There is no European circuit that can boast a pedigree to match that of the ‘Brickyard’, the world famous Indianapolis Motor Speedway. The oval circuit is strong on tradition with cars having raced there since 1909 and over the past century it has contributed greatly to the advancement of American automotive technology, particularly in the development of safety devices for road going cars. The original Indianapolis speedway was built on three hundred and twenty eight acres of farmland, five miles northwest of Indiana’s capital city and is home to the Indy 500, a race that attracts more spectators than any other sport in the world. Over the more recent years, Formula One has been desperate for success in the United States, mainly as it is the largest market for its sponsors. But many Americans still remain indifferent to the event claiming it is too technical and like other European sports, somewhat lacking in thrills and spills. In many ways these perceptual differences only serve to show the many cultural dissimilarities that continue to exist between our two continents. In this story, I recall a taxi journey taken in Indianapolis on the night before the last US Grand Prix. The trouble started when a group of old bricks at the start of the circuit threatened to hold up the great race and in their own way showed up the potential for misinterpretation of each other’s culture.

 "So you guys have came all the way from Ireland just to see the Formula car race?" the local cabby enquired, as he carried us under another fluttering Pennzoil banner towards ‘The Claddagh’, the latest pseudo Irish Bar to grace the streets of downtown Indianapolis. For a while he slowly read the logo on my friend's Jordan T-shirt, slowly sizing us up and barely smiling as a vague reminiscence stirred in his oily brown eyes

"Ireland…that’s where that Buzzing Hornet’s team comes from, isn’t it?"

"Why do you guys not stay over there and race, instead of coming all the way here?" he continued.

In many ways the driver was typical of many of the locals, a ‘hoosier’ overweight from eating too many ‘jumbo turkey legs’ and blissfully unaware that the Jordan team were subject to cigarette advertisements in Europe but probably would use the Benson and Hedges livery on the Indianapolis circuit. In fact it had been painfully obvious from conversations with local racing enthusiasts the night before, that many of them were at best lukewarm about the coming Formula One event and it probably didn’t help our cultural differences when none of them even recognised Eddie Jordan when he wandered into the bar to join us for a pint. Indianapolis was that sort of place, more peeling porch than picket fence, a Pandora’s box of hicks or hookers and a place so strong on automotive tradition that the spirits of long rusted racing cars still could be heard if you listened closely to the winds at sunset. The first race on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway took place in 1909 and over the coming years a whole city had grown up around the oval track, until eventually it became known to generations of Americans as "The Racing Capital of the World". A hoarding outside the circuit claimed that ‘it was unchallenged as the world’s oldest continually operated race course and the site of the largest one day sports event’ probably recognising the fact that each year over half a million people gathered there to watch the Indy 500. But trouble had apparently been brewing around the circuit for months.

It all had started when the local media protested that a new infield section was going to be inserted on the hallowed oval in order to suit the driving style of the Formula One Championship. There were futher protests when the European teams decided that they would prefer to race the famous circuit back to front but to many American race enthusiasts the final insult had come this evening, the night before the great race. Earlier in the evening Ferrari had requested the owners of the raceway to sandblast the famous yard of stone bricks that lined the start line claiming that the surface gave uneven traction between the front and back tyres of the leading cars on the grid. These in turn caused wheelspin and give an unfair advantage to their competition, behind in the second row. The famous circuit had been nicknamed ‘The Brickyard’ probably as far back as 1909, for it was then that the owners ordered over three million bricks from a local building merchant in order to build a safer track. Now only a few hundred of these initial bricks remained embedded in the start line and many Indy 500 drivers considered them part of American racing folklore and would actually kiss them for good luck before a big race. Apparently Mc Laren had noticed the problem some days before and decided to opt for second grid position but when Michael Schumacher hinted that he would as sooner have them dug up, many locals including our taxi driver were enraged at his indiscretion.

"You Formula guys are messing with the ‘Brickyard’ the greatest racing circuit in the world!"

"You’ve already torn up the centre of the track and now want to change our traditions by removing the historic starting bricks!" he continued to rage.

"But it will probably make it a much better circuit! ", my friend answered jokingly, fully aware that the taxi driver was now filled with the rage of an American Admiral who had just heard that the Lusitania had been sunk.

"How would you like it if a group of us went over to Italy and straightened back up the leaning tower of Pisa to make it a better building!" he fumed before stopping the vehicle, leaving us in no doubt that he was capable of letting us out before our destination.

Outside, a few drops of rain were starting to fall, blending with the fading glow of the setting sun. It was unusual that we had found a cab driver who was a ‘Hoosier’, (the nickname for those people born and inbred in Indiana), as all of our drivers to date had been more laid back, having acquired their driving skills on the red murram tracks of northern Eritrea. These drivers worked for a local company and really made Irishmen feel welcome as they drove around in white cars with large green shamrocks on the doors. They were mostly illegal aliens posing as ‘students’ and it was one of them that told us not to call the locals ‘Hoosiers’, as apparently it was an slur and derived from the phrase ‘Who’s your mother?’

For a while we sat in silence with heads lowered, hoping that we wouldn’t have to descend into the empty roadway. It was then that a WTHR-13 presenter broke the news on the taxi radio that sense had eventually prevailed and the race officials had decided that the start line would be moved back another seventeen yards.

Without a word, the taxi driver put the car back into gear and sped off again along the freeway and for the rest of the journey we talked about whether it would rain tomorrow, each happy that the the cultural bonds of friendship had been re-established between our two worlds.