“WE, WHO ARE ABOUT TO RIDE….SALUTE YOU!”
We spend our lives in a cultural shell. We go to work, to the store, to the dry cleaners, to the vet, to the ATM and home. Routinius mortise. We seem to shy away from mustering up our drive and curiosity, to expand and go out into the world and experience diverse and unusual cultures and lifestyles. Sad to say, we are too home coddled and choose to cling to our Twitter mentality and plasma screen state of mind.
It was either Theodore or Eleanor Roosevelt that once said, “If given a true option, I would prefer to die in a fly infested tent while on a bully safari overlooking the Zambezi river of costal Africa.” This was an individual of challenge and strong commitment.
The audacity to draw nearer to the home hearth and cling to the comfort and security of the family bosom was not an impediment to Roosevelt; nor is it with me! With this true sense of adventure and Indiana-Jonesology, I have always declared myself a freebooter and explorer of bizarre cultures and ancient rituals! That being said….I went to my first NASCAR race.
My son-in-law had gotten tickets for him and my daughter to see a big race being held at the Daytona International Speedway in Daytona, Florida. At the last moment, my daughter had contracted chronic sport nausea and was currently in the care of Wifey, who knew the systems from her own experience. It was at this time I was offered the extra ticket and the opportunity of a new venture.
It was mid July, a beautiful bright day and my anticipation was built up like a colon full of dry cheese. When we arrived at the Speedway, I was overwhelmed by the mass of vehicles! 80 percent of all pickup trucks in the U.S. and Toronto were there! It gave you a strange sense of migration. The parking ritual took forever, but in due time, we got a parking spot about two counties away. We made the long walk to the main entrance and along the way we passed an entire nation of caravans, RV’s, campers, Winnebago’s and some vehicle abodes that deny description. On top of all these conveyances were lawn chairs, BBQ grills, coolers, dogs and drunks. I was amazed at all the activity that gyrated above ground.
Finally, we entered the inner sanctum of this Coliseum of Speedway. The fans reminded me of the documentaries on the “HISTORY CHANNEL”. Wild eyed, tattooed, bearded, and big breasted Visigoths battling in the Coliseum of Rome in the third century AD. It was also obvious, that most of these fans had a blood-alcohol content of 1.5 liters.
The language of the racing devotee, was colorful in it’s simplicity and directness. The English language was completely overhauled in this environment with 90 percent of all grammatical rules and sentence structures being composed around only two root-words, “fuck and sheeet.” As these spectators roared and slobbered beer, their young adolescent prodigies stood there drooling and grinning while they yelled, “sheeet-fire Daddy!!”
My son-in-law brought a small cooler of beer, which was allowed, and I also purchased what was called a beer ticket, which cost as much as dental work. Those standing in line for beer seem to tremble with the anticipation.
We finally stepped out into the stands overlooking the Circus Maximus of auto racing. It was spectacular! There was a huge oval race track and in the center of that oval was a domain called the Infield. It was a busy and thriving city of activity and purpose. Towers, RV’s, trailers, pimped out buses, race cars and an army with a vast array of colorful uniforms and Darth Vader helmets. All scurrying with ant like precision and purpose!
Soon the command to “START YOUR ENGINES!” was announced and over eighty thousand inebriated fans orgasmed into mental overload. The noise coming from the revving engines was overwhelming and the anticipation and drama of the moment was like childbirth. These gladiatorial helmsmen, began to steer their supercharged vehicles slowly down the track. With every passing moment, the ’Pack’ gained speed until a cautious man, hanging over the side of a protected tower, started to wave a battle standard……then the track morphed into Armageddon!! At that moment, a collective whisper came from the immense grandstand….”Fuckin-a!” It was reminiscent of the Mormon Tabernacle choir, singing the first stanza of the Battle Hymn Of The Republic.
Within moments, the weeping howl of over 100,000 transfixed fans became deafening…..the collective roar of over forty high performance vehicles made your brain vibrate. So, with the over ingestion of malt beverages and the heat of July in this concrete arena, the overall experience became a visual enema plunged deep into the soft tissue inside my skull!
After the race started, everybody just started to roam, drink beer, meet friends from other tribes, drink beer, eat, drink beer, flirt, drink beer, throw up and drink more beer. If Dale Earnhardt’s name was mentioned, then everybody would drink beer. Once in a while, someone would ask who was winning and then drink some more beer.
The only time the crowd became mute was when there was a near mishap, blowout or actual crash. Video cameras were always at the ready for a YouTube moment. An electronic reader board had to tell everybody who was where and in what place. The gladiatorial games were never this confusing. A great many hours later, the race was finally over and somebody named Gordon won which caused a lot of booing and more beer drinking.
Later, after fighting a traffic jam that was equated to a herd of a million rutting bison, I was soon on I-95 and heading home. I was sunburned, deaf and brain fried. My son-in-law was passed out in the back seat, so I got to enjoy the drive home, plus listen to my Cher CD. As I drove the speedway home, I thought about how the roots of stock car racing were derived from the moonshine runners of the 40’s and 50’s. Interesting still, is that many of the sponsors of race teams are beer companies. The paradox of all this is the sponsorship of Nationwide car insurance. Speeding drivers with beer endorsements? Eventual car crashes with auto insurance logos embossed across the wreckage?
Beer, crashing cars, mesmerizing loop-t-loops of mega performance chariots….the highest death toll of any spectator sport in the world and finally, the millions and millions of exuberant and intoxicated fans, whooping it up while they verbalize their bloodlust in single syllable tirades! I now understand the fall of the Roman Empire.
Sugar Bear Charlie
