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Denver Grand Prix is a gas, gas, gas!
By Jeremy Johnson
jjohn308@mscd.edu

Photo by Jenn LeBlanc/jkerriga@mscd.edu A.J. Allmendinger celebrates his Grand Prix victory with the traditional champagne toast.

As I walked across Speer toward Auraria Field and the Tivoli building Sunday morning, what sounded like a swarm of angry hornets could be heard over the horizon. The air reeked of racing fuel and rubber.

The 2006 Grand Prix of Denver was officially geared up and the town was abuzz with speed and adrenaline.

Continuing down Auraria Parkway, I could vaguely see the vagabond drivers of the Formula BMW USA Series zip past. After one stretch of a dozen cars going by at nearly 180 mph, I looked over at the stranger next to me and we both mouthed the words, “Wow, that’s fast!”

I realized then that I would need some earplugs and a cold beer.

Once inside the gates, the Grand Prix resembled some savage carnival of frenzied gearheads eager for speed and disaster. The crowd wore short shorts and tank tops that sported racing logos and cliché cartoon phrases. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by a half-dozen Chick-Fil-A cow mascots and I thought, “Oh no, I’ve finally become part of the herd.”

Speakers set up by Denver radio station 103.5, The Fox, blared a classic Rolling Stones tune: “But it’s all right now, in fact it’s a gas! But it’s all right. I’m Jumpin’ Jack Flash. It’s a gas, gas, gas!”
The Stones seemed apropos for an event like this one. Considering the fast cars and beautiful people surrounding the scene, open-wheel racers were like the obligatory rock stars of the sports world.

And if NASCAR is the granddaddy of racing, then the Champ Car Series is its rich, pretty cousin. Sure, there were enough scantily clad Champ Car girls and “GIT-R-DONE” cowboy hats around to give the event that redneck racing feel, but beyond the tube-tops and Coors Light cans littering the Prix grounds was a mystique of finely-tuned machines driven by men and women with the wicked skills, finesse and courage needed to average 101 mph over, not an oval track, but a course full of hairpin turns and uneven street surfaces.

Photo by Jenn LeBlanc/jkerriga@mscd.edu The view from the roof of the Pepsi Center as the cars of the Champ Car Atlantic Championship Series warmed up Sunday morning shows the cars of the support series going through turns two and three.

Down in the pits the Champ Car officials set the grid. Sebastien Bourdais, the prince of the pole, was No. 1 after setting a track record Saturday afternoon with a time of 59.096 seconds on the nine-turn 1.647-mile course. But Bourdais’ day would end in a shoving match with Canadian driver Paul Tracy after a bump and spin-out on the final straightaway dropped him from third place to seventh in a split second.

As I walked through piles of tires and power tools, an old man drove toward me on his scooter. It was The Hustler himself, Paul Newman. I gave him a familiar smile and he tipped his hat back at me, smiled and drove on.

On his finger I noticed a ring. It was the 2002 championship ring that Newman’s team – Newman/Haas – won with their former driver Cristiano da Matta. As of race day, da Matta was in the intensive care unit at the Clark Medical Center in Neenah, Wis., after he struck a deer during a practice nearly two weeks ago.

Da Matta had recently joined the Loveland, Colo., racing team RuSport, and had been looking forward to racing in his team’s home state.

Despite the anticipation of the race, it was clear that da Matta was still on everybody’s mind, as demonstrated by Newman’s gesture and by the announcer, who, prior to the race, asked Denver fans to shout out, “Get well, Cristiano!”

In a sport that is known for bloodlust, it was refreshing to know that people remain sensitive to the realities of life and death. There are, after all, some things more important than sport.

Suddenly, the green flag dropped, tires screeched and the cars sped off.

Walking from turn to turn, always searching for a better angle, I watched as the front ends of the Champ cars – propelled by 750-horsepower engines – twitched and danced on the pavement. As the cars cornered, there was a feeling of danger. One wrong move, one over- or under-steer, one second of delay, and there would be nothing left but doom for the driver inside.

The crowd – previously noisy, drunk and energized – became silent and still. Then came the buzz of the swarm. Rubbernecking, we screamed like wild animals and watched them race by. Then another 60 seconds of silence until they tore through again.

In the end, Thornton resident A.J. Allmendinger took the checkered flag, much to the delight of hometown fans. And after Allmendinger’s traditional champagne after-party and picture poses with the gorgeous girls of Champ Car in the victory circle, I headed for home, officially out of gas.

Walking away from the track in the hot, setting sun, The Fox was cranking out another Stones set: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you just might find -– you get what you need.”

It was true. I had gotten what I needed. The Grand Prix had been grand, indeed.