I always keep some spare rubbers lying around just in case.

Despite it being the fastest growing sport in America, many people see the acronym NASCAR, snort out a condescending laugh, and flip the channel to something more “exciting.”

“I only like it when they crash,” people say.

Believe me, I’m familiar with the feeling.  I can’t say that I’m glued to my TV for three hours every single Sunday afternoon watching guys in obnoxiously bright cars turning left.  Usually, there’s football, baseball, Rocky IV, or some sort of supersweet Lifetime “You should still love me even though I’m ovulating” movie marathon on at the same time.  Yet, I’ve picked up bits and pieces of the sport for about a dozen years now because my dad, Al, and my brother, Greg, have been huge fans for about that long.  They absolutely eat it up—T-shirts, diecast cars, fantasy NASCAR leagues, and that one Taz holding the Confederate flag shoulder tattoo—and I’ve caught the fever.  Now, don’t tell anybody, but I’ve come to enjoy the sport.  Of course, I’ll probably never like it more than the NFL, Major League, Rocky Balboa, emotionally vulnerable women, but it holds a place in my heart.

Why am I telling you this—this secret of mine that’s so well guarded that even my mother would be shocked to hear it?  Two reasons.  One, most of you reading this didn’t know that NASCAR is, in fact, an acronym—National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing.  Two, since 1999, Big Al and Greg have visited Michigan International Speedway (MIS) every Father’s Day weekend and attended the race that’s held there every year.  It’s their special man bonding thing—three days of fast cars, farting, and fun.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before I threw my colon into the equation.

That’s right, this year I made the pilgrimage to MIS, nestled in the Irish Hills of southeastern Michigan, and attended my first NASCAR race—the Citizens Bank 400.  Lucky for you guys, I’m constantly thinking of TheHelicon’s loyal readers out there, so I decided to take you along for the ride (insert your witty pun here!).

The following comes from the notes I kept from the weekend.  I hope you appreciate them because, well, I felt like a complete nerd pulling out a little spiral notebook every five minutes to scribble down a note.  (Greg: Aaaw, is that you’re cute little diary?)  For you fans out there who may never have attended a race, I hope you find the following cool and somewhat insightful; for you non-fans out there, I hope you find the following more exciting than, well, an actual race.

But first…

A Brief NASCAR History
In the mid-1930s, Bill France Sr. moved his family to Daytona Beach, Florida, where former bootleggers, who had come to enjoy dodging cops at high speeds during prohibition, were pushing the land speed record higher and higher and racing their cars on the sand to scratch the itch.  France originally came to drive, but ended up organizing the races and starting what would become a redneck’s greatest excuse to tailgate besides a family wedding.  Yet, it was France’s son, Bill Jr., who took NASCAR outside of the American south and brought it to the world.  He was a marketing genius who scored big TV contracts, big sponsors, and even bigger ratings over his forty-some years as CEO of NASCAR.  The Daytona 500 was the first NASCAR race to be televised on CBS in 1979 and immediately became an interest among casual fans when two of the drivers, Cale Yarborough and Donnie Allison, got into a fistfight after racing for the lead on the final lap.  From there, NASCAR has enjoyed a meteoric rise and is currently the second-highest rated pro sports league—only the NFL beats it as far as TV viewership goes.  If it wasn’t for the efforts of Bill Jr., there would be no Chase for the Nextel Cup Championship and Jeff Gordon and Dale Earnhardt Jr. wouldn’t be household names (admit it, you’ve heard of these guys).  Regretfully, he passed away two weeks ago and NASCAR lost a true visionary.  He can rest in peace, however, knowing that the league he helped securely place in Americana is as strong as ever.

Now, without further ado, to the NASCAR Notebook…

• As Big Al and I drive up to the parking lot (and by “parking lot,” I mean grass field), we are directed by people dressed like this, which I personally think is awesome:

Parking cars or badger huntin’?

• The car ride up to MIS lasted around three hours, so I’m looking to drain the old one-eyed trouser snake.  Luckily, there are clusters of outhouses throughout the “parking lot.”  Even luckier, and somewhat shocking, there are Purell Hand Sanitizer dispensers in each craphouse.  Nothing says home like urine-stained plastic and antibacterial soap!
• Greg drove up from Indianapolis, so he meets us at the outhouses.  I personally chose to wear an Aerosmith T-shirt upon arrival and planned to change into something more NASCAR after I purchased some garb at the track.  Greg plans to do the same, but when I see what he chose to where up there, this conversation ensues:

Mike: An Aeropostale shirt, huh?
Greg: Yep.
Mike: I bet some of the people here think Aeropostale is a country in Europe.

Steven Tyler v. Pepe le Pew

• There’s a 32-step wooden stairway that leads up and over the road to right outside the track.  We hear a drunk guy say, “I didn’t know we were gonna have to climb a mountain.”
• Chick with tank top to shirtless guy says, “So, what kind of car does your woman drive?”
• True or false: While walking in, Mike sees a woman with a halter top on that reads “White Trash With Money”?

(False.  It’s a T-shirt.)

• Upon crossing over into the venue, I see that there are around 60 or so vendor trailers on the grounds of the track.  Each trailer sells merchandise from the various NASCAR drivers, like T-shirts, golf shirts, flasks, diecast model cars, beer cozies, etc., etc., etc.

More trailers than a Jerry Bruckheimer movie.

• I choose to support Carl Edwards, driver of the #99 Office Depot car, and buy a hat and a T-shirt.  He hasn’t won a race since the fall of 2005 and it feels like I haven’t fornicated since then, so I feel as though we have something in common.

A big toolbox behind a bigger toolbox.

• In front of the FedEx trailer, I use context clues to determine that I’ve just seen a set of fake boobs.  The clues?  Two youngish children grasping to the boobs’ host’s legs.  All-in-all, I see three sets of silicon tatas while at the race.
• I see the NASCAR version of Don Knotts.
• Whoa, hold the phone.  Who’s that over there?  Jimmie Johnson, 2006’s Nextel Cup Champion?

I know what you’re thinking and, yes, he did autograph my boobs.

• Big Al: Are they giving away free shots of Jack Daniels over there?  It’s only 10:00am.

Mike: Only?

What?  You don’t wear your T-shirts like Danny Zuko?

• There are promotional tents everywhere with various companies pimping their products by using curvy girls clad in tight clothing.  This works on drunk guys, for sure, but I was not turned on by the allure of mouth cancer far before today.  However, when I see one of the Skoal girls spit into a trashcan, it just fortifies my resolve.
• We have pit passes, which means we get to go hang out where the cars zoom in and out of the garages.  It also means that I get to see a couple of girls wearing T-shirts that say, “Pit Lizards.”
• The people working down in the pits wear bright red vests that say “Garage Security” on the back.  I’m pretty sure if you reverse them, they say, “Wal Mart.”
• A NASCAR official walks over to us with a temperature gauge.  He holds it up to my shirt and gets a reading of 97 degrees.  He does the same for Greg and gets 93.  Big Al is a measly 88.  There you have it: final proof that I’m pretty damn hot.
• Take this as you will:

So now will you all quit calling me “Sanchez”?

• On their way out back to the track, cars drive right across the path people use to stroll through the pits, so one must be wary and listen for the sound of this guy’s orange whistle, which indicates when to stop:

It’s an orange construction barrel sandwich!

• If you don’t listen to the guy with the whistle, this hits you at about 35 miles an hour:

Stock car: 1
Deaf guy: 0

• After suffering four humiliating losses to Mr. Tony Longoria and the San Antonio Spurs, Lebron James makes it to the race wearing his jersey:

Low five!  Back five!

• I learn that the aforementioned “big toolboxes” in each driver’s pit area are actually called “war wagons” because they do much more than store hammers and screwdrivers.  They’re more like mobile command units where crews can watch their drivers, assess conditions on the track, and make sure they’re running an optimal performance out there.  Also, they can watch Rush Hour on the TVs mounted on the back of these things, like one teams is doing right now.

A tool shed and an entertainment unit all wrapped into one.  Genius!

• After Big Al and Greg get yelled at for touching the Citizens Bank 400 trophy, we get our picture taken with it:

Hand check.

• We decide to go get something to eat and head to our seats.  As we leave the pit, a guy in one of those Wal Mart vests salutes Big Al and I, but not Greg.  I’m not quite sure what this means.
• I can see the VIP “Miller Lite Party Deck” from where I’m standing.  There are a couple of guys in sleeveless flannel staring at the scantily clad Miller Lite girls.  Perhaps we’re not so different at all, us city slickers and the backcountry folk.
• We had packed some sandwiches in a couple of coolers (yes, you can bring in your own food and booze!), so we enjoy the shade of the bleachers and have our way with an Italian sub.  Interestingly enough, there are no seats under the bleachers, just girders that hang low enough to sit on.  Big Al calls this “sitting on the pipe” without even cracking a smile, which just further proves to me that I’m a complete pervert.

It was a dark day for sandwiches everywhere when the condiments finally achieved a coup.

• We debate filling up our empty water bottles with water from the drinking fountains.  Reaction after Big Al and I test it:

Big Al: We don’t want this.  It tastes like metal.
Mike: Eeeeew, my mouth tastes like I just licked a scab.

• Heading up to the bleachers, we realize that it’s really, really hot.  But, NASCAR and sunburns seem to go together like peanut butter and jelly or Nike and cheap sweatshop labor, so I guess it’s all part of the experience.
• Mike: (handing the sunscreen to Greg) Here’s the SPF 15.  We’re gonna have to keep putting this stuff on.

Greg: Why?
Mike: What do you mean why?
Greg: (sheepishly) Uh, nevermind.
Mike: (pause to think) Did you think “SPF 15” meant that it lasts for 15 hours.
Greg: (looks at the ground) Yes.

• For those of you who don’t know, the goal of each racer is to earn the most points throughout the season and win the Nextel Cup.  Since Nextel is the biggest sponsor of NASCAR and they love promoting their products, we rent two headsets that do two things:
  1. Deaden the sound of 43 cars without mufflers driving by at 180mph.
  2. Allow us to tune into the drivers talking to their crew chief in the pits before, during, and after the race.
     
     
• Here’s a picture of one half of the two-mile track from the top row of the bleachers:

“Breaker, Breaker 1-9, I seem to have gotten lost.  I’ve be driving in circles for three hours.  Over.”

• They begin doing driver introductions and nobody cheers for the guys driving for Toyota (NASCAR diehards don’t like foreign cars in their races) and many boo when Juan Pablo Montoya, a rookie driver from Colombia, is introduced (NASCAR diehards don’t like foreigners invading their sport).  Perhaps this explains the guy wearing the “Welcome to America.  Speak English” T-shirt.
• Two people, a guy and a girl, walk to their seats in the bleachers—each are carrying a sizeable beer bong.
• After the drivers get into their cars, but before they start their engines, I hear this conversation over the NEXTEL headset:

Driver: Man, I think I did something to my neck last week. I can barely turn it.
Crew Chief: I did something like that a few months ago.
Driver: It’s bad, man.
Crew Chief: I know.  I’m tougher than you, too, so you might not make it.
Driver: Yeah, I know.  I think I might do some pushups or something before the race with some olive oil on my buttcrack and my nipples.
Crew Chief: Or you could just eat a Power Bar.

• The race begins and, lo and behold, I’m pretty damn entertained.
• A lot of driving and a lot of turning left.  There is only one crash and no really crazy damage, but I’m into the race nonetheless.  Seeing cars race at 180mph in person is actually pretty cool.
• I see a chick with an “I love you” tattoo on her left bicep.  Her husband, who walks down the bleachers ahead of her, is covered in dragons.  I wonder if they only communicate through body art.
• After 200 laps and 400 miles, Carl Edwards, the guy I backed from the beginning, wins the race.  Can I pick ‘em or can I pick ‘em?

Edwards crosses the finish line as the neon green lady shows him her pubes.