Don't misread me. I'm not one of those railbird race fans who outfits his life with race paraphernalia, perhaps a No.3 flag fluttering in a packed dirt front yard where cars perch on blocks. Nor am I trying to be too smart about all this. Racing is competition replete with strategy, nerve and passion. It rests on a fundamental aspect of what it means to be human, one that exists below the conscious realm.
People race because, at some level, they have to.
Race car divers have to race, writers have to write, I think as the marching band plays the National Anthem at the finish line. That impossible song dies, and I wade across the back straightaway as the cars shout to life to begin an evening of six races ranging from 15 to 75 laps in five different stock car categories. I wanted to watch them as examples of ordinary guys who have risen to prominence at this track - one of hundreds across the South that are known only in specialty publications. Only the lucky and talented few go on to Winston Cup competition. There is no real money to be made.