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Go, Speed Racer
Posted: Tuesday December 07, 1999 01:14 PM
As you fly down a racetrack approaching 100 mph in the family car with your spouse by your side, it's amazing how all of your senses snap into focus like a laser, allowing you to filter out everything but the crucial, life-and- death decisions before you. "Oh cool, the Goo Goo Dolls. Turn it up." Click. "Hey, I was listening to Kid Rock. Turn it back." Click.
"Goo Goo Dolls." Click. "Kid Rock." Click. "Wuss rock." Click. "Wanna be." Click. "Hey, Dave, look at all those tire skidmarks on the track -- they head right into the wall and then disappear." That's when I decided to take one for the team, ignore the radio and keep both hands on the wheel.
You can file this under the "Dion Rayford: truth is stranger than fiction" file, but on the day after Thanksgiving, the folks who run the Lowe's Motor Speedway in Concord, N.C., open up the track and let in anyone who wants to race a few laps. All you have to do is buy $50 worth of merchandise at the gift shop, sign a waiver, rev up the old family racer (an ass-kicking, ear-screeching, rubber-burning 1993 Honda Civic hatchback in my case) and let 'er rip. Crazy, isn't it? Just completely wacko. Imagine the folks at Yankee Stadium opening up for a beer softball league and you get an inkling of how wonderfully bizarre this concept is. For me the biggest challenge was spending the 50 bucks. For starters, my wife, Kim, had worn Prada shoes (now you know why I drive a Civic) to the muddy track and was on the verge of boycotting the whole event. The other problem was I had decided not to buy anything from a trailer or a booth that displayed the rebel flag. I abhor this flag. So please, bear with me here for a quick sidebar: (Why this flag is so prevalent at NASCAR events has always puzzled me. For starters, of course, it's a universal symbol of bigotry, separatism, ignorance and violence. Please don't give me the 'It's about heritage, not hate' argument; if that were true, then people would fly the actual flag of the Confederacy. And finally, I offer this without the slightest bit of sarcasm, but on the most basic and primal level of sports boosterism: Why would you wave this flag to support someone? It is, after all, the flag of a loser, the flag of an army that went winless, 0-1. O.K., Ladies and gentlemen -- start your hate email.) We now return to our regularly scheduled column. ... Finally, we grabbed a golf hat and a sweatshirt (Merry Christmas, Dad!) and hit the track. You get no time to contemplate what you're doing. You sign the waiver, strap in and before you know what is going on, you and 20 other cars are slingshotting around LMS's 16 banked tri-oval like a bunch of Tony Stewarts (minus, of course, several years of intense training and the fire-retardant orange jump suits). I hit the first turn going 65 mph with a brick wall three feet to my right and a ghost-white family of six in a Lincoln Town Car four feet to my left. The only instruction we were given was not to pass anybody. Man, I blew that freakin' Town Car away without a second thought and screamed Waaaaaahoooooo (like Yukon Cornelius of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer fame). As we flew by them I believe I heard the faint sound of a Goo Goo Dolls song emanating from their car stereo. After a tentative lap you realize the track is designed in a way that practically guides the car around by itself. Suddenly U-turns at 75 mph feel like you're circling the parking lot of your local grocery store. By lap two I was Standinonit, as they say in these parts. What a strange, bizarre feeling it is to accelerate from 75 to 85 mph heading into a sharp, banked turn that is three stories high and as steep as a ski jump. At the apex of the second turn I realized I was A) almost parallel to the ground, and, B) probably a race fan for life. I yelled to my wife, "Dadgumit, ah just traded paint with that sumbitch Big E, now she's runnin' a bit loose, check mah numbers and lemme know if ah should bring 'er in for four fresh and a splash a gaz. Oh yeah -- and git mah 43 sponsors' hats ready for the winner's circle." Kim just shook her head and gave me the universal signal for one lap to go. I wanted 100 mph, but my poor Honda just didn't have it in her. I even took the last turn dangerously high and then tried to dive down from the top of the track into the straightaway to squeeze out the last few precious rpm I needed, but she topped out at 94 mph. I banked off the last turn and saw the brake lights shining up ahead about halfway down the straightaway. But I was drunk with speed and power and testosterone levels approaching those of a Chicago Bears quarterback. So instead of braking, I used the time to try and convince Kim that we should go back to the gift shop and make it a NASCAR Christmas. And if that gesture of goodwill forced me to get back on the track several more times, then, well, I was prepared to make that sacrifice. Kim just calmly gestured with a forward nod and an open palm toward the row of cars I was about to crash into. I didn't manage to get the HonDave stopped until I was about 11 inches away from the back bumper of a silver 1999 Camaro with the dealer's papers still in the window. Team Camaro then shot Team Fleming a dirty look. "Aw, now calm down little feller," I yelled out my window, "'ats just racin'." Sports Illustrated staff writer David Fleming explores the sometimes weird and wacky side of sports every Thursday. Click here to send an e-mail to Flem, or address it yourself: flemfile@aol.com. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer.
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