In Love with a Left Turn

Who knew four continuous left turns would be so thrilling?  Not me.  Not this girl who grew up in Los Angeles.  Not this Yankee who went to college in Boston.  Nope, not me, not this transplant!  For five years I lived in the tundra of Utica, N.Y.  I thought the only reason I’d ever need to climb into my car through the window was because 4-foot snow banks surrounded my doors.  (It has actually happened.  I’m fortunate to be compact and flexible!)  But I ventured to my first NASCAR race in Charlotte three years ago and I fell in love with four left turns and everything surrounding it.

Several people played pivotal roles in developing my crush on the sport, starting with my former co-worker, Bill Voth.  He’s Channel 9’s weekend sports guy, and when NASCAR season started, he told me it was imperative that I pick a driver.  You’re probably thinking this was no big deal.  But to commit to a driver was more difficult than you might imagine.  The operative word here was, of course, “commit!”

First of all, I didn’t want to make an obvious choice like Jeff Gordon, a standout like Jimmie Johnson, or a brand like Dale Earnhardt Junior.  No, I wanted to pick someone with potential for greatness.  I wanted my love for the sport to grow as my driver’s wins continued to accumulate.  I didn’t want to be a carpetbagger.  I desired the ability to proclaim, “I knew him when!”

We went online and scanned the list.  It was a bit overwhelming.  All these names: Busch, Busch, Bowyer, Burton, Kahne, Allmendinger, Menard, Truex, Gilliland, Waltrip, Rudd, Vickers.  It was like an ad for some law office.   And then there were the numbers.  Who knew #7 was not the same as #07?  But drivers attached to numbers turned out to be a good thing.  It helped me narrow down my choices.  My favorite number: 25.  In 2007, Casey Mears was driving the #25 car for Hendricks Motorsports.  I clicked on his bio and I immediately felt good about Mears!  He’s from California and so am I.  He liked the musician Jack Johnson; so do I!  He was untested but full of promise.  Done and done.

Then the day came when I got to cover my first race for Channel 9.  It was a Friday night in May, a NASCAR Busch Series race.  (Busch like the beer, not like the aforementioned drivers.  But more important, in this context, it was like the minor leagues for NASCAR.)  While I was at the race, the focus for my news story was gas prices, or maybe it was the economy and its effects on fans.  I really can’t remember because in hindsight the story itself was a moot point; the thrill for me that day was the scene.

You see, when the race comes to town, all roads lead to the then-Lowe’s Motor Speedway.  No, really—all roads, traffic lights and all, are configured to lead the nearly 200,000 fans to the venue.  Then when the race ends, everything is reversed in order to direct folks home.  It’s one of the most well-choreographed traffic events I’ve ever witnessed.

Then there’s the commerce.  There were rows upon rows of brightly colored trailers selling paraphernalia for each driver.  And everyone at the race has a driver.  It felt like the Mo Chit Market in Bangkok where the vendors are nearly as numerous as the patrons, where every turn promises a new discovery.  I recall how anxious I was to finish gathering my interviews for my news story so I could run back to the news van, grab my wallet, and purchase my very first Casey Mears #25 T-shirt.  It was like picking out my first prom dress, when I was confident gold lame could never go out of style.  I was a wide-eyed newbie to this sophisticated world and I desperately wanted to fit in.

But it gets better.  The next day, while at work, I watched with Bill Voth as Mears, unlike other drivers who went into pit row, gambled on gas and won the race.  My #25, my long shot, my guy with potential had just won his first career Nextel Cup victory.  Mears triumphed over bigger names and more seasoned drivers, and my driver-pick yielded its first win! I felt like I was witnessing the start of a historic reign for Mears, as if my new allegiance had somehow played a roll in his success.

I feel a bit like the late Billy Mays here, but wait, there’s more.  The second pair who was quite influential in my love of NASCAR was my friend Katie and her husband Michael, also transplants.  They had already been to a few races and insisted my attendance was needed at a race.  So in May 2008, I took the weekend off work to witness the Coca-Cola 600 (the same race Mears won the year before).  We packed an SUV full of food, shelter and necessities.  We filled a 15-passenger van with friends.  We departed uptown Charlotte at 9:30 a.m. sharp for a race that started around 6 p.m.  Our intention: to beat the traffic, as we were attending an event with nearly 200,000 of our closest friends, and of course to do a bit of tailgating.

Thanks to some planning, I had mapped out a traffic-free route to then-Lowe’s Motor Speedway with the help of the Channel 9 news photographers.  They’re no amateurs when it comes to travel.  Their directions cut out any gridlock and got us to the parking lot in a half-hour (no, I can’t give you the secret directions – I plan on going this year and I want a clear path to parking entrance N).

As we headed into the compound, I felt I had been transported into a wondrous land where all my senses were heightened.  It was better than any 3D movie James Cameron could create because it was all real.  It was as if the parking lots surrounding the speedway were part of a large marina and the hundreds of Winnebagos had dropped anchor and docked.  Many of the folks who come to NASCAR events make it their vacation.  They stay for a full week.  So there were RVs with satellite dishes, mailboxes and trailer-hitched grills.  Tens of thousands of families, friends, co-workers and neighbors mingled with strangers from various cities, states and countries. I felt like a child watching the moon follow me, except the recurring image that captivated me that day was the endless sea of humanity.  I was in awe.  I love events.  I enjoy people.  I embrace crowds.  But never had I seen it all before me with such bravado.  I couldn’t wait to get out of the van and be a part of this world.

We pulled in with our 15-passenger van and our SUV of supplies.  We pitched two pop-up tents to shield us from the intensity of the Carolina sun.  We produced two folding tables and topped them with endless bags of chips, buns, cookies and the requisite veggie platter.  We unfolded and prominently placed our two life-size cardboard cutouts of Tony Stewart and Kasey Kahne (we are serious fans!).  We set up our tailgate grill, put out 15 lawn chairs, assembled several lawn games and iced down three coolers’ worth of beverages (it was a very hot day and we needed to remain hydrated; don’t judge).  It was 10:30 a.m.  Our day was just starting.

The first order of business was to relax and just enjoy our arrival, on schedule and without a hitch, and to absorb the scenery.  In front of us was a family that ranged from toddler to octogenarian.  They had flags, shirts, stickers and Koozies all emblazed with the number 3.  You could instantly tell their fanaticism for Dale Earnhardt started decades ago.  Next to us on the right appeared to be a legion of fraternity brothers and to the left, their female counterparts.  With hours to go before the race, I figured we could just sit there and be treated to the dramatic details of a reality show as it unfolded before our eyes.  There was pre-race entertainment during the tailgate; could it get any better?

We played some corn hole, watched more of our live reality show, and when our Doritos snacking gave way to true hunger, the guys started up the grill for some burgers and dogs.

It was just after noon and with our full bellies hanging over our cut-off jeans, we plotted the rest of our day.  We decided two things: we needed more paraphernalia, and we had to pick up headsets for the race.  The headsets let you tune in to the announcers, color commentators and even the individual pit crews.  I would be able to listen to Casey Mears talk to his crew chief!  The $75 cost seemed a small price to pay.  And our T-shirts weren’t enough.  We didn’t want to be outdone by the groups around us.  We needed more stuff, more gear!  We are Americans.  We are consumers.  We did not want to disappoint or be disappointed.

We split up into two groups.  One went in search of the coveted headsets.  The other went in search of hats, Koozies, jerseys, key chains and lanyards with our driver’s name and number.  Now, on a map, the distance between our campsite and the team trailers appeared to be a quick jaunt, but with no shade, and only human mass, asphalt, and concrete to intensify the heat, the distance grew with each step.

By the time we reached the intersection with Concord Parkway, I was again stupefied by the magnitude of this event.  To my left, the Speed Channel had a full stage from which it was broadcasting live.  As a news professional, I was envious of its numerous crewmembers, jib cameras and set.  Behind me, rising from the ground, was a modern day Colosseum.  It was a feat of concrete marvel that contained the actual track and seating to ensconce its 200,000 fans.  Around me were people of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages.  There were at least 500 people on one side of Concord Parkway and another 500 on the other waiting to swap sides.  And when the state trooper blew his whistle for us to cross, it was the most orderly moving of the masses.  It was as if we were part of this intricate marching band moving in and out of formation in concert with the ambient sound around us.

I hope you don’t think I was being frivolous in wanting new gear, because in reality, it was well past simple desire; there was an actual need.  For those who aren’t aware, after a year of driving the #25, Casey Mears switched to the #5 car.  I was standing in the middle of NASCAR country with my #25 shirt when my driver was now #5.  It was a NASCAR faux pas because everyone at a race should be able to ascertain your alliances from just a quick glance at your apparel.

As luck would have it, the #5 trailer had some sweet gear.  There was a cute baby-T with Mears’ name and number in pink.  Since I’m a girlie girl with a pink Panthers jersey and pink Red Sox cap, I thought, “Perfect.”  But I wanted to seriously consider my options.  I also saw hoodies, hats and hosiery along with tanks, T-shirts and toy cars.  Every souvenir had an item number, its price and the available sizes.  That way when you say, “I’ll take the A5 in a small,” you just hand the attendant your money and he hands you a cellophane bag containing your very cool black tank top with the number 5 surrounded by “Casey Mears” written in blue and gold.  Transaction time, 28 seconds – that’s one lap around the track, in record time.

I rejoined the others in our group and immediately saw I was severely outdone by Katie’s brother.  He had purchased a Tony Stewart driver’s jacket.  It was 92 degrees out and Gary, an investment banker from Manhattan, was sporting this thing like a pro.  I totally should have sprung for the Casey Mears bandana and socks.

Our walk back was long.  We were weighed down by shopping bags, thirst and a lack of shade.  We slugged across Concord Parkway and toward our campsite.  Our return was marked by two spectacular events: the ice cream man and a man selling ice.  The ice cream man came first.  It was as if he sensed our need for revitalization from the heat because the music crackling from the loud speaker rigged to his van had a Pavlovian effect on me.  At that point in the day, I would have paid 10 bucks for a Popsicle.  I likely forked out as much.  The next to arrive was this guy with a flat-bed golf cart selling ice. We bought four bags.

The day continued with more eating, hydrating and several rounds of “Florence of Augustine,” a famous-person name game that for some reason entertained us for hours.  By the time we hauled our shoulder coolers into the track for the race (you’re allowed to bring in your own beverages!), the sun had set.  I was finally going to see why NASCAR was one of the most-viewed professional sports.

The experience did not disappoint.  Imagine sitting at the 50-yard line at the Super Bowl when the Panthers were playing, or a Madonna concert when you’re third row center, or seeing the Great Wall of China for the first time.  Well that’s what witnessing this race felt like for me (minus the Super Bowl game – I wasn’t there for that one).  The magnitude of the sport struck me at the precise moment the deafening sound of 43 stock cars flying by at an average of 140 miles per hour hit my ears.  I was left with my mouth agape and my mind set: four continuous left turns was a thrill.  NASCAR rocks!

~ Susan Tran