For a place defined by speed, noise, and spectacle, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was eerily still. No screaming engines. No grandstands packed with a quarter-million fans. Just an empty track stretching endlessly ahead, bordered by steel and concrete, soaked in history.
I stood at the edge of the start/finish line, staring at the narrow strip of weathered, red bricks embedded in the asphalt—all that remains of the 3.2 million bricks that once paved the entire circuit. Here, in this quiet moment, I was about to take part in one of the Speedway’s most enduring traditions.
I knelt down, placed my hands on the bricks, and leaned in.
The Indianapolis Motor Speedway is more than just a racetrack; it is a cathedral of speed, where horsepower and history collide. Built in 1909, it began as a treacherous surface of gravel, limestone, and tar—conditions so unsafe that multiple wrecks in early races forced a radical solution: bricks. Three million, two hundred thousand of them, laid by hand, transforming the track into the Brickyard. It was a test of endurance, a proving ground where legends were forged. Over time, the track was gradually paved over with asphalt, but a single, three-foot-wide stretch of bricks at the start/finish line remains—a sacred relic of the past.
Traditions are born in strange ways. The act of kissing the bricks dates back to 1996, when NASCAR driver Dale Jarrett, fresh from victory at the Brickyard 400, knelt down and pressed his lips to the finish line in reverence. It was a simple, spontaneous act, but one so powerful that it became part of the Speedway’s mythology. Now, every winner of the Indy 500, the Brickyard 400, and other races at IMS follows suit—as do the countless fans who visit the track to pay their own respects.
Today, I was one of them.
I lowered myself onto the track, feeling the rough texture of the bricks beneath my fingertips. They were cool, solid, and utterly indifferent to the thousands of racers who had crossed over them in pursuit of immortality.
I leaned forward, pressing my lips to the bricks.
The moment was brief, but weighty. I closed my eyes and thought of the great names who had crossed this line before me—A.J. Foyt, Mario Andretti, Rick Mears, Helio Castroneves. I imagined the thunderous applause of a crowd on race day, the deafening scream of engines, the checkered flag waving in the distance. For a fleeting second, I wasn’t just a spectator in the history of this place—I was part of it.
Rising to my feet, I let my hands linger on the bricks.
I thought about what it means to stand in the shadow of greatness. To participate in a ritual that binds past, present, and future. To kneel where champions have knelt, not in worship, but in acknowledgment.
Kissing the bricks is not about superstition, nor is it just a quirky motorsports tradition. It is an act of reverence, a quiet recognition of the pursuit of speed, glory, and human ambition.
I left the Speedway that day knowing that my lips had touched the same place where history had been made, lost, and rewritten time and again.
The bricks don’t care who you are. They don’t care if you’re an Indy 500 champion or a visitor on a quiet afternoon.
But if you kneel before them, they will remind you that some places are more than just places. Some places hold the echoes of those who have come before—waiting for those who will come next.