Indy500 Tailgate Recap: Road To The Coke Lot & Hangover City

Last Thursday, right before midnight, I left Barstool’s NYC office & drove 12 hours straight, only stopping to buy a top notch gas station hat. Exhausted but wired, I kept pushing through because I couldn’t wait to arrive at my destination… Indianapolis.

Memorial Day Weekend was upon us which meant Indy500 time out there, and this would be my 5th year attending.

My wonderful Indy fam has been going for decades & they have the scheduling, packing & parties down to a fine art to guarantee a good time. The first year I attended I was only 18 & just done freshman year at Indiana U of PA, where I was still bloated from crushing Schlitz cans on the regs & just an absolutely disgusting person in general.

That weekend got off to a rough start for me, as I got pulled over by the cops around 3am for driving a dying electric scooter under the influence in a fancy neighborhood. Luckily I was let off with a warning because I was only a danger to myself, and we all had an awesome time from there.

The moment I heard the roar following “START. YOUR. ENGINES!!!”, and went cross-eyed trying to keep up with the speeding cars, I fell in love with the race and have tried to make it back when I can ever since.

In past years, we’d hit up Carb Day on Friday, go wild, and then have a day of rest in between on Saturday to recuperate before Sunday’s Race Day. There, we’d post up on turn 3 of the infield, inside the massive 2.5 mile track. You can bring your own coolers, tents, chairs, drinks & food in & post up right next to the fences, which is key for making excellent videos, btw.

This year was a little different, though. Because of my road trip, I missed Carb Day, so I’d have to hit up the tailgates Saturday and go hard straight through to Race Day on Sunday. And my God, the Saturday tailgates at the Indy500… Over 200,000 people attend this race, and for miles & miles outside the track, from the surrounding neighborhoods to the lots, people get after it. The ‘Coke Lot’, named because apparently it’s owned by the Coke A Cola plant nearby, is the center of the storm.

Out of the early Saturday morning mist, Brads & Chads emerge from their tents in ironic ‘America!’ t-shirts that are almost as crumpled as the $20 bills they were using as nose-candy hoovers the night before. Grills are fired up for kegs ‘n eggs, garbage is pushed into smoldering piles to make room for new dance spaces, and, like pirate ships in the Caribbean of olden days, an endless sea of RVs raise their flags across the prairie. The humid heat sends waves of haze across the scene, and it feels like a dream that could go in any direction.

This is Indy500 Eve, a sacred midwestern holiday, and people are ready to celebrate. With my Barstool Jorts, CVS Dad Glasses, cell phone, selfie stick and microphone, I ventured out amongst these Hoosier pirates and had me timbers fully shivered.

Much like my first Indy500, I was not off to a good start. The group I decided to kick things off with had a home-made port-o-john, and the way-too-handsy man I tried to speak with kept pulling his limp, shriveled, oddly-tan, raisin-dick out while I asked him about the construction of said port-o-john. As he rambled about his friend (depicted on the shitter wall, complete with homophobic slurs & hot-dog crammed glory hole), he poured a beer bong down my bra, and then got butthurt when I informed him he was a stupid, hillbilly fuck.

From there, things didn’t improve. Passing a group of solid 3s who were asking to see tits & rating women with numbers on paper plates, I got labeled a 5. This especially stung, because I could tell they were hammered, and I’m usually at least a 6.5 when that’s the case.

After passing several similar sausage fests, nary a woman in sight as they screamed to see tits, I realized that, bitcc, these behind-the-times-bros had killed my vibe. But I would not let them win, not at one of my favorite events in the States. I would push further into the lot & find the good I knew was waiting, and thankfully, I was not disappointed.

People were inviting me to their tailgates & sharing their food & booze (hepatitis, be damned), so many took the time to chat me up & tell me how much they love Barstool & the Heartland folks, and no one judged my bad dancing. From bachelorette parties to frat fests, and bathroom lines to bus bars, everyone was welcoming & friendly, in a great mood, and a true delight to be around. Always a sucker for that happy Midwest vibe, hours passed & my mood was flyin’ as I got carried away with the crowds. Even though I didn’t know a soul, I felt at home. Great Plains, how I love thee…

When I joined back up with my group, a freak storm rolled through but our spirits couldn’t be dampened. Things got dicey when I decided to take a beer bong out of a mannequin’s vagina & the person holding my phone forgot to record it (what’s the point if you don’t record it?), but our crew’s captain started whipping up daiquiris & got the dance deck going, and all was forgotten.

The following morning, Race Day, was rough to say the least.

I may have urged my group to “go on without me”, but they helped me pull through…

Once inside, it was about 1,000 degrees in the stands. There were a lot of accidents towards the end of the race, so the cars would have to go slow until debris was cleared off. That made the sun feel even worse, but luckily I had a cooler backpack full of White Claw, a special hydrating malt liquor.

We were also lucky enough to be located by the golf course so shade was only a minute stroll away if we needed it.

I wish I had an exciting end to this blog, but all of our phones overheated so I couldn’t continue to go overboard on the tweets. Sad. But another great year at an awesome event. My body feels like a dumpster fire & the dark circles under my eyes will probably not go away for several months, but it was worth all the twists & turns.

Oh, and I guess kind of important to mention, an Aussie gent, aptly named Will Powers, won the race. I’m a little proud & surprised to say I lasted the whole race to see it, especially considering the debauchery of the Coke Lot the day before. Croiky.