” It was at this particular race that I met Martin – my now husband – and his family. All because the pageantry of the Indianapolis 500 drew me in and I knew I wanted to be a part of that.

“You Know The National Anthem, Right?”

Martin spent the 2010 season racing for Andretti Autosport in the IndyLights Series, a feeder series to the IndyCar Series (much like minor league baseball, if you speak that language). We balanced his season with my appearances as Miss Indiana, a title I won in June of 2009, shortly before we met.

May rolled around, as it always does, and Martin was preparing for the Freedom 100. The Freedom 100 is the IndyLights race at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, held on Carb Day – the Friday before the Indianapolis 500. The Lights drivers only get a few hours of practice before their big race, and I spent every moment I could watching him turn laps at IMS.

After one of the practices on Thursday, an official from IndyCar approached me to ask if I was going to be at the race the next day. “Yeah, of course,” I replied with a question mark at the tail end, wondering why the odd inquiry.

“You know the national anthem, right?” he asked.

I’d been asked to sing a couple times before for IndyLights races, namely at their Canadian races if the track hadn’t provided someone who knew The Star Spangled Banner. It wasn’t exactly a surprise to me that I was being asked to fill in, but it was a huge surprise that I was being asked to fill in on CARB DAY. For a live audience of 100,000 people, 1 million domestic viewers, and a radio broadcast to 15 million.

“Yeah, I know the national anthem,” I gulped in anticipation.

“We may need you tomorrow. We haven’t heard back from our anthem singer, so at this point, I’m guessing they’re not coming,” he explained. And then with a smile, “Wear your crown. And knock ‘em dead.”

So there I was, standing on the podium, a relative unknown in comparison to singers past and future (as a comparison, Reba McEntire sang this year), singing the national anthem at Martin’s most significant race to date for 16.1 million people because I was in the right place at the right time and had proven I could perform under pressure. Looking back, I can still hardly believe the fortune I was blessed with in order to be placed in this situation with this opportunity.

I can still hear my heart pounding in my ears and feel my clammy palms as if it were yesterday. By the grace of God, I remembered all the words (no one wants to be that girl). Climbing down from the podium, I headed off to watch Martin race, the pressure finally off of me. Now it was his chance to perform.

Standing in the Winner’s Circle

Flash forward a year to 2011, I was roped in by my friend Ruthie to hand out t-shirts for a promotion for William Rast during the Indy 500. I volunteered with my friend Katie because I knew Martin would be at the race working, and I would at least have a chance to help out a friend and be out of Martin’s hair. Little did I know that the William Rast driver, Dan Wheldon, would have that stroke of luck and watch his peers pit for fuel in the final laps of the race while he stayed out on an alternate pit strategy.

As I watched from the media room at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, Katie and I stared at each other in awe as the team’s pit stop strategy gamble played out. Is this really happening? our expressions said to one another. Ruthie, ever the efficient PR professional she is, grabbed the huge box of William Rast hats and stood beside us, our mouths gaping at the live-feed TVs. Dan was in second place coming around turn three into turn four of the final lap, when all of a sudden, the leader grazed the wall. The leader was coasting to the finish line, but not fast enough, and Dan passed him for the lead!

“Winner’s Circle, ladies,” Ruthie said through a grin. “Everyone on the team needs a William Rast hat for photos.” And just like that, a volunteer position to help out a friend got me into Winner’s Circle at my third ever Indianapolis 500. To this day, Martin and I still joke that I beat him to Winner’s Circle at IMS.

What makes this even more special is the connection between the William Rast driver Dan and my husband Martin. Dan is the reason Martin moved to the United States to race. After Martin’s 10-year contract to race in Europe was nullified after just three years, Dan encouraged Martin to do a test for an IndyLights team. It was this team that brought him to Indianapolis and the same team he was racing for the day I met him at Mid-Ohio. Dan was a friend (and an instigator during Martin and my “quiet” third date in Broad Ripple), and it was an honor to be the tiniest part of celebrating his final victory at Indy.

In The Eye of The Storm

In 2014, Martin put together a program to drive for A.J. Foyt in the Indy double header – the Grand Prix of Indianapolis (on the road course at IMS) and the Indianapolis 500. I was starting my fifth year of doing personal public relations for Martin, and together we were in our fourth season as spokespersons for Snowball Express.

When our friends – experienced drivers, wives, or PR professionals – told us May in Indy was exhausting, we thought we understood. We did not understand.

We kicked off the Month of May (yes, that is a proper noun) with the inaugural Martin Plowman Celebrity Kart Race benefitting Snowball Express. Somehow, with the help of four friends, gracious celebrities, and a crowd full of supporters, I managed to pull off a huge fundraiser in six short weeks. It was the perfect way to start the month, raising over $13,000 for children who had lost a parent in the war on terror since 9/11. It was the highest of highs, gaining great publicity for Snowball and Martin alike.

With no rest for the weary, the next day Martin threw himself into practice for the inaugural Grand Prix of Indianapolis and I threw myself into the balancing act that is fiancé and personal PR. On tiptoes, I flitted between pitching stories and walking red carpets; photographing Instagram-worthy moments and getting dolled up for WAG photo shoots; dictating the words of quotes and actually listening to the needs of my husband.

For four weeks, both Martin and I were flat out (racing pun intended). We arrived at the track at 8am every day and left by 7pm, only to head out to an appearance, event, or dinner. At the track, Martin was testing the car, learning IMS’s idiosyncrasies, doing interviews with media, mingling with fans, hosting guests, and avoiding A.J.’s wrath (this is said with all love, respect, and honesty). Outside of the track, we spent time with the children of Riley Children’s Hospital, met hundreds of wonderful ABC Supply Co. and Alfe employees, helped raise money for cancer causes, participated in photo shoots, and visited the Louisville Slugger Museum, among tens of others of appearances.

The night before the 500, we were run ragged, both physically and emotionally, fueled by the rush of adrenaline you only feel when you’re given the opportunity of a lifetime. We put one foot in front of the other because Indy isn’t guaranteed. When you fight as hard as my husband did for this one chance to even be in the race, you appreciate every second. We were driven by gratitude and a sense of respect for the legend that is Indy.

My favorite moment of the whole month came on that eve of the Indianapolis 500. In the swirling winds of obligations, Martin and I arrived back at the motorcoach parked in the driver’s lot of the track. We stepped out of the car to silence. For the first time, silence.

I grabbed Martin’s hand and together, we walked into Pagoda Plaza, the soft glow of that iconic structure radiating in the sky. In this place normally filled with the buzzing of engines, the rumble of a crowd, the blaring of instruments, and the oppressive light of the sun, we were met with darkness and silence. The world stood still for just a few moments, and then we walked back to the motorcoach hand in hand and prepared for the following day.

The next day brought all the pageantry, pomp and circumstance that made me fall in love with Indy in the first place. The flyover, the balloons, the songs, the bands, the driver announcements, the celebrity, the glitz. We were among those swirling winds again, swept from media center to green room to yard of bricks to car to finish line. Even after the race, when the checkered flag had been thrown and the debrief had been done, Martin (bless his heart) stood out in front of the garage and signed autographs until he couldn’t physically stand anymore.

And just like that, it was over. We had survived the storm. We were exhausted and we finally understood what our friends had meant about Indianapolis. This was not just another race at just another track. Indianapolis demands respect, and in return she gives you the best moments of your life.

Everyone who has experienced the stillness of the pagoda at night understands, as does the gentleman who attended his 65^th consecutive Indianapolis 500 this year. The family who gathers each Memorial Day Sunday to barbecue and listen to the radio understands, just as the farmer who provides the milk for the winner understands.

I, the little girl who would have rather put on a musical for her family instead of listen to the Indianapolis 500 on the radio again, finally understand. I showed her my respect, and she gifted me a lifetime of memories.