Our fable starts with the late Gilles Villeneuve, winds around a picturesque Grand Prix course in the Netherlands, takes flight over the Atlantic and settles on the black dirt of an Indiana bullring called Gas City Speedway.
It had to be midgets. That made the most sense. With racing in Indiana awakening after a lousy few months, what I craved was a rebirth, a rediscovery of the “wow” that this game can bring.
With a little bit of luck — a rare commodity lately — by now you have heard the sound of roaring engines at a track close to you, and your racing season has begun.
Here he came, easing through the restaurant door because easing is the best he can do, heading toward a wicker chair that for a healthy man would have been five paces away.
