There was a span of over two decades between my first marriage and my second. Before meeting and marrying Mr. Nearly Perfect, I experienced the joy and despair of dating a variety of men. One memorable man was Larry, a NASCAR enthusiast – a person who never recuperated from Dale Earnhardt’s untimely death.
Larry’s apartment was decorated entirely with NASCAR and Earnhardt memorabilia. Every – and I mean every – available space on his walls and shelves was adorned with miniature model race cars and posters. Another diehard NASCAR enthusiast would have sold his soul for Larry ’s enormous and, I suppose, impressive collection but it’s value, both monetary and emotional, was lost on me.
In a moment of weakness and curiosity, I agreed to accompany him to the Pocono 500 in Pennsylvania. We left New Jersey at sunrise; my first mistake in a series of many that day. People aren’t meant to see that time of day. It’s okay for roosters, but not for humans. The last time I had seen dawn was when I fumbled toward the lilting dissonance of a screaming, hungry infant, several decades earlier.
We left for the race at this ungodly hour because Larry knew traffic would be horrendous, and he was right. Hundreds, quite possibly thousands, of cars filtered off from the main highway onto a narrow one lane country road at a rate of five miles an hour; all heading toward the same destination.
Once there, it took forever to find a parking space in the enormous, jam packed parking field. By the time we found a spot, it was 9:30 AM.
“Larry,” I asked, knowing we’d wasted a great deal of time looking for a parking space, “do you think we’ve missed the start of the race?”
“Not to worry,” he answered. “We have plenty of time. It doesn’t start until 1:30.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.“1:30? Are you insane? Do you mean I could have slept another four hours?”
“I guess you could have,” he said. “But why would you want to? Arriving early is a major part of the fun and excitement.”
Had I not been such a lady, I would have made it clear how I felt about fun and excitement before breakfast. I would also have expressed how I felt about walking in blistering heat, and how my arthritic back and knees hadn’t planned on extended hours of hoofing, and would soon be rebelling.
I looked around at the crowd. It was apparent that I didn’t fit in, which made me uncomfortable. While I wasn’t able to see every one of the thousands of people there, an overview indicated that I may have been the only woman wearing a bra. Most woman sported stretchy tube tops and halters that showcased tattoo-covered arms, shoulders and backs and bouncy chests.
The atmosphere was much like a carnival or a fair. The air was filled with festive music. A battalion of vendors sold items as small as ashtrays, key chains and hair barrettes, with photos or signatures of their favorite race car driver on them. Larger items, such as chairs, dining room tables, and mirrors, had life-size head shots of their favorite race car driver in his car, polyurethaned smack in the center of each piece. I was in the heart of a subculture I felt certain most of the world didn’t know existed.
It was Sunday morning and you can imagine my surprise when, suddenly, I heard a minister conducting Sunday morning services over the public address system. Throngs of captive people couldn’t help but hear prayers while devouring sausage and pepper sandwiches, pizza slices, cotton candy and beer for breakfast. I wondered if future weeks would include a rabbi conducting a Jewish service.
Larry paid extra money to treat me to a trip down into the pits where race car driver’s mechanics were signing autographs as women swooned, and reached out in an attempt to touch the celebrity grease monkeys.
I thought I had entered the Twilight Zone.
After extensive walking and a wholesome breakfast of one hot dog, one funnel cake and one waffle ice cream, it was time for the actual race. Larry had been thoughtful enough to bring along a set of earphones for me. I assumed they were to muffle the horrific, deafening noise of the race cars. I was wrong. They were a special type of earphone that allowed me to hear the racers conversing with their pit managers as they flew around the 2.5 mile tri-oval track. I listened intently for ten minutes until I was forced to admit that I could not understand a single word of what was being said. The clearest sound was static. Nor could I decipher who was speaking. Larry ’s special earphone gesture had been lost on me.
Between the high volume ear phone racket, the incessant, deafening, punishing, cacophony of cars whizzing by at warp speed, whipping my head from right to left to right to left at a velocity three times faster than one would at a tennis match, and sitting on hard cement bleachers in the sizzling sun, I had a real sense of what Hell must be like.
After about an hour I convinced Larry that it would be in his best interest to get me out of there before I embarrassed us both by getting sick. The heat and the noise had taken its toll on me. He was a good sport and agreed that we could leave, admitting that he’d had about enough, himself.
When friends asked me what the day had been like, I wanted to say it was an experience everyone should try at least once, but I knew that would be a lie.
“Truth is,” I told them, “unless you’re a masochist, I suggest you steer clear of any up close and personal NASCAR event.”
One of my friends wanted to know more. Her husband was a NASCAR enthusiast and had been trying to get her to go to the races with him.
“Go get a Magic Marker,” I instructed her. “Now, draw pictures on your arms, chest and legs. Then slip on a tube or a tank top, sans a bra, and tie a neckerchief around your head. Walk to your kitchen cabinet and pull out two large pot covers. With one in each hand, position your head in the middle and slam the pot covers hard, onto either side of your head – bang, bang, bang.”
She scowled. “You have to be kidding. That would hurt like hell.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But, trust me, you’d be getting off easy.”
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