The Roar of the Crowd, The Thrill of the Race
Saturday night, I found myself in a compromising position. No, I wasn’t out with a different man than my husband; no, I wasn’t selling drugs or streaking. But I might as well have been, since I was as the racetrack, watching stockcar races whiz around the track with that pulsing thrill in my chest, cheering as the crowd and the cars both roared and assaulted my ears. Whereas noisiness in other areas bothers me, in this setting it was more than welcome.
But I am a total treehugger! I am against wasting all of these resources, particularly petroleum, and I always make fun of my NASCAR loving family members and friends. In fact, I made a joke—How do you get Republicans to support Planned Parenthood? You get Planned Parenthood to sponsor a racecar. Hardy har har.
And I am against these things… but somehow we ended up at the races with family on Saturday night as a treat from my parents—my daughter’s first time there—and suddenly I was transported back to my childhood, when I would sit on the bottom bleacher and revel in the mud balls flying in my face, when the screaming engines made my heart hammer in my chest and the promise of clinking cars bumping into one another—and even the occasional fire—kept me on the edge of the bleacher all night. It reminds me of something Gale says in The Hunger Games—they just want a good show. Hell yes, we do. I mean, they do! Not me. Not usually.
My best friend consoled me, reminding me that it wasn’t a circus or something like that, which would truly violate my ethics—but I stressed to her that yes, it did. It’s insanely wasteful. And not only did I revel in it yet again—perhaps it’s just my redneck blood—but I took my six-year-old who did as well. (We did buy her some fantastic headphones that covered her ears completely and dulled the noise to help avoid ear damage.)
There were stupid jokes being made all around us—mostly old geezers shooting the s***, as we say, but also younger ones making “retard” jokes, which I do. Not. Like. There was nasty smoking, dirt flying—all of us came home covered in it, despite the quilt we brought along to block much of it—and even idiots carrying around headphone-less babies who should never be taking there during such early development. And yeah, I didn’t like all of this one bit—but the noise of the engines drowned most of it out, and I found myself quite happy (aside from fretting over my kid falling off the bleachers, like any mom would). And I’m left wondering…Am I going to hippie hell for this?
And if not…can I go again next Saturday?









