NASCAR, a New Fan's Story, Part Two

This article is the second part of our two part series about discovering the joys of NASCAR.  Last time, David French talks about going to Talladega for the first time, and this time he tells us about the infamous RV park. Enjoy!

The RV park is a libertarian’s paradise and where the real action takes place at Talladega.  After we watched the Busch races, we discovered there was not in fact any room for us in an RV we’d planned on using, so we pitched an emergency back-up tent. 

Well, we partially pitched it. After struggling for several minutes, we realized we left part of the tent behind in Tennessee . . . the roof.  And rain was in the forecast. Essentially, we had to sleep under a glorified mosquito netting, so left that makeshift contraption and walked over to meet our neighbors.

In time-honored southern tradition, we came bearing gifts -- about 4 pound of fresh-cut filets – which thrilled a bunch of drunk Cajuns from Lafayette, Louisiana. We marinated the steaks in a "Cajun combination" of Tabasco sauce, red peppers, A-1 (Chicago style), and Cayenne peppers.  We threw the steaks on the grill for what must have been 90 seconds, tops, and then ate the heavily seasoned steak virtually raw.  It was delicious. 

Really.

Relieved of my burdens, we decided to wander the free fields in search of fun and adventure.  By nightfall the scene had completely changed.  The Army of Northern Virginia had lit thousands of campfires, was grilling tens of thousands of steaks, and was dancing to Lynrd Skynrd and Alan Jackson.  Everywhere, folks were raising beers and shouting a good 'ol Rebel yell into the night air.  We walked for almost a mile before steering towards some bright lights and a makeshift stage.  A group of young guys were taking the stage, and as they warmed up they yelled to the crowd (by now around 1,500 people were milling around), "How many folks here are in the military or have served?"  About a third (or more) of the crowd yelled and raised their hands in the air.  And with that, the band launched into a rockified version of Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA."  Every person sang along, and then the guitarist ended the performance with a solo of the "Star Spangled Banner," at which point the crowd exploded.

One of my friends turned to me and said, "What do you think some of the folks from Cornell or Harvard would think of this?"  And I said, "They'd like it about as much as a vampire likes sunlight."

After the National Anthem, the band launched into a series of hit Christian songs, and I thought, "uh oh, they're going to lose this beer-swilling crowd."  But no!  The crowd sang along with the lyrics, cheering each song.  Remember, this is the South on steroids, so  patriotism, religion, redneckery are all equally on display.  The set ended with a ten minute version of "Sweet Home Alabama" (a song I heard only about 200 times over the weekend) that absolutely brought the house down.  We wandered off as the crowd dispersed and headed off to the "wild fields," the free fields that were known to really party.  We walked another mile past some amazing sights . . . huge guitar-strumming sing-alongs, vast games of horseshoes, gigantic bonfires, impromptu dance parties, and -- strangest of all -- a makeshift porn theater that featured sexually explicit movies projected on a bedsheet hanging from a cargo van.  And no sign of law enforcement or any other form of authority anywhere.  (Libertarian's paradise, people).

On our walk back to our campground, we passed an impromptu dance party which had degenerated into a shouting match.  The music was still playing, but two groups of guys were screaming at each other (apparently one had tried to dance with the other’s girlfriend). Within ten seconds, one person was lying unconscious on the ground, and the larger crowd intervened to push the combatants apart.  The unconscious guy got up woozily to his feet ("I think he got his bell rung" said one observer, no doubt a medical professional).  But the peacemakers couldn't contain the fight.  Still screaming at each other, one of the combatants walked towards another and was promptly dropped to the floor with the most well-timed, vicious punch I'd ever seen.

Someone hollered, "all right boys, cut it out or we'll call the law."  Well, they didn't "cut it out," and "the law" was called (arriving 10 minutes after the fight).  Second, a lively drunken debate commenced about the ethics of the second big punch.  Everyone agreed the initial fight, which resulted in beating someone unconscious, was "fair and square."  The question was about the second incident.  Obviously the guy who got floored was not expecting it, and his hands weren't up in the aggressive fighting position, so was it a "sucker punch."  After much debate the consensus was that the second punch was fair as well.  As one sage noted, "When there's been a fight, and one boy squares up, hollers, and walks up to another, then it's on."  I agreed with the "squared up" standard as well.

After the law arrived we left, walked back to our tent, and fell asleep.  We were awakened by rain in our face at 7:15 a.m., so we put up the tent and wandered over to our Cajun friends, who were already up and cooking bacon.  We brought the biscuits and twenty minutes later, I was eating fresh biscuits and bacon seasoned with Cayenne pepper, Tabasco sauce, and red pepper. After that we sat around and shot the breeze until about 10:30 when we headed back to the track to the Nextel Cup race.

Unfortunately, the race was canceled because of rain, but not before I got to see the pre-race festivities, which were amazing in their own right.  We were entertained by an Army Jazz/Blues band before NASCAR officials began introducing the visiting dignitaries, in the following order: (1) the president of the Talladega motor speedway; (2) the mayor of Talladega; (3) the Lieutenant Governor of Alabama; (4) Senator Jeff Sessions; and (5) the CEO of the company sponsoring the race (escorted by two "honeys" -- beautiful women in tight sweats).  To understand why the sponsor would get billing over a U.S. Senator, you have to realize that NASCAR absolutely LOVES its corporate sponsors.  The sport would literally not exist without them (a race team is VERY expensive to put together), and NASCAR fans are unbelievably loyal to their favorite driver's sponsors.

Each of the dignitaries repeated basically the same line, "Good morning race fans!  Welcome to the best track in the world!  Hope y'all have a good time!"  Jeff Sessions added (to huge cheers), "and we seek God's blessings on our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan!"

The grand marshal of the race was Will Ferrell, who had a movie coming out that summer (called, appropriately enough, "Talladega Nights").  He said a few words the crowd, then stood to the side as all 43 drivers were introduced, some to thunderous applause (like Dale Earnhart, Jr.) and others to furious boos (like Jeff Gordon).  Each rider walked over and greeted the miracle miner and then walked to their car.  After the intros, NASCAR cleared the stage for the prayer (every NASCAR race starts with a prayer in the name of Jesus), and the National Anthem.  The Anthem featured not just a flyby from Air Force fighter jets but also a unique NASCAR touch . . . a modified tractor-trailer with a HUGE American flag flying from it roaring across the track at about 100 miles per hour.  As the truck passed the grandstands, the crowd roared.

As they towed the stage into the infield, Will Ferrell took the microphone, shouted, "Gentlemen, start your engines," and with a mighty roar, 43 stock cars came to life.  The atmosphere was absolutely electric.  The cars started around the track behind the pace car and just as the race was about to start, the rains came.  And came.  And came.  Race cancelled . . . postponed until Monday.

Dejected, we walked back to the Yukon, packed up and left.  Of course it took us about three hours just to leave the campground area.  The libertarian's paradise doesn't have much infrastructure, and a two-lane road was the primary way out for about a quarter million people.

Eight hours (and one stop at a cruddy steakhouse) later, I arrived home.  Tired.  Filthy.  And a NASCAR fan.