A Kiwi blur

 The guy was from Arkansas and freely admitted he didn't know downforce from the Force Be With You, but he knew which way to look. And so there we stood in the Indianapolis Motor Speedway media center, looking down on the pits and the main straightaway through the big windows, and here came this other media creature, 

"Where's Jimmy Vasser?" he asked excitedly of no one in particular. "I don't see him out there. Where's Jimmy Vasser?"

The guy from Arkansas, a fellow sportswriter and friend who was new to both Indiana and the Indy 500, simply pointed toward turn one.

"He went that way."

Still one of the funniest lines ever uttered in the Speedway media center.

And something that bubbled up from my memory yesterday, seeing Scott Dixon go where no man had gone in 26 years. The greatest IndyCar driver of his generation put his familiar No. 9 on the pole for the 106th running of the Indianapolis at a shudder over 234 mph, the fastest pole speed since 1996 and the second-fastest official run ever after Arie Luyendyk's 236-plus trip on the second day of qualifying the same year.

So the New Zealander was a Kiwi blur -- and even if, like my friend, you knew he was going That Way, you had to look quick. And he needed to be quick, because the two men sharing the front row with him, Alex Palou and Rinus VeeKay, both qualified at well over 233 mph. 

All told, 17 drivers -- more than half the field -- qualified faster than 231 mph. The first eight qualifiers all topped 232. The field average of 231.023 is the fastest in 500 history.

And because my mind works a certain way, that makes me nervous.

It makes me nervous because 26 years ago the driver whose pole record Dixon exceeded yesterday was a joyous man from Coldwater, Mich., named Scott Brayton, and maybe you've forgotten what happened to him six days after he set the record. 

What happened was, he died.

Swapped ends coming to turn two while working on race setup. Hit the Speedway's infamously solid concrete wall. Was killed when his head made contact with the wall on impact.

Concrete vs. head rarely ends well. And it didn't this time. 

And I remember now a certain day that next week, the flowers wilting in the May sun outside Brayton's garage, and his car owner, John Menard, still struggling to find words. And I think about the Kiwi blur and all the others chasing him, and at the same time I marvel at it a piece of me wonders if maybe they're once again going too fast. 

I suppose this makes me Durwood Downer. And, admittedly, a lot has changed for the better in 26 years, from the SAFER barrier to better-engineered cars to the aero screens that protect drivers' heads.

But I can't think of 1996 without thinking of Scott Brayton. And so I pray everyone stays safe next Sunday when the green drops on the fastest 33 drivers in the history of this ancient place.

I also can't wait for it. Because, damn, it's gonna be something.