Shrimp, Speed, and Scott Stapp: My VIP Weekend at the Indy 500

Our Executive Editor Ben Barna heads to Indianapolis with TAG Heuer for the 109th running of the Indy 500, also known as the “Greatest Spectacle in Racing.” By the end of the weekend, he found that hard to argue with.

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FRIDAY, MAY 23, 2025, INDIANAPOLIS

3:00 PM

I arrive at The Alexander hotel in downtown Indianapolis and follow the TAG Heuer signs to their race-weekend lounge. It’s the first of many TAG logos I’ll be seeing this weekend. They have this on lock.  For the last 21 years, the brand has been the official timekeeper of the Indy 500—the largest single-day sporting event in the world and the so-called “Greatest Spectacle in Racing.” They’re also clocking F1’s Monaco Grand Prix this weekend, but with the Pacers facing the Knicks in the Eastern Conference Finals and 350,000 people descending on the Speedway this Sunday, Indianapolis feels like the center of the universe.

3:15 PM

There’s a bar in the lounge with some very friendly ladies serving drinks. Everyone in Indianapolis is very friendly, I learn. Austin Augie—my friend from New York by way of Indiana—is waiting for me. He’s here to take pictures and make me feel less alone. We crack a Stella and get fitted with the watches that TAG Heuer is loaning us for the weekend. Mine is a Carrera Chronograph, priced at $7,900. I haven’t worn a watch in many, many, years and never one this expensive. I feel like a new man.

7:00 PM

After checking out some local spots (The Rathskeller, a German-style beer hall, and the Slippery Noodle, the oldest bar in the state), I meet the rest of the group in the lounge for some drinks before dinner. It’s the usual press-trip mix: media, PR folks, brand reps, and a handful of influencers—a newish addition to the press trip scene. Right now, they’re strangers, but having done this before, I know that by the end of the weekend I’d take a bullet for every last one of them.

7:15 PM

The Knicks tip off at 8, and I’m already stressed about missing it. I consider streaming the game at dinner, but with TAG and LVMH folks at the table, I know it’s a bad look. Thankfully, dinner is at St. Elmo Steak House, one of the most iconic restaurants in the country, somewhere I’ve been dying to go but never thought I would. Established in 1902, I’ve heard it name-dropped often on NBA or political podcasts because every out-of-towner eats here. And you can’t talk about St. Elmo without mentioning the shrimp cocktail, legendary for its sinus-imploding horseradish sauce.

8:30 PM

After a quick sprinter van ride around the corner, we pull up to St. Elmo. Across the street, a sports bar is popping off for the game and even though I’m about to have a bucket-list meal with my soon-to-be best friends, FOMO creeps in.

8:35 PM

We’re ushered through the maze of dining rooms toward the private space where we’ll be eating. The restaurant is absolutely humming and I’m bummed we won’t be surrounded by action.

8:39 PM

That feeling disappears as soon as we step into the private room—a wine cellar our host claims is the oldest in the entire Midwest. It’s intimate and moody and I no longer want to be upstairs. 

9:10 PM

Augie and I each order a 32 oz. USDA Prime Tom-A-Hawk Ribeye, dry-aged for 60 days. It’s the most expensive thing on the menu and I feel like an asshole. 

9:26 PM

Drinks are flowing and conversations are moving, but as soon as those shrimp cocktails hit the table the attention shifts to them. They’re the only appetizer on the St. Elmo menu and I’m pretty sure everyone at the table gets one. Eating them feels less like starting a meal and more like accepting a dare. It rips my face off. I check the score of the Knicks game and it’s close. I must watch it, but how?

9:43 PM

The Knicks are down by three late in the third and the table is starting to talk about it. Our host picks up on it and reveals that a mirror at the end of the table is in fact a TV. He puts the game on, and peak life is unlocked. 

SATURDAY, MAY 24, 2025

9:00 AM

It’s the day before the race which means the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, where we’re headed, will be buzzing with activity for the real IndyCar heads. About 15 minutes north of downtown, it’s the largest racetrack in the world.

10:30 AM

The first event of the day is the driver’s meeting, where fans are introduced to the 32 drivers and get their first glimpse of the Borg-Warner trophy, which will be handed to the 109th winner of this race. Mario Andretti, one of the most successful racers in history and now a team owner, is hanging around. TAG Heuer logos are everywhere, reminding me of the brand’s dominance in motorsport.

11:30 AM

I’m given the chance to do a “hot lap”—which basically means strapping into the back of an IndyCar two-seater for a high-speed trip around the track. I don’t even have a license, so the idea is mildly terrifying. But everyone keeps calling it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they’re right. I have to do it. 

12:40 AM

I have no idea who my driver is, but my life is in his hands. At these speeds, there’s zero margin for error. Helmet and fire suit on, I climb into the back of the car—and seconds later, we’re exploding around the track. I’m wired on adrenaline and fear. The Speedway has four famous turns, and every time we approach one, it feels like we’re headed straight into the wall—but somehow, we never are. I cannot fathom doing this for 200 laps. 

1:20 PM

We head to the Penske suite for lunch. Roger Penske is a racing legend who now owns the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and all of IndyCar so the suite is luxe. (His son Jay, owns THR, Variety, Rolling Stone, W, The Golden Globes, etc.) Inside, I spot Omar Apollo and Nicholas Alexander Chavez—two faces I didn’t expect. Former WWE superstar Titus O’Neil is there too, and we start chatting. Within minutes, he’s texting his friend at the Pacers to help us score tickets for tomorrow night’s game. At $900 a piece, they were not cheap, and the phrase “you only live once” echoed through my head as I entered my credit card info into Titus’s phone.

2:30 PM

We head to the garage area to meet IndyCar driver Alex Rossi, who became a TAG Heuer ambassador shortly after winning the Indy 500 in 2016 during his rookie year. He walks us through the intricacies of the $900,000 car he’ll be racing tomorrow, then opens it up to questions. He’s funny and disarming—says he’d pick ‘90s alternative if he could race with music, and casually mentions he had his first kid just 14 days ago. I was instantly rooting for him.

7:30 PM

We arrive at the Wheelhouse Social Club—part event space, part speakeasy, part luxury car garage. After speeches from Béatrice Goasglas, TAG Heuer’s President Americas, and Alex Rossi, we’re escorted to a very long dinner table with columns of luxury and vintage cars looming over it. As far as dinner settings go, it’s a first. Afterward, Augie launches into an impromptu photoshoot with Larsen Thompson and Elysée Sanvillé, two model-slash-actors from L.A. who pose with the cars. Maybe it’s the wine, but everyone is feeling themselves. 

11:29 PM

Back at the hotel bar, none other than Charles Barkley shows up. I had a feeling something like this might happen. With the Eastern Conference Finals now in Indianapolis, the NBA media has descended on the city—a town that, for all its charms, doesn’t exactly overflow with great hotels. Still, I didn’t expect Barkley of all people to be the one holding court. He’s the rare superstar who actually wants to talk—a larger-than-life figure who feels genuinely down to earth. “The Knicks are going to win tomorrow night,” he says, loud enough for the whole bar to hear.  I knock back a Negroni and ask him for a selfie. Of course, he says yes.

SUNDAY, MAY 25, 2025

8:30 AM

Race day! We leave the hotel with a police escort—without it, the 15-minute drive to the track would take two to three hours.

9:00 AM

With the race set to start at 12:45, the grounds are already swarming with fans. Some of them kiss the bricks at the bricks that were part of the original track when it was built in 1909, giving it its nickname, The Brickyard. It’s impossible not to get swept up in it. The history, the anticipation—it’s electric. 

9:20 AM

We arrive at the TAG Heuer suite, which faces out onto the starting line and is right next to the historic Pagoda, the 9-story glass-and-steel complex that serves as the nerve center of the race. 

10:04 AM

Just in front of the Pagoda, the red carpet is underway. Creed frontman Scott Stapp—who wears aging rock god surprisingly well—is signing autographs. Terry Crews bounds down the steps and flexes his pecs for the crowd. A hulking guy in a lime-green fur coat, who must be a wrestler, is mugging for the cameras. It turns out he’s the “Mountain Dude,” a wilderness influencer who moonlights as the face of Mountain Dew. I’m told I just missed Tom Brady. 

10:17 AM

We’re in the pit area now, face to face with the cars and the crew members who’ll keep them running. Keanu Reeves—a speed freak who raced on this track last year—is walking around. So is Indiana’s native son and team co-owner David Letterman, the most instantly recognizable human I’ve ever seen.

10:29 AM

Zach Blass, an editor at the watch publication Time + Tide who’s been killing it with content all weekend, pulls me aside for a quick on-camera interview. I bomb—something about being uncomfortable in my own skin and knowing next to nothing about watches. But Zach is a kind soul, and he really loves watches. He walks me through every imaginable detail of the beautiful TAG Heuer on my wrist. I catch maybe 25 percent of it, but I’m still in awe—of both his knowledge and the watch.

12:03 PM

It’s almost time for the pre-race festivities—“God Bless America,” the salute to the troops, the national anthem, the fighter jet flyover, and all the other reminders that America is the greatest place on earth and not to be messed with. I spot Derek Jeter heading into the Pagoda, where Fox Sports is hosting their suite. On instinct, I decide to follow him. Armed with an array of credentials, I somehow get waved through. I’m not entirely sure I’m supposed to be there, but suddenly I’m in a small room with Jeter, his ex-Yankee teammate Alex Rodriguez, and a few others, watching it all unfold. I probably shouldn’t be here, but no one seems to notice, or care. That’s the power of a good lanyard. My hands are shaking as I text every group chat I’m on. It’s one of the more surreal moments of my recent life.

12:45 PM

A light drizzle delays the start of the race. I climb up to the bleachers above the suite with the rest of the group, just in time to catch the green flag. When the race finally gets underway, someone crashes on the very first lap. The driver climbs out of the car and weeps into his hands. 

2:31 PM

Augie and I decide to trek across the sprawling grounds to find his dad, who’s posted up at Turn 3. The moment we step beyond the confines of the VIP area, a different Indy 500 reveals itself. It’s keg stands and cornhole, beer pong and body paint, bar-b-cues and RVs, porta-potties and the insanely long lines to get in them. 

3:06 PM

We meet Augie’s dad and it’s only there, at Turn 3 among the people, that I can see the true scale of this place. He gives us a couple of Yuenglings and we watch the cars scream by. My ribcage rattles. In the far off distance, the mighty Pagoda and the comforts of the TAG Heuer suite beckon.  

4:30 PM

We get back with about 50 laps to go. I find out that while we were gone, Alex Rossi’s car caught fire during a pit stop and he’s out of the race. I’m bummed, but he’ll be back. I check the time on my TAG Heuer and start stressing about whether I’ll make it to Gainbridge Fieldhouse by 8 p.m. for tip-off. We don’t have a police escort on the way back, and all weekend I’d been hearing the same warning: if you leave right after the race, you’ll be stuck in gridlock for hours.

4:55 PM

Alex Palou has won the Indy 500. On the podium, the Spaniard chugs a jug of milk and receives a limited edition TAG Heuer Formula 1 Chronograph x Indy 500  from Béatrice—both long-standing traditions. 

6:11 PM

We’re on the bus and it’s not moving. It hasn’t moved in 20 minutes. We’re stuck at the Speedway. Panic sets in and Augie and I make the call: We’re getting off. It’s a crazy move but it’s the only move. 

6:15 PM

We find a guy with a pedal-assist rickshaw. We ask if he’s willing to bike us all the way to the arena. He says he’ll do it for $70 per mile. The arena is eight miles away. We pivot and ask him to just get us to the nearest major intersection, anywhere an Uber might remotely be able to reach. After a ten-minute ride, I Venmo him a hundred bucks. 

6:30 PM

We’re not making tip-off. Uber won’t load and traffic’s still a nightmare. Augie sees a guy in the parking lot across the street standing outside his car that has ZCar painted on the side. I don’t know what that is but he tells us he can get us downtown in 25 minutes for $50. We get in and one U-turn later, we’re cruising. A great escape. From despondent to euphoric. We laugh in disbelief most of the way. 

7:15 PM

We make it back to the hotel with time to spare. Back in the TAG Heuer lounge, the tables are set up for the farewell dinner. I’m sad to miss it because I’ve grown fond of our group, but it is what it is. We made our choice, and now we have to live with it. 

10:30 PM

The Knicks come back from behind 20 and win the game. Timothée Chalamet, a few rows in front of us, is losing his shit. Same. I forget my jacket in my seat but at that point I could care less. 

11:21 PM

Charles Barkley is back at the hotel bar, holding court with stories about gambling and his playing days. A good chunk of the group is there too. The night’s winding down, and that familiar end-of-trip sadness is starting to creep in. I’ll miss Charles. I’ll miss this group. But most of all, I think I’ll miss my watch.