Carolina Speedway; more than just survival

The Carolina Speedway. Cars race past as they compete not just to survive, but to be the best. Photo by David ThackhamBy Connor de Bruler
debrulerc@mytjnow.com

My mouth is dry, my hand unsteady, my forehead hot. I think of angry hicks lynching my pansy liberal ass, but this is just a morbid daydream. 

In reality, I’m going to the racetrack to watch a bunch of cars drive really fast in a circle.

My driver, a fellow colleague of mine, grips the steering wheel of his Chevy Cobalt: a luxurious ride compared to the Ford pickups that make up 90 percent of the Carolina Speedway’s grass parking lot. We’re entering this situation with a definite set of prejudices.

I’m expecting to stick out like a sore thumb, especially since I’m writing almost everything I see down on a small notepad with a faded blue pen. I’m also expecting to be surrounded by partially drunken, homegrown Libertarian folk. 

I can’t help but feel this way.

I quickly learn that our presence as journalism students is welcome.

I get out of the car, join the rest of the group and stand by the chain-link fence on the outskirts of the track. We wait a good ten minutes for our seemingly anonymous bearer of free press tickets. His name is Clint, but there’s no sign on him yet.

I take his absence as a good chance to observe the alien culture around me. A stout, female police officer stands near the fence and lights up with one hand like a 1940’s movie star, blissfully unaware or possibly unconcerned with the dangers of the name-brand carcinogen she’s holding in her hand. 

In fact, all the cops are smoking. All the patrons are smoking.  Parents are carrying their children past the ticket booth with cigarettes dangling from their lips. 

I’ve stepped into a different decade it seems. Something falls through and our complementary tickets arrive, but Clint remains an enigma. My hand is stamped with the words “CAROLINA SPEEDWAY” in big red caps.

We’re not the same as the people watching the races. We’re privileged kids let in for free, but that doesn’t arouse much suspicion or animosity.

There’s a grand sense of camaraderie in the air and, though my cynica disposition urges me to, I’m not going to test its boundaries. Even if our shared enthusiasm is tenuous, it’s enough to get people to start talking.

The first thing I see once I’m inside the speedway is young girl dragging a spare oxygen tank across the concrete, behind her an old woman, who I can only assume is her grandmother, already hooked-up to a ventilator.

A random man approaches me. “Sir, can I interest you in a raffle ticket?” he asks.

Why not? There’s money in my pocket, I think.

The arena is comprised of a several levels of stone steps like an Aztec monument. Most people have brought their own chairs, food and beer. I’m not as prepared, so I sit on the very last concrete stoop beside the safety cage.

The dirt track reminds me of dried blood under the arena’s floodlights.

Here I am, sitting before this giant ring of iron-rich clay, waiting for a race.

An early-October chill sets in as I start to get a little anxious. 

Then the cars start a test drive. All I can here are the roaring of the engines. All I can smell are the fumes of the powerful, 12-octane gasoline. All I can see are brief glimpses of the vehicles as they pass by before kicking up a beige wake of loose dust and dirt.

Several fragments of inspirations come to me. I write down the words, “the entertainment of danger” and “beauty of near-destruction.” I write these things because even before the actual race has begun, the cars come dangerously close to crashing.

The announcer calls out the ages of the racers in the first official round.

The oldest driver is the 21. The youngest is 14.  This racetrack qualifies as the minor leagues leading up to the searing asphalt of Talladega. 

Make no mistake. These drivers are just as suicidal by default of occupation.

No one’s here to watch anyone die. This place isn’t a slaughterhouse.

The patrons are hoping to watch the drivers overcome the danger. They’re

rooting for everyone out there on the track. No one is excluded. As violent

and dangerous as it all is, a pervasive sense of hope lingers in air with the

cigarette smoke and gas fumes. 

Survival is not victory enough. They’re looking to survive as well as drive faster than anyone else.

I get absorbed into this exhilarating game of chance, watching the ring

of speeding cars twist and swerve and become caked with clay. It’s just a violent roulette table, a policy wheel.

My colleagues tap me on the shoulder and I’m brought to the VIP

booth above the arena. 

Finally, we’re introduced to Clint who gives us the technical lowdown. As he speaks, I watch a 70-year-old man flirt with an American Indian girl who couldn’t be older than 17.

The moment of truth comes when Clint, our primary hook-up, takes us

to the pit: the front lines of the race. Before I know it, I’m standing in a field

while serpents of dented metal circles me. I keep my eye on the cars at all

times. The notes in my pad become fevered and incoherent. I’m filled with

adrenaline.

Everything is simple now. There’s no conservative America or liberal

America. There’s no minority rights or gay rights. There’s no cannabis

legislation or religion to speak of. 

Out here, I’m reduced to one goal: don’t

get hit by a car. I finally understand how clear everything really is. Some

people choose to risk their lives, while others pay to watch.