Monday, July 28, 2003
RACE RELATIONS
Having been up in NEPA (that’s what the locals call North-east Pennsylvania, which now that I type it out is a region that crys out for an acronym) one short week before the Pennsylvania 500 roared into Pocono Downs gave me ample opportunity to consider the real value and meaning of NASCAR. It’s America’s most popular spectator event, apart from the WWE and foxy boxing, and it generates an obscene amount of money. I’ve heard its drivers referred to as both national heroes and as sponsor monkeys. I know and respect people who love NASCAR. I’m not one of them. Here are several reasons why:
* When we’re, theoretically, trying to reduce our dependence on petroleum products, it’s an utter waste of gas.
* It pumps tons of pollutants into the air. (And we’re not just talking about race day. It’s also tryouts, practice, and the boneheads in the parking lot with the huge winnebagos who travel the tour annually.)
* Sitting in a car, regardless how fast it’s going, is not a sport. I readily admit that these guys are gutsy, courageous, have excellent grip strength and iron bladders, but the car is doing all the real work.
* It’s not even a reasonably fair competition, because everybody drives different cars. You want to find out who’s the best driver? They should all drive identical rides.
* It’s damn loud and nothing happens. People just go around in circles for hours while others watch them and drink cheap beer.
I understand that NASCAR is bigger than I am. It’s even bigger than the Chucklehut. No, no, don’t try to assuage me. The only way to ameliorate the situation - which is untenable as it currently stands - is to finagle it. Fiddle with it. Work a little Chuckle on it. Here’s my plan:
* A representative of each sponsor rides with each car, preferably on the outside where their logo appears.
* Before each race, hold a random lottery to see who drives whose vehicle.
* Yellow flag means everybody does a whippet. And I’m not talking about dogs.
* Blindfolds.
* Make everybody get out of their damn car and run around the track. I’m not kidding.