The Bowdoin Orient

November 17, 2000
Volume CXXXII, Number 10

NASCAR: The scent of America

by Seth Barnes, CONTRIBUTOR

   Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to tell you about a spectacle of speed and power that will make you break into a frantic sweat, make your heart race, and quite possibly send you reeling to the ground drenched in your own tears of joy. I am going to tell you about love, and the heights that the human spirit can ascend to. I am going to tell you about the finest automotive machines ever crafted by human hands. I’m going to tell you how I grew from boy into a man. And how I grew from a man into a savage ape. And if all goes according to plan, I’m going to give you a small taste of America’s greatest innovation: unabated NASCAR racing.
    Thirty-seven weekends a year, a band of warriors climb into their iron chariots and risk their lives in pursuit of the Winston Cup Championship. Are these mortal men, or are they Gods? Could there be a world devoid of stock car racing? Would anybody in their right mind choose to live in such a world? I think not.
    Maybe you knew that a mere 130 miles west of Bowdoin there exists a super speedway that attracts legions of crazed individuals each weekend. Maybe you didn’t. The fact remains that in the tiny hamlet of Loudon, New Hampshire, the Mecca known as the New Hampshire International Speedway (NHIS) stands as a monument that draws the likes of kings, the likes of paupers, the likes of race fans. I will speak earnestly with you my friends, for I know of no other mode of operation.
    On a warm fall weekend in early September I made a journey to NHIS with six of my fellow comrades (seniors all of us, poised to take on the new challenges of the Winston Cup as we had tackled and overcome all that had met us in our illustrious Bowdoin careers) to watch the Dura Lube 300.
    The men who eventually left that raceway were enlightened beings who swam in exhilaration and touched the face of a new God. They were also primal beasts, bereft of any semblance of integrity, ethical action, or the basic abilities of maintaining an acceptable level of personal hygiene. Beasts who stalked a prey of grilled meats, sparkling transmissions, and motor oil. How did this all happen?
    We began our journey in a 27-foot extravaganza know as The California Flyer. As motor homes go this piece of machinery was a gem. Inside, she provided every imaginable amenity one could expect from a motor home; outside, her smooth, sexy shape cut through the New Hampshire air like a the slingshot pellets I played with as a boy. She was captained by William Golding, the man who had arranged for the rental of the R.V. Golding directed us to a shopping megaplex in Concord N.H. where we loaded up with all the necessities for the weekend...namely pounds of uncooked meat, charcoal, potato chips, playing cards, and macro brews.
    Let me say a word about beer consumption at a NASCAR race. Leave your German Oatmeal Stouts, and Honey Dew Drop Raspberry Porters at home. Race officials enforce a strict code that calls for the ejection of any mongrel who isn’t drinking a beer that is light in body and slight on taste. Also, every beverage must have a thick Styrofoam blanket surrounding it known as a “Coo-Zee” to keep it freezing delicious.
    The belly of The Flyer filled to its brim, we came upon the gates of the speedway, and got in line to find our campsite. The scene outside was delirious with activity. Husbands hoisted wives up on their shoulders and danced to country music. Bonfires raged and roared, that were barely in control. People slapped each other on the back, high fived, and smoked cigarettes like it was the last day on earth. And this was just at the entrance.
    As we snaked our way through the grounds fighting the traffic, members of the NASCAR cult would enter The Flyer from time to time to give us the warmest of welcomes. Most of these people were men named Randy who sported WWF t-shirts, gold chains, and serpent tattoos on either arm. Finally the wait was over and our campsite loomed on the horizon. It’s name was ominous and telling: The Jungle.
    The Jungle is on the outskirts of the campground at NHIS. It is where they put fans who crave lawless destruction and excess. It is not a place for the politically correct or morally righteous. Along the main roadway of the campground, a group of men yelled at the passing vehicles to “Light ‘em up” (obviously meaning they wanted the drivers to spin their tires at a high rate of speed) and encouraged women to remove their shirts and bare their naked breasts. We had entered the den of the angry white male.
    Because we were unable to fulfil either of these requests, we parked our camper and disembarked timidly. Would we be swallowed by this mass of testosterone and inappropriate remarks? What would our mothers think?
    Luckily one of our troops called us into action. Wendell Simonson III screamed, “We’re not any different. We’ve just got to connect with these people! It’s like a tomato bush trying to grow in a corn field...it’s not going to flower unless it reaches for the sun!”
    Fine words Wendell, fine words my boy. In hours we had met our neighbors and been accepted as part of the clan. One of my friends, Christopher “Kitty” Hughes even got into a spirited game of horseshoes that went well into the night, and only ended when his new friend Rocko was struck in the jaw by an errant toss. We couldn’t believe our good fortune. We, awkward college students from the suburbs were making nice with the heartland of America. It was beautiful. Although I had to lay down in The Flyer for a spell because of a digestive mishap I encountered on my seventh hot dog, the party roared through the night.
    The man who piloted the camper next to us became one of our closest pals. His name was Jim and he spoke in a broken dialect peppered with F-bombs. He himself actually worked on a pit crew at a smaller racetrack in New York, and educated us in on the ins and outs of racing. Never have I met a man so full of good cheer and self depreciating humor. On one occasion he even filled us in on how to tip over an occupied porta potty. Although Jim was not the world’s most handsome man (he was missing all but three teeth on his upper gum line), he certainly had a pipeline to the heart of womankind. He demonstrated this to us first with a story about his escapades with a certain striper from Providence, and then with suggestive catcalls to several women who passed by. How they resisted his advances is a mystery to this day.
    The night ended with us going to a massive rock concert sponsored by Winston. Above the stage, an awestriking banner screamed “Welcome Home! Nobody leaves a stranger!”
    On stage a massive man with a shaved head screamed to the chorus of outrageous guitar rhythms. And at the end of every song, he screamed at the assembled multitude “You Suck!!!”. The audience roared in approval. We did suck!
    The band wrapped up the night with its signature tune, “If You Play Another Country Song I’m Gonna Have To Kick Your Ass” and we all headed back to the campsite. We set our alarms extra early, allowing us time to wake up, go for a jog, and collect recyclables around the campsite. As we nestled into bed, into our Flyer, my friend Jack Glynn summed it up perfectly, muttering “America Rules, Dude.” as he drifted off. We were at the height of ecstasy, but already we were losing our powers of rational thought.
    As we awoke on the morning of the race, our outlook on the world had changed drastically. Samuel “Eye Wash Boy” Margolis tried to sneak into the bathroom to take a shower. No such luck buster. He was met with resistance by several members of our entourage who felt that showering was for “sissies” or “softies.”
    No member of the Flyer team was going to embarrass the rest of the group by sporting a freshly washed shock of hair, or smelling clean and beautiful. Somebody gathered all the toothbrushes in the camper and threw them in a pile outside; soon they were ablaze in a glorious plume of orange destruction.
    Even though it was only 10:00 we huddled around the grill and cooked strips of raw meat, drooling and grunting like demented wolves, drunk with anticipation at the thought of tearing the prey into unrecognizable pieces. Alexander “Keats” Ellis ran into a nearby wood with a hunk of cooked animal meat. What happened there is between him and the pair New Hampshire State Troopers who were forced to confront the ghastly scene. For the rest of us, the hour of the race was approaching.
    A cornerstone of the NASCAR experience is grounded in the fact that each race fan has one driver that they root for throughout the season, throughout their lives, maybe even after death. For us, this driver is a man named Ricky Rudd, a veteran of the circuit who is lauded for his dignity and bravery on the track. Several times Rudd has been flipped over on the track, - sent in a spiral of flames against the outer embankment. Each time he has emerged even more determined and focused.
    As we walked to the gates of the facility we linked arms with other devotees of the noble #28 car. Each member of the sect was draped from head to toe in a wild array of Ricky Rudd paraphernalia...I’ll tell you right now my friends that blanketing yourself in the race colors of your favorite driver is indescribable. It is as close as I have come to unabashed love; Rudd is not only a hero, he is a father figure to millions.
    Inside the track, we made our way to our seats, each pair of eyes fixed on our beloved Rudd as he started his engine and began to speed around the track. The race was underway. I can hardly recall what happened in the next three hours. I guess the reason for this was the intensity of the engines, and the fact that we had ascended to a place where individual thought gave way to one collective mind that rose above the speedway and contemplated all that was good and true.On one of many trips to the restroom I spotted a middle-aged man sobbing next to the snack bar. He was sporting a dizzying kaleidoscope of race gear supporting Jeff Burton, the driver who eventually won the race.
    The race was nearly over, and although Rudd appeared to have secured a top ten finish, victory was not the name of the day. I was somewhat disappointed, but still giddy about the enlightenment I had obtained. Little did I know that upon my return to Bowdoin several members of The Flyer contingent would be forced to take a leave of absence from the college because of NASCAR related difficulties.
    One member decided to stop going to the dining hall. Instead he fed himself only from the animals that he was able to catch and kill with his own hands. He became sick after ingesting rotten squirrel meat. One member told his girlfriend that he had decided to stop speaking English, and would instead communicate in a series of monkey-like grunts and whistles. She ended the relationship. And in the most tragic case, one member was unable to live outside the walls of NHIS. He decided he was Ricky Rudd himself, and interrupted countless lectures with questions about engine temperature and steering columns.
    We had gone too far. But despite our losses I will remember for the rest of my days, what the man by the snack bar said to me. Tears running down his face, beer belly trembling, thick black beard dirtied with a bright orange sauce, he grabbed me by the forearm, looked me in the eyes, and gasped, “These are the best damn nachos I’ve ever had. God bless this place. God bless us all!!”

NASCAR at its finest. (Sam Margolis/Bowdoin Orient)