GateHouse Media – The sport of NASCAR is not one that has ever really appealed to me. I’m not really into cars, or loud noises, or exhaust fumes, or sponsorship stickers, or people named Dale, or funnel cakes. OK, that’s a lie. I’m totally into funnel cakes. Actually, if it comes down to it I’d happily spend three weeks inside a cochlea-shattering speedway packed tight with tire dust and Dales if there was a chance of a large beer and a funnel cake within, because, if you haven’t guessed this already, I’m obsessed with my health.
But like about 7 million other things, my NASCAR-free lifestyle was something I subscribed to before I had a child, back when I got to select, all by myself, the events and pastimes in which I could participate. Some months back the Little Man came into possession of a remote-controlled No. 20 car, given to him by his Uncle Dave and Aunt Jeanne. They gave it to him as part of what I believe be to a preconceived and nefarious plan: ensure that we cannot come within 6 square miles of a toy department without Jake squirming off of his leash and scampering into the car section. He’ll then investigate the exciting new sizes, styles and permutations of No. 20 Cars that have come out since the last time we were in a toy department, which was about eight hours ago. (Jake also believes that the car is driven by a man named Twenty Stewart, which is sort of awesome.) If you ever found yourself concerned that a loved one was spending too much money on a silly-sounding collectible – comic books, action figures, whatever – you can go to bed tonight weeping tears of joy that they’re not collecting NASCAR toys, which are evidently produced faster and with less care than Will Ferrell movies. (KASEY KAHNE NEW MODEL: NOW WITH DARKER TIRES!)
For this reason, the lot of us found ourselves last week at what amounted to Jake and my First NASCAR Race. Having never been to one of these things, though, this is how I remember it going: Upon your arrival at the track, all men are required to remove their shirts, unless their shirt says STAFF or a picture of Calvin peeing on something. There is an array of pre-race festivities, including a playback of “God Bless The U.S.A.” and the arrival of two parachutists, one carrying the flag of America and the other – this is true – carrying the flag of Kroger. While this was happening I headed to the Jack Daniels food wigwam, where I purchased a beef wrap, an item that consisted of meat shavings wrapped in a pretty professional-looking approximation of a tortilla, for the extremely reasonable price of about $300. And then you head out to find stupid-looking ear plugs that serve as a dead giveaway that you’re well out of your comfort zone; hilariously, the concession-stand ear plugs come in a variety of colors that include 1987 Lipstick Red, Traffic Cone Orange or Look At Me, I’m Scared Of The Big Noises Yellow.
And then the race starts, and here’s something they don’t tell you about NASCAR races: When these machines turn on, YOU CANNOT HEAR ANYTHING THAT IS GOING ON. It is so mind-rattling, deafeningly loud that it isolates you from friends and family, which is probably why people go, now that I think about it. It’s so loud that Keira Knightley could be 3 inches away, tearfully begging me to spend the month in St. Barts with her, and I’d probably respond with something like, “SURE I’LL GO GET YOU A BEEF WRAP DO YOU HAVE SEVEN DOLLARS?”
But after a while, an indeterminate length of time in which many things happen – including strategy and drafting and a pit crew, none of which I had the first clue about – the race ends in a thrilling last-few-laps sprint. Ours was won by a guy named Kyle Busch, who I am told that everybody hates because he’s good at racing, which is logic that makes a lot more sense when you’re full of beer and funnel cake. Busch’s victory lap was taken to a round of vicious booing from the Indiana crowd, which seemed odd and sort of ungrateful. But I took heart knowing that he couldn’t hear a single syllable of what these people were saying, and besides, Jake was clapping really, really loud.
Stumble It!
Jeff, I am a reader of The State Journal-Register in Springfield, Illinois, and I just want to say your column is invariably hilarious. I enjoy the chuckles, and it does my face good to hold a grin for the duration of the read. I enjoyed reading about Jake and NASCAR. Twenty Stewart, eh? That’s cool. NASCAR would be better if kids wrote the “script,” as it were. By the way, where can I get the car that has the darker tires? Thanks for making us laugh by your serious look at life; you’re doing a great job.