Photography. by Kevin A. Roberts
It was August, with heat that could melt asphalt, and I heard a roar, loud as an airplane engine’s, as oil was vacuumed off the track. The jumble of event names and garish logos was dizzying, and the air itself vibrated as engines revved for the biggest race of the year: the 2019 IndyCar Series Bommarito Automotive Group 500—a national race with a St. Louis name behind it.
I preferred the calmer, anticipatory spectacles: the skydivers who floated toward us with an American flag spread wide; Charles Glenn singing the national anthem like a man in love. At least, I thought I preferred the sedate stuff—until the qualifying trials heated up, and I heard the angry buzz of a Godzilla-scale beehive and the high forced whine of stuck throttle, and it sucked me in. Sucked everybody in, hyperfocused the crowd until we shared a brain.
The race’s darling was Josef Newgarden, who’d won the 2018 championship. “If he wins, the championship could be determined here,” murmured Curtis Francois, the owner and savior of World Wide Technology Raceway. “But trust me, every other racer out there is not wanting to let that happen.”
We climbed to the roof of the VIP suites building. I could see the Bommarito logo meticulously painted on fresh-mown grass, the giant video screens, the entire 1.25-mile oval of the racetrack.
In truth, it is more egg than oval, and it is famously tricky. The first two turns, tight and banky, require entirely different handling than the second two, which corner fast. “They come into turn one at 200 miles an hour, and they have to downshift and even brake,” explained Francois. “You can see people hitting the walls even in practice”—he said, pointing to black scuff marks. The Indianapolis Star once compared the challenge to “racing jet fighters around a paper clip of a race track.” But the shape gives drivers great opportunities to pass, and it calls for careful strategy, requiring a change in gearing and the geometry of their turns.
Now, as the crowd swelled, people lined up at the track wall, balancing camera lenses long enough to shoot lions on the Serengeti. I headed for the Midway, a gantlet of corn dogs, fresh-squeezed lemonade, and sugar-dusted funnel cakes. On to the vintage tent, where I got a lesson in the evolution of the drivers’ uniforms, from cotton overalls to DuPont’s flame-resistant Nomex. Every time an engine revved to life, all heads turned, transfixed.
The real action, though, was at the oval track: Those drivers were racing for the rest of us. Their adrenaline jazzed us, easing the frustration of creaky knees, flat feet, wheezy lungs. Their speed was our catharsis.
Photography by Kevin A. Roberts
Curtis Francois
Francois started racing at Gateway Motorsports Park decades ago, first in club races, then pro, steering “anything with four wheels.” In time, he married, and he and his wife had a baby girl. Then came the sign: “I was in an Indy car, circling the track at close to 200 miles an hour, and I had just a little—the back end of the car started to, I would say, step out on a corner, and it was not going to end well. I was able to save the car and avoid hitting the wall, but my next thought was of my 6-month-old daughter.”
He quit racing and went into real estate. He did well. But he never stopped loving racing. In November 2010, when Gateway Motorsports Park closed, possibly for good, he said, “Listen, guys, if you don’t find a viable solution to this, call me. I want to make sure the racetrack doesn’t go away.”
Five months went by. Then his phone rang. The track was out of options, and the grandstands were set to be demolished. Francois swiftly pieced together a complex deal, using his real estate expertise and his old racing skills. He had to “know how far you can push a machine, find the limit and go right up to it”—and the same held true for negotiating. He wangled a handshake promise from then–National Hot Rod Association president Tom Compton to bring his series every year. And as Francois began improving the amenities, more races returned—NASCAR’s truck series, IndyCar series, Formula Drift, RallyCross.
Then, at the start of the 2019 season, World Wide Technology gave the track its name. New programs introduced the racetrack to a more diverse group of fans. Kids could come to assemble and race karts and get a boost of STEM education. Even the track’s marketing added flair, from a mascot being designed by comics publisher Lion Forge (run by David Steward II, son of World Wide’s founder) to giant race banners.
On this night, the race started after dark, sparks dancing as cars zoomed around the egg, downshifting, shooting forward again. The winner? Takuma Sato, who was, two years ago, the first Asian driver to win the Indy 500. He was gracious in victory, saying he felt “very, very privileged” to beat Newgarden.
Francois was just happy at the turnout, proud of the way his team had “re-energized racing in our region. This is the only raceway in the country that hosts premier competition for NASCAR and IndyCar and the National Hot Rod Association. People feel they have a home track they can brag about.”
It’s a big change in just eight years. He moves fast.
