In memory of Steve Chicoine, who took life’s checkered flag in January. 2024.

At 12:30 last Friday afternoon a wall of bricks crushed me. I noticed my friend Brian, a photographer, in the media center at St. Petersburg. We hadn’t seen each other since Iast season. I walked over to his desk to say hello. The wall began shifting.

“You got my email about Steve?” he asked.

“No, what about him?” I had just talked to two other mutual friends about him who told he was coming to Indy for the 500.

“He passed away,” Brian said, and the wall tumbled on me.

Brian showed me the email he thought he had sent me the Sunday before. I never received it. A check through my inbox didn’t show it.

I Googled Steve’s obituary. The rest of the afternoon I felt like I was watching everything from afar. I was there but detached from everything. There was work to do, and it got completed in a perfunctory manner.

Indycar regular fans may know he is. He always wore a white hat and white shirt with tan or white slacks.

I first met Steve here in St. Pete in 2013. I can’t recall how we started talking, but we recognized ourselves in each other- two IndyCar nerds hanging out together. A walk out to the spot where we met, on the plaza in front of the Dali Museum, cleared my head a bit.

Steve was a regular at St. Pete and Indianapolis. Occasionally he would go to Detroit after the 500 and then go to other nearby races if his schedule allowed before going home to New Hampshire.

After he graduated from the University of Massachusetts, Steve served in the Army for two years, then worked as an animal inspector for the US Department of Agriculture.

Steve went to every race on the schedule one season, something I tried to do a couple of years ago.

There are two stories we always laughed about. Before the race one year in St. Pete, we were standing in the empty paddock in front of Bobby Rahal’s team tent. Fans were walking by heading to their seats.

“Bobby! I’m a big fan! Nice to meet you!” He shook Steve’s hand and walked away smiling.

We looked at each and then burst out laughing. As you can see from the photo, Steve looks nothing like the bald heavy Bobby Rahal.

In Detroit one year, I was invited to wave the green flag to start qualifying. I’m up in the starter’s stand, green flag in hand, and someone shouts from the grandstand behind me.

“What the heck are doing up there?’

I turned around to see Steve, smiling.

I will miss Steve, and the races may be a little less fun for a while. But I know he is at peace.

Heck, he gets to watch his favorite, Ted Horn, Vuky, Justin, and Dan race on that big track in the sky.