NASCAR memories

California Speedway Sept. 2, 2007, Sharp/Aquos500

Living so close to Fontana, I was able to buy my ticket at noon, come back about four, then start my long walk to my seat through the many food booths, noticing the smells, the faces, the mist being piped in to help cool the 100+ degree late afternoon. At my seat with peanuts and a beer I have a few minutes to admire the San Bernardino mountain backdrop, the cloud cover that promises some relief, the hot sun at our backs.

The introductory laps begin. The national anthem plays and a flyover by 2 F-17s bring a collective hush then an explosion of approval. There are 3 pace laps in a tight group then the cars are let go and they spread out a little putting their foot deep into the throttle. The sound intensifies. The first time by at speed, still in a tight bunch, 40 cars go by at almost 200 mph, the engines deep and roaring. It takes a moment for all to pass, the sound is like thunder, but metallic as it is caught by our bleachers. Then they’re by and what follows is the smell of burnt high octane fuel and rubber. It takes a count of about 38 seconds for the lead rider to return from a 2 mile circuit. Now they’re a little more spread out and jockeying for position. Close together, end to end, side by side, then spread out again.

The crowd roars their approval at every pass. It’s impossible to communicate when the pack is going by. When the cars have passed people turn to their neighbors to compare thoughts.

The experience invokes your every sense, all encompassing, filling the very space you occupy. The roar in the ears, the vibration you can feel in the seats and in the air itself. The rush of wind disturbed from the speed at such close proximity. The smell of fuel and rubber. The greasiness you feel on your skin. I feel the flush of excitement from the thrill of power and speed that reddens my cheeks and speeds up my heart rate. Craning my neck, standing up to catch a glimpse of the car that goes by, was that the # on the side, the color of the car of the driver from your home town? From the left I can hear the sound approach, roar by, and depart and it feels like rolling thunder. I look to the right and can see the flame out of after burn as they go into turn one. I can hear the engine noise change in perfect unison when a yellow flag signals a subsequent slow down. I can see inside a passenger window and note the roll cage and safety gear and realize this is not just a machine, but also a person. He’s at work today and working hard at what he does.

I watch for a while, then leave before it’s over, before 85,000 other people rise and walk toward their cars. The high whine of my motorcycle ride home doesn’t dampen the memory of the deep roaring engines that still echoes in my ears.