In IndyCar racing, tradition runs as deep as the roar of engines, and few rituals are as distinctive as the winner’s swig of milk after the Indianapolis 500. Each year, the victor of this 500-mile marathon downs a chilled bottle—sometimes dousing themselves too—upholding a custom that’s both cherished and expected. Stray from it, and the crowd’s boos will echo through the grandstands, a lesson learned by those who dared defy it. But why milk? The answer lies in a blend of history, pragmatism, and a dash of marketing savvy that’s endured since 1936.
The Origins: A Thirsty Champion’s Choice
The practice of IndyCar winners drinking milk began with Louis Meyer, a three-time Indy 500 winner, on May 30, 1936. After clinching his third victory, Meyer reached for a bottle of buttermilk—a habit picked up from his mother to cool off in the summer heat. Exhausted from the gruelling race, he drank deeply, unaware he was planting the seed of a legacy. The next day, a photo appeared in the newspaper of him mid-sip, and dairy executives pounced. Spotting a golden opportunity, they pitched the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on making milk the official victory drink—an idea that stuck, bar a brief detour.
From 1947 to 1955, three-time winner Wilbur Shaw interrupted the custom, pushing for “Water from Wilbur” instead. His reign as Speedway president gave the request weight, but after Shaw’s death in a 1954 plane crash, the dairy industry swooped back in. By 1956, milk was firmly reinstated, sweetened with a $400 bonus (about $4,500 today) for winners who toasted with it—a tradition unbroken since, save for one notable rebel.
Milk on the Menu: Choices and Constraints
Today’s Indy 500 champs pick their poison from a trio—whole, two percent, or skim—kept ice-cold in a cooler under tight watch. A fourth option, lactose-free milk, lurks for those who request it, a nod to modern diets. In 2024, reigning champ Josef Newgarden opted for whole milk after his back-to-back win, joining a majority trend—21 of 33 drivers chose whole in 2023, per the American Dairy Association Indiana (ADAI). Flavors like chocolate or peppermint? Off the table—purity’s the rule, though lactose intolerance gets a pass.
The milk’s journey to the podium is a ritual itself. Delivered at 6 a.m. on race day—May 25, 2025, for the 109th running—it’s guarded like a relic, often with theatrical flair. Past years saw armored trucks and actor-bodyguards; in 2025, police escorts will usher the Veteran Milk Person to Victory Circle, mingling with fans to amp up the dairy hype.
The Milk People: Guardians of the Bottle
The ADAI oversees this spectacle, appointing a “Milk Person” via a vote among Indiana’s dairy farmers. It’s a three-year gig—Rookie Elect, Rookie Milk Person, then Veteran Milk Person—each step with a role. In year one, the elect shadows; year two, they hand milk to the winning owner and mechanic; year three, they serve the driver. For 2025, Tim Haynes from Garrett steps up as Veteran Milk Person, following 2024’s rookie stint delivering to Newgarden’s Penske crew.
Haynes’s day starts early—6 a.m. at the Speedway, cooler in tow, flanked by security for show. After a pit stop at a secure vantage point to watch the race, he’ll head to Victory Circle post-checkered flag, polling the winner’s preference—whole for Alex Palou, say, if he repeats his 2023 St. Pete form. It’s a simple task wrapped in pageantry, all to keep the milk flowing.
The Rebel Who Paid: Fittipaldi’s Folly
Not every driver’s embraced the dairy rite. In 1993, Emerson Fittipaldi swapped milk for orange juice, touting his Brazilian citrus business mid-victory lap. The crowd erupted in jeers—25,000 strong, by some counts—and his team owner, Roger Penske, nudged him to gulp the milk anyway. He did, grudgingly, but the damage stuck. A year later, Fittipaldi crashed out in the final laps of the 1994 Indy 500, escaping injury but not the fans’ ire. Since then, no one’s risked the backlash—milk’s non-negotiable.
Buttermilk’s Exit: A Taste Lost to Time
Meyer’s beloved buttermilk kicked off the tradition, but it’s long gone from the cooler. Back in 1936, it was a rich, smooth byproduct of his mother’s butter churn—a far cry from today’s mass-produced version. Modern buttermilk, churned in factories, carries a sour tang drivers don’t fancy, better suited to biscuits than victory toasts. Its perishability and shifting recipe sealed its fate—by the 1950s, whole milk took over, sweeter and more stable for the spotlight.
Why It Endures: More Than a Drink
Drinking milk at the Indy 500 isn’t just hydration—it’s a badge of honor, a link to legends like Meyer, Shaw, and 2024’s Newgarden, who downed his after a second straight win. Drivers covet the moment—some, like four-time champ Helio Castroneves, tweak it, sipping then pouring the rest over their heads, a trend since his 2001 victory. Those bottles often end up on mantelpieces, trophies of a hard-fought 500 miles.
The catch? That milk bath stinks. Post-race, drivers linger in sweat-soaked firesuits for hours—media rounds, photos—carrying the sour whiff through the press scrum. It’s a humbling price for glory, but one they pay to join the club. In 2025, as the 109th Indy 500 crowns its king—maybe Palou, chasing a fourth title in five years—the milk will flow again, tying today’s speed demons to a quirky past.
