Speedway is like most communities. Yes, it has a motor speedway that hosts three major races a year, but this is a town where people go to work each day. They toil in the factories and work in the stores. It's where people play golf on a championship-caliber course.

It's early, and the utility carts, mowers and four-wheelers tear out of the Brickyard Crossing maintenance facility, shattering the calm of a quiet, hazy morning.

Breakfast at Charlie Brown's restaurant can best be described as consistent. It is a place where people address one another by a first name or nickname. Smiles, a friendly wave or a hug add to the familylike atmosphere.

Lifelong Speedway resident Mike Mead, a laborer for the town's Street Department, figures he knows the town inside and out -- literally.

There isn't much happening around noon at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. True, NASCAR driver Kyle Petty is milling about. "Fatback" -- that's what everyone calls Michael McSwain, crew chief for the No. 18 Chevrolet of Bobby Labonte -- is talking chassis adjustments with his crew and spitting tobacco juice. And Jason LaDuke, 12, is standing at the edge of Gasoline Alley, hoping to get a glance at a racing idol.

The light coming from Ron Schmidt's gloved hand is impossibly bright and far too intense to look at directly with the naked eye.

Edoardo D'Alesio just stood and stared at the Borg-Warner Trophy slowly spinning on a pedestal at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Hall of Fame Museum.

Sgt. Mark Morgan's patrol shift doesn't officially start until 2:30 p.m., but he likes to arrive at police headquarters on Lynhurst Avenue early to get a jump on paperwork.

Many families have hectic lives with jobs, school and sports activities. And then there are the Daghes. If it weren't for cell phones, multiple cars and the mutual aid of other parents in the close-knit Speedway community, its hard to imagine how Bret and Laura Daghe, 12-year-old son Jake and 10-year-old daughter JoJo could be in so many places at once.

Only a few people hung around the bar at American Legion Post 500, near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. It was 9 p.m., and square tables neatly lined the dimly lit dining area. Each was adorned with a number, salt and pepper shakers, sugar packets, an ashtray and four chairs. Each was empty.

A patron weaves through the crowd on his way to the bar at Buffalo Wild Wings in Speedway. Bartender Rachel Granados pops the top on a beer bottle and hands it to the customer before he says a word.