My shirt is soaked through, my boxers are riding me, I have a five-alarm sunburn despite bathing in sunscreen this morning, and I’m pretty sure that’s sweat sloshing around in my shoes.  In other words, it’s your typical Sunday at the Grand Prix. 

Really, I don’t know what it is: every Sunday since I was knee-high to an IndyCar, the resweather has turned positively hellish, no matter how pleasant it may have been in the days before.  All weekend people have been saying to me, “Maybe this year it’s not gonna be that hot.”

“Pfff,” was my only response, as I tried to reserve strength for what I knew what be a brutal final day in downtown Long Beach.  You can understand how they may have been misled.  After all, on Thursday it was low-sixties, with a nice breeze.  Today?  It’s 92, an estimated 108 on the track.  Sounds about right.

You may wonder why I’ve paid such attention to Grand Prix’s big race weather over the last few decades—without getting too technical, let’s just say that I’m not an unsweaty man, and so every year I plan on the Saturday of Grand Prix weekend as being the last comfortably enjoyable day of my life until September’s chill starts to set in again.  But: I’m not bitter.  Scorching heat on Sunday is as much a part of the Grand Prix as pleasant, cloudless weather is the hallmark of the Rose Parade.  If you hate the heat, you might as well hate the noise of the engines, the smell of gasoline, and the taste of burning rubber during the drifting demonstrations.

Which, happily, I don’t…though they might not be worth doubling my deodorant budget.