During a recent GOP debate, Ron Paul was asked if an uninsured man should be left to die and the audience screamed “yes!”

Initially, I was horrified by this response, but I was prompted, again, to consider the issue of health care in this nation.

Let’s face it, health care in America has been changing for decades, and not for the better.

The health care industry would have us believe that health care in America is the best care in the world. That’s like the airline industry saying that flying is safer than driving because more people die while driving than flying. Well, yeah. More people drive than fly, too. And most traffic fatalities occur within twenty miles of home—you don’t fly to the grocery store and the post office, so opting to fly instead of taking the car to run your Saturday morning errands or the kids to the mall isn’t going to skew those figures. The bottom line for me is that when an aircraft goes down it’s going to be catastrophic. There’s no such thing as a fuselage bender.

How does this translate to healthcare? How about this statistic: more people die annually while under the care of a physician than by guns.

The cold, harsh reality is that the cost of dying (it happens to all of us—if ever we live that long) is going up and, like the plastic surgery industry takes advantage of our fear of growing old, the health care industry takes advantage of our fear of dying.

How many times are they going to flip-flop on the “a glass of red wine every night is good for your heart” matter?

But the question, really, is not so difficult, even if the answer is complex: If I exchange money for health care (services) from my physician, why should the government tax me so that others can get health care?

The easy answer, and the rhetoric President Obama spouts when discussing health care reform, is that everyone in this country has a right to health care.

If that’s true, that health care is a right guaranteed by the Constitution, then the government must provide it, as it provides for our national security, public safety, and our judicial system.

“No!” you say? “That would amount to socialism.”

So on that premise, it is not such a right, right? After all, the Constitution is largely about what the government can and can’t do (also known as infringement) to We, the People. Nothing in the Constitution, or in the Bill of Rights, says anything about what others must do for us.

Therefore, government should remain apart from health care, yes?

I grew up in the 1960s and had an uncle who worked for General Motors. He had three boys who liked to roughhouse, and for every bump and bruise, every nick and cut, my aunt took them to the doctor and presented her insurance card and it was covered—all of it. Nothing out of pocket was ever required, no deductible ever needed to be met.

Flash forward forty-five years: a colleague recently informed me that she has carpal tunnel in one of her wrists. She can’t afford surgery because she’s still paying off last year’s deductible for other health issues. On top of that, she tells me a friend of hers, who is on Welfare, would be able to have the surgery and it wouldn’t cost her a dime.

Now, maybe if I was unemployed and uninsured and needed treatment for some serious ailment I couldn’t put off, I’d feel differently, but how is that fair? My colleague has a right to health care; but because she is employed she is penalized? And her friend, who for whatever reason isn’t contributing to society, gets a free ride because everyone in this country has a right to healthcare even though the Constitution makes no such claim?

Basically, my colleague and I contribute to our health care, which we select from a menu of benefits—the cost of which goes up a few dollars every year—incur a co-pay for each visit to our physicians, and have an annual deductible we must meet before our insurance kicks in, all so that those on Welfare and those who can’t afford health insurance, can get treatment for free. What’s my incentive to continue to function in the workplace, contribute to society, to go into debt to pay for health care, or file bankruptcy in the aftermath of a heart bypass?

I get it. It’s a global village in which we live. I do it because it’s right. But sometimes I struggle with doing what’s right because it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes I fail to do what’s right, and other times I do it and grumble about it. And sometimes it’s the right thing to do—grumble about it that is. Because only when one grumbles is there a chance to fix something that’s broken or wrong. Say nothing, bear the cross in silence, and you give a nod of approval to the status quo.

So maybe it is right, that the many pay so that the few can be cared for.

Or maybe it’s wrong because it’s a conspiracy: healthcare for the rich, let the rest of us die, especially now that the Baby Boomers are approaching that age when we’ll most need health care. Think about it—letting us die will help solve the Social Security dilemma.

Then again, maybe it’s right only because the health care system is broken, and why bother to fix it as long as it’s profitable—at least until the back of the middle class can carry no more?

“Broken?” you say.

Yes, broken. Consider that the pharmaceutical industry spends more money on advertising than on research and development—just about every station break in prime time has at least one commercial peddling some med with a list of side effects that’s nastier than the malady it purports to treat. How much of the cost of the average prescription goes into running those ads?

Heck, even hospitals, medical centers and cancer treatment centers spend millions on TV ads. Yep, my co-pays and deductibles at work.

Maybe it’s smart to shop ahead—like buying a casket ahead of time allows you to dicker over price—but I can’t help but think I’m not going to recall an ad for St. Joseph Mercy Health System when I go into cardiac arrest.

Consider the frivolous malpractice suits that drive up the cost of malpractice insurance—how much of the cost of open heart surgery goes to malpractice insurance?

But, perhaps most important, consider the profit margin in treating a symptom over finding a cure.

We put a man on the moon, are building an orbiting space station, have designed a car that can parallel park itself, can increase fertility and create man-made erections, and enhance the female body with silicone and Botox. We’ve even cloned a sheep. But we still haven’t found a cure for cancer.

Or have we?

Why would the health care industry want a cure for cancer if it cut into profits by eliminating the need for long, drawn-out treatment?

Imagine what legalized assisted suicide would do to profits.

How does profit margin fit in with the Hippocratic Oath anyway?

An excerpt from my work in progress, 500 Miles.

Four

Who’s that?” I asked. It was the second week of the new school year and Vince and I were walking to our next class when I spotted the raven-haired goddess walking toward us. It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t really expect that Vince would know.

“Her?”

“Don’t point you idiot! Yes, her.”

“Gail Russell. She’s in my second hour history class. I hate history.”

“That’s because you don’t think anything of any importance happened before you got here. Don’t you want to leave behind some legacy of your own—have people read about you in a history book after you’re gone?”

“I never thought about it that way.”

Gail passed us and I stopped to turn around to watch her retreating figure, which was divine, the way her hips swayed in the floral skirt that bared just enough of her shapely calves.

“You go on,” I said to Vince. “I’ll catch up to you.”

“But—”

“Go on. I won’t be late.”

Then I hurried to catch up with Gail.

“Excuse me,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. She stopped and turned to look up at me.

“Yes?” she said in a soft voice.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Gail Russell?”

She looked confused. Apparently it was a line she hadn’t heard before. I was pleased I was the first.

“But I am Gail Russell,” she said.

“Really? Imagine that. But I was referring to the actress who starred opposite John Wayne in Wake of the Red Witch. I think she’s the most beautiful woman in pictures.”

This Gail blushed and averted her eyes at my homage.

“I need to get to my next class,” she said.

“Yeah, me, too. But listen, I know it’s short notice, but how would you like to go to the dance with me tomorrow?”

Gail blushed anew, but she bravely looked up at me. She took a moment to consider; eventually a smile came to her lips—she had a beautiful smile—and then she nodded.

“I think I’d like that,” she said.

“Great! Meet me on the front steps after school and we can exchange phone numbers and particulars.”

“Okay,” she said and hurried off to her next class.

I stood a moment to admire her departure and wondered at my great good fortune—that she hadn’t yet been asked to the dance by some other guy. I was still too young to understand that the cutest girls were often left to spend Friday night home alone because guys figured they either had already been asked or they’d get shot down for presuming they’d consent to going to a school dance with a mere mortal.

And then it hit me that I’d neglected to tell her my name. Apparently this sort of thing was new to her, too, since she hadn’t asked for it.

“My name is Alex Król.”

Gail smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “I realized I’d forgotten to ask after I sat down in my English class.” And then, “You must think me horrible.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m one of those girls.”

“One of what girls?”

“The kind that goes out with any guy who asks her. You know, loose.” Gail blushed and looked away.

“You blush. I like that.”

Gail’s discomfiture deepened.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

She looked at me. “That’s okay.”

“If I thought you were that type of girl, I wouldn’t have asked you to the dance.”

Gail smiled and I felt my heart shift into a higher gear.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You a senior?”

“A junior.”

“Me, too.” And then, “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you around school before. You’re someone I’d notice.”

Gail smiled and said, “We just moved here, from North Carolina.”

“That explains the accent, which I like.”

Gail laughed. “To me, ya’ll have accents.”

I laughed. “I imagine we do. So what brought you to Michigan?”

“Politics mostly.”

I raised an eyebrow; Gail continued:

“The Dixiecrats are against civil rights.”

“So your dad’s a liberal?”

“No, not really. He’s a Baptist who believes in equal rights. It didn’t hurt that job opportunities here are greater.”

“What’s he do?”

“He works on the assembly line at the Rouge Plant. He hates it, fastening seats into cars. But the wages are good, and the union watches out for him.”

“Dearborn is quite a drive from here.”

“South Lyon is a lot like our home town.”

I nodded. “You like it here then?”

“So far. The kids are friendlier than I thought they’d be.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“What about your dad? What does he do?”

“He’s self-employed. The town’s best auto mechanic. He has a shop in our barn.”

“Ya’all own a farm?”

I grinned. “Just my dad. A small parcel just west of town.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all. I like your accent.”

“I just want to fit in.”

“Why would you want to fit in? Different is good. It gets you noticed. Those who achieve greatness are usually different.”

“I guess that never occurred to me.”

“But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

We went silent a moment. It was a silence that, in the months ahead, wouldn’t be nearly so uncomfortable as we got to know one another. It was the silence that comes with the comfort of simply being in the company of a loved one.

“I should be going,” Gail finally said.

“Me, too. But before we go, I should get your address so I can pick you up for the dance.”

“You drive?”

“I’ve been driving for two years, with my mom and dad of course. I don’t yet have my license, but I think I can get Dad to let me drive to the dance.”

“I’m not sure my dad would approve.”

“Does he have to know?”

“I won’t lie to him.”

“I understand. Then I’ll meet you at the dance.”

I watched Gail scribble her phone number onto a piece of paper; she handed it to me and I glanced at it, the treasure that it was. I thought her penmanship was as exquisite as her face.

“Thanks,” I said. “Oh, and here’s my phone number.”

I scribbled it onto a piece of paper and handed it to her, but before she could take it, I withdrew it.

“How’s your daddy feel about you calling boys?” I asked with a grin.

“I don’t know,” Gail said. She looked startled. “It’s never come up before.”

“Well, you should have it in case an emergency comes up and you can’t make it.”

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling.

“If I don’t see you around school tomorrow, I’ll see you at seven.”

“It’s a date,” she said with a smile.

I left for home feeling as if I’d just taken the checkered flag.

“I’ve never danced with a boy before,” Gail whispered in my ear as the band played Goodnite Sweetheart Goodnite, a Spaniels song that was popular. I couldn’t believe how wonderful Gail felt in my embrace.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I haven’t either.”

Gail laughed, the sound tuneful.

“You’re funny,” she said.

“Well, looks aren’t everything.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Although I have to say you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

When the song came to end we made our way to the punch bowl.

“You know,” Gail said after taking a sip, “you’re my first date.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“Not to call you a liar, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, I’ve been asked once or twice.”

“Only once or twice?”

“Okay, several times. But I’m very choosy.”

“Huh,” I said, with a grin. “And here I thought I’d done the choosing.”

“I could’ve turned you down, you know.”

“True enough. So how come you said ‘yes?’”

Gail blushed and looked down.

“Oh, my, be still my beating heart,” I said. “Do you do that often?”

“What?” she asked, looking up at me again.

“Blush.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, I think it suits you. I hope it’s something you’ll do only for me.”

Gail smiled and blushed a deeper shade. I came to her rescue—that’s who I was in my youth, a rescuer.

“So why did you say ‘yes?’”

“Promise me you won’t laugh?”

“Scout’s honor,” I said, holding up my right hand, palm out.

“I liked the way you looked at me yesterday, when you asked.”

“How was I supposed to look at you?”

“I’m not expressing myself well.”

“That’s okay; I have that effect on people.”

Gail laughed. “I imagine you do.” And then, “It was obvious when you looked at me you liked what you saw. But you were respectful.”

“Why wouldn’t I be respectful?”

“You didn’t leer at me.”

“Oh. My turn to apologize. Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.”

“Telling me I looked like Gail Russell didn’t hurt your cause.”

“I’m very honest,” I said.

“And …”

“Uh-oh, there’s an ‘and?’”

“I’ve seen you around school and you seem one of the better boys.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What, that you’re one of the better boys?”

“No, that you’ve seen me around school. That would mean I’ve missed seeing you, and I can’t believe that.”

“Do you always flirt so outrageously?”

“Only with you.”

“Good answer.”

Just then the band segued into Honey Hush, a Joe Turner song that had been popular in 1953.

“Come on,” I said, taking Gail’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

The evening came to an end all too soon. We danced and talked and got to know each other, and liked what we learned.

We held hands as we made our way across the parking lot to where her dad sat behind the wheel of his idling car—a 1950 Ford Zephyr Six.

We stopped about ten feet from the Zephyr Six to look at each other; I held both of Gail’s hands in mine.

“What I wouldn’t give to kiss you,” I said.

“Why Alex Król, what kind of girl do you take me for?” Gail said with a smile.

“The kind I’d like to kiss.”

Gail grew serious. “I know,” she said, glancing at her father, seated in the car with his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. Perhaps he knew this day had been coming, when his little girl would grow up to meet the young man who might take his place.

Gail raised herself up on her toes to kiss me on the cheek.

“Another time, I promise,” she whispered. Then she gave me a brief hug, her breasts feeling firm against me, and made her way toward her father’s car.

Yesterday’s Indianapolis 500 was certainly one for the ages.

It was the 100^th anniversary of the speedway—not to be confused with the anniversary of the race, which was halted several years during the war years, both the first and second World Wars. The 100^th running of the event will be marked later this decade. Coincidentally, I attended my first 500 in 1966 as a nine-year-old boy. It was the 50^th running of the race, and a tradition of my own was born that year. In the seventies and eighties I strung together more than twenty consecutive races—I have the tickets to prove it. I witnessed Foyt become the first man to win four 500s. I’ve seen some of the greatest drivers—A.J. Foyt, Jimmy Clark, Graham Hill, the Unsers and the Andrettis, Emerson Fittipaldi and many others. I witnessed history as Janet Guthrie became the first woman to ever start the Indy 500.

Sadly, in the 1970’s, the sport began to change. It became more about technology. Where once a great driver could put a car into Victory Lane, it’s now about investing the most money in equipment. Today a winning team is composed of maybe 40% driver. In the 1990’s I stopped going to the race.

Three and a half years ago my now ex-girlfriend, knowing of my past love for this event, asked me when I was going to take her to a 500. She’d long complained that I didn’t take her out enough and so I ordered two tickets—not the best seats in the house; I ordered them late and few good seats were available. We went and she complained about the seats, the noise and the heat and I was reminded why it was I rarely took her anyplace. Did I mention she’s now my ex-girlfriend?

Last fall I suggested to a boyhood pal, who had never been to the Greatest Spectacle in Racing, that attending this special anniversary celebration might be the one to make his first. Mark told me, “Sure, let me get back to you,” leaving me to wonder if he really would. True to his word, he contacted me a few days later to tell me that two of his buddies from church wanted to come along and so I ordered four tickets.

Four grown men, we guys of a certain age, driving all night to attend the Indy 500—truly a recipe for a grand time. Or maybe disaster.

I told Mark we should leave at 2:30 Sunday morning, which would allow us enough time to enjoy breakfast at the International House of Pancakes on Meridian at 16^th Street. There was nothing special about the IHOP other than its rich history: Dad had taken me there in 1966 and I’d gone there every year I ever attended a race. I took a previous girlfriend there—it was the year Foyt won his fourth—as well as my wife and, three years ago, my old girlfriend. The IHOP was long part of my tradition. From there we’d head downtown and grab a shuttle to the track where we’d roam the infield to check out the sights before the race.

Well, David was late arriving to Northridge Church, where we’d all agreed to meet. By the time we got his stuff loaded into Mark’s Expedition we were thirty minutes behind schedule. But Mark got us back on schedule by pushing the upper limits of the posted speeds.

We talked all night, the stuff guys talk about. Mark talked about his three sons, of whom he is rightly proud. I’ve met them all and they are fine young men.

“Daniel,” he said, “had to do a paper for school on the merits of video games.”

Daniel is Mark’s youngest, at age nineteen. He’s intelligent and, as Mark claims, not nearly as quiet in private as he is in public. Best of all, he’s respectful of others—including our generation, when it’s earned.

“There are merits to playing video games?” David asked from the backseat. “As opposed to, say, reading a book?”

“That was the challenge of the assignment,” Mark said. “He put forth a good argument.”

“He convinced you?” I asked.

“No.”

We all laughed.

“Daniel told me he caught up with you on some website where you were carrying on a debate about some aspect of baseball,” Mark told me.

“No kidding?”

“I forget what the discussion was about but he told me he thought you sure were passionate about baseball.”

“That was a surprise to you?”

Mark laughed. “No.”

From there we talked of baseball, the beauty of the game, instant replay, steroids, the petty squabbles between billionaire owners and millionaire players.

“You’re against instant replay,” Mark said to me, “even though last summer it would’ve guaranteed Galarraga’s perfect game?”

“He still twirled a perfect game,” I countered. “Everyone knows that. Jim Joyce admitted it later, that he blew the call. In my mind I attended the only perfect game in major league history that will never appear in any record book. There’s something field of dreamish about that.”

“It’s not a perfect game if it took twenty-eight outs,” Mark said.

“It is if the umpire admits he blew the call.”

“Tell that to Galarraga.”

“He knows,” I said. “In his heart he knows. He doesn’t need no steenkin’ record book to tell him.”

We both agreed that Galarraga showed incredible class in the aftermath of what might have been.

We talked of politics and bin Laden and what constitutes torture.

“I’m not above torture,” Mark said. “I’d employ water-boarding to obtain the information that might save my family.”

We talked of David’s recent separation from his wife and his impending divorce.

Starlin talked about his motorcycle accident.

“I looked down for a minute,” he explained, “and when I looked up again a Volvo was stopped right in front of me. I went over the handlebars.”

Mark quipped that a minute was a long time to have one’s eyes not on the road.

We spoke of a variety of topics, including the race and who our favorites were.

“My favorite is anyone not driving for Penske or whose name is not Danica Patrick,” I said.

“I think she’s hot,” Star said.

“What’ve you got against Danica?” David asked.

“When she first broke in,” I said, “she did an interview during which she said she wanted to be taken seriously as a racecar driver, not a woman trying to play in the sandbox with the boys. Then she proceeded to take off her clothes for the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“I like pretty girls as much as the next guy,” I said. “But if she wants to be taken seriously as a racecar driver, that’s not the way to go about it.”

“Carl Edwards in NASCAR did a spread for a magazine. That guy is ripped.”

“So what’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”

“Right.”

“Two wrongs make a right.”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“In a society that purports to be anti-objectification of women, a lot.”

And so it went. We passed the miles and the hours debating, in a healthy fashion, a host of topics, each of us respectful of the other’s opinions.

Four hours later we rolled into Indianapolis, gassed up the Expedition, and made our way into town.

We turned left onto Meridian and as we approached 16^th Street I told Mark the IHOP would be on the left; but when we got there we saw that the IHOP had been replaced by a CVS and I found I was more than a little disappointed that a part of my past had been unceremoniously eradicated.

We drove downtown to get our shuttle tickets—$24 for a roundtrip fare. I recalled my dad telling me when he first started coming to Indy, in 1951, the train fare was but fifty cents.

We found another diner for breakfast where the food was far better than the IHOP had ever been; but it did little to assuage my disappointment.

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time we arrived at the track, and we spent an hour roaming the infield before making our way to our seats in turn one.

The atmosphere was electric, as it always is during the prerace festivities.

I was gratified that some things never change—God Bless America and America the Beautiful were sung. The invocation was given, Military Taps played, the Star Spangled Banner sung (a stealth bomber flew overhead looking sleek and ominous and took with it our breath). When Jim Nabors sang Back Home in Indiana it was again, for a moment, 1966 for me. I thought of my dad, shared the moment with him, and was glad the guys couldn’t see the tears in my eyes behind my sunglasses.

When the command was given to the drivers to start their engines I was only dimly aware of the addition of “ladies.” When the engines fired the four of us exchanged high fives and remained standing through the parade laps and the pace lap.

When the green flag dropped and the cars came by at speed, Mark turned to me and said something I couldn’t hear for the sake of the blessed noise of the screaming engines, but I didn’t care.

We then settled into our seats to watch the race unfold.

It was a race for the ages, a throwback to the golden age of motor sports. The rabbits, one by one fell by the wayside. Castroneves fell a lap behind; the pole sitter, Tagliani, crashed. The race was fast, with few caution periods.

When Danica Patrick took the lead late in the race, Mark elbowed me; but I told him she’d have to stop for fuel and would finish no better than 10^th, which is pretty much where she’d been running all day.

The finish, like the race, was fast but eventful.

Kanaan and Franchitti looked to be contenders for the Borg Warner, but they, too, had to stop for a splash of fuel with a handful of laps to go.

J.R. Hildebrand inherited the lead and the race was his to lose, which he did when he hit the fourth turn wall on the last lap, leaving Dan Wheldon to take the checkered flag in one of the wildest finishes I can remember. Hildebrand's wrecked car stopped in front of us and he climbed from the cockpit looking as demolished as his once sleek car looked.

On our shuttle, as we inched along, I spotted a woman in a day-glo pink swimsuit top and short denim cutoffs. Although buxom, she wasn’t very pretty and was too old to be dressed as she was; but who was I to judge?

I called out to David, seated across the aisle from me, if he thought her top was indeed day-glo pink.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m terrible with colors.”

A woman’s voice from behind me concurred with my assessment. I turned in my seat thinking I was about to incur her wrath. But she was an attractive woman of our age, seated next to her husband, and she was good-natured about it.

“Did you notice her sunglasses were white?” she asked with a dazzling grin as her husband laughed.

I looked back at the woman in question and then back at the woman behind me.

“No, I missed that,” I said. “To be honest I was trying to make out the tattoo on her navel.”

When the bus inched past her, I added, “Dere dey glo.”

We had a bird’s eye view of the bus in front of us, where an advertisement stared back at us: a photo of a mansion and the words, See the House that Jefferson built.

“Bus driver,” I called out from my seat three rows behind him.

“Yessir?”

“What’s your name?”

“Howard.”

“Howard,” I said. “Are you going to show us the house that Jefferson built after you drive your bus through it?”

Howard joined us with a laugh and assured us that wouldn't happen.

Our drive home was pleasant and we passed the miles by talking about the day’s events and the lives to which we were returning. I mentioned some small piece of 500 trivia, adding that I was a wealth of worthless knowledge where Indy was concerned, and David said, “That’s something you wouldn’t learn by playing video games.”

Mark said he could see taking his grandchildren to a 500 one day when they got old enough and I took pleasure in passing a new tradition to someone.

We arrived at Northridge Church just after nine and I exchanged handshakes with Star and David, a hug with my childhood buddy, Mark.

On my drive home I lost myself in thoughts of the day, the race, what it meant to me, its traditions, Dad, and my own traditions. I thought of A.J. Foyt, a boyhood idol, who drove the pace car earlier in the day. It was the fiftieth anniversary of his first 500 win, and I wondered where the years had gone.

I fought back tears as I realized, yet again, you really can’t go home again.

I’d learned that lesson fifteen years ago when, after Dad passed away, my sister and I sold the house in which we grew up.

Alone in that house for the last time, I made my way through it, checking all the cupboards to make sure we hadn’t missed anything, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. The image that stared back at me was fifteen years old. Behind me stood Dad, teaching me how to tie a Windsor knot in the tie I wore to my high school homecoming dance.

A few weeks later I drove by that house on my way to visit friends who lived around the corner. It was dusk and I noted the new owners had replaced the drapes of the living room window with vertical blinds. The blinds were open and I could see the wallpaper in the living room had been torn down and the walls painted: the home my parents had made for me and my sister was now someone else’s home.

They, whoever they are, say that change is good. But that’s a blanket statement. Not all change is good, even if it is inevitable. Today’s Indy 500 is faster and safer than it was during the golden age of racing. It’s common for women to compete in what once was a male sport; when I first started attending the Great Race women weren't allowed in the pits. This year’s field boasted four women. Eventually the Borg Warner trophy will bear the likeness of a woman, and that, along with all the rest, is a good thing.

But this morning that does little to assuage my grief over a past forever etched only in memories.