I fancy myself a pretty open-minded guy - desegregation, women voters, the whole nine yards. So it was with great surprise that I found myself rather reluctant to go to a NASCAR race. I like racing; I like the whole racetrack atmosphere. But it's my stereotype-filled head that's kept me from experiencing this stock car phenomena first-hand. I'm not so disillusioned that I envision Deliverance on wheels, Jeff Gordon and Dale, Jr., runnin' around telling other men they have pretty mouths.
But the whole "going in circles" shtick seems a little old. Yeah, it sounded cool back in the '20s and '30s when the sport originated from bootleggers hot-rodding their way through Appalachia, trying not to spill a trunkful of moonshine. But these days, when the blood of motor sports pumps through so many different veins, trading paint in an oval seems kinda boring. In addition to these preconceived notions, I should add that television has done zero to accurately convey the sport's excitement. So, I lament conceding, I went with low expectations.
I hold racing in such high regard. I'm captivated by Formula One, Ferrari Challenge races and the Shell Historics - three different venues of automotive competition. So why have I fostered such an aversion to stock car racing? Here's where I shift my blame to the media. At home, comfortably nestled in the plush folds of my leather couch, drink in hand, I desperately struggle to find the excitement in expertly panning cameras that smoothly follow cars at 170mph, completely eliminating any hope for action. But, as I learned, even in-car video can't compare to the rush of being track-side.
I won't lie... my introduction to the Sprint Cup Series was one of great privilege. The colorful, laminated press badge dangling from my belt wielded "go anywhere" authority. But at the same time, the average fan had facility and athlete access that's not seen in any other sport. I wasn't alone on the lawn whose advertisement-dyed blades would eventually succumb to the scorching, spinning tires of the race winner. I stood among thousands who cheered each driver as they emerged from the stage that led to the track. And when the last driver, snugly wrapped in logo-laden Nomex couture, made the way to his car, the drivers and officials prepped for what some fans patiently awaited the entire weekend.
While they got situated, I headed over to pit lane. Looming gray cumulonimbus seemed to act as a metaphor; a serene indication of imminent carnage. Bright white floodlights far and near were in direct contrast to the rainbow of sponsorship that assaulted my senses as I passed each pit box. Number-adorned lollipops remained suspended above the white-lined boxes into and from which drivers would later rush after fueling up and exchanging smoking, pitted tires for new, meaty slicks. Pit crews tended to every conceivable detail, all of which could soon be tantamount to winning or losing. The pressure that lingered in the cockpit of each car also tainted the air in pit lane. I watched one crew member step off to the side, kneel down and pray. I spied others engaging small talk as tension gathered like the clouds overhead - and as cliche as that sounds, that's exactly how it was. The race would soon be underway, and while it was all in good fun, the thick, ever-present apprehension is something that's never been adequately channeled through even the most advanced HD televisions.
Pit lane was sticky. Not hot sticky, or littered with adhesive-covered pit boxes, no, the lane itself was sticky. I felt like I was walking through an unkempt movie theater. I looked down to find random black streaks, usually at an angle, leading away from the boxes. My journey continued deeper into the heart of the pumping efforts that breathe life into every race. The drivers' garages behind pit lane were unnoticed when flanked by a brilliant row of the teams' tractor trailers. A small mountain of stacked tires sat outside of one garage whose workers' only job was fitting those tires to the small mountain of wheels that were also outside. But the most colorful thing - the most powerful, brilliant, overwhelming, emotion-evoking part of it all was the people. Not an empty seat in the whole place; 167,000 screaming, cheering, head phones-wearing, radio-holding fans packed into the fifth-largest stadium in the world.
I was humbled; there was nothing ignoble about these people or the goings on that organize this competition for 32 weeks each year. I'd uncovered a big truth and the race hadn't even started yet. Speaking of which, the Star-Spangled Banner was sung and the infamous call was made over the loud speaker: "Gentlemen, start your engines!"
The drivers, strapped into their cars, their helmet and HANS-bedecked heads focused on the impending task, ignited their engines. The Speedway, already electric with fan energy, was now more intense as 43 carburetor-equipped stock cars, each hemorrhaging 775 horsepower, breathed heavily in anticipation of running around the 1.5-mile oval. The Toyota Camry pace car led the racers around for the first lap. When the multi-colored Camry pit, the steady cacophony of over three dozen racecars rapidly crescendoed to a thunderous roar. They took off, barreling into turn one. I watched the first hundred laps from what I called "Media Row", which was situated directly behind the pit boxes. Media Row was dark and featured a faceless crowd whose heads were replaced with snapping Nikons and Canons. Security kept loafers behind a yellow line that freed up a path for those more proactive about getting different angles. I could hear the cars coming around turns three and four, and pined for a better look of the front straight between the Menards and Red Bull pit boxes.
A trip to the other end of Media Row granted a closer view of the cars on the track via the entrance to turn one. It also showed me how much louder the cars are as I got closer to them. At one point, a crew member wheeled a set of used slicks down the path. As he walked by, a wave of heat emanated from the tires - not something I ever felt through my Sony flatscreen. I walked around some more, and when the caution flag was waved, that gave me some time to get to the stands. Finding an empty seat was like trying to find a fan who didn't know what was going on - ironically, I only found myself. I headed down to the gate that kept debris from flying off of the track and taking out scores of spectators. I found an empty seat in the second row and sheepishly filed past radio-listening track oglers who kept up with all of the details via headphones. The dry weather held out for the whole race, but I was soaked in awe of the race's every facet.
I've never been to any event where sitting in the stands offered a more optimal experience than some hoity toity press pass. I didn't witness any crashes, but once the caution was pulled, the intensity was like nothing I've ever witnessed. Overwhelming doesn't even begin to describe what television could never translate. Big, prismatic logos - Target, Home Depot, Crown Royal - none of which were clear, blurred by as they exited turn four and scrambled for a better position going into turn one. Nothing explains 180mph like desperately trying to fix your eyes on a car that's doing it. And the sound! It's frightening to sit there as 40+ cars come flying out of a turn and blow by you. They stir a storm-like wind that made me squint every time. As the bulk of the group comes around, their vociferous calamity is almost surreal. Each car's scream blending in with the one in front of and behind it - like a swarm of overgrown, killer, mechanical bees that have been sent to snuff us out.
Sure Formula One cars go faster, and Challenge cars are more exotic. But F1 is more technical and Challenge cars don't hold a candle to 150+mph average lap speeds. I don't know if Dale Earnhardt, Jr. could hold his own at a Grand Prix circuit. He'd probably get the hang of Challenge racing since he spends some time in the ALMS. But it takes a special kind of person - a NASCAR driver - to go into, and come out of, a banked turn, three or four cars deep, just inches apart, sending sparks through the air when you buzz the wall at 250 feet per second, every Sunday for 32 weeks straight.
I'm humbled to have rid my preconceptions this way. To have sensorially overdosed on one of the world's most visceral racing venues, hot tires and screaming engines coursing through my veins like an adrenal steroid. If I'm lucky, my only punishment is waiting this long to go see a race. But one thing's for sure: I'll never watch another NASCAR race for as long as I live. My first foray into this sport has left me instantly spoiled. I refuse to set my eyes upon another stock car making its way around a racetrack. That is, of course, unless I'm right there at the track. I left the stands after a while, but I don't remember much after that. In fact, a piece of me is still in Charlotte; still at Lowe's Motor Speedway. Still at a place that, when filled to capacity, becomes the fourth largest city in North Carolina. Still ringing in my head at 140 decibels. Still going in circles.
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