Nothing out here is performed for you. That is the part that takes adjusting to. No announcer working the crowd, no screen, no music between runs — just a car pointed down a dry lakebed and a group of people who have been chasing a number since 1948.
You walk right up. Spectator access is unlimited, the timing sheets go up on the officials' trailer, and if you stand there long enough somebody will explain their entire engine to you because you asked one question. In autumn the surface is usually the best it gets all year and the air is cooler, so this is when the streamliners that have been tuning all season make their final record attempts before winter shuts everything down.
No cell service. No concessions. No shade whatsoever. Water, food, chairs, and something to sit under are entirely on you.
Bring the friend who thinks speed is a spreadsheet. Let the lakebed correct them.