Sports have always left an indelible impression on my mind. Whether it was the first time I saw a game in a major league baseball park, the accidental hole-in-one I scored by ricocheting my tee shot off of a sand trap rake, or the first time my son hit a home run in high school, moments such as these always remain vivid in my head.
A few years ago I had the opportunity to attend my first NASCAR race. The event was the Sharpie 500 in Bristol, Tennessee and I was asked to host a group of VIP customers in the company suite. Born and bred in New York, I felt horribly miscast in this assignment. Car racing was not really considered to be a sport where I was raised. I’m not sure why that was, but I suspect that considering the average New Yorker spends over half of their life on the Long Island Expressway creeping along in two mile an hour bumper-to-bumper gridlock, viewing a sport which promotes long periods of driving is somewhat of a “busman’s holiday,” for most of these hardened commuters. Horse racing, on the other hand, combined an animal that was not indigenous to Brooklyn and you can bet on the results. In paramutual terms, that’s a pretty good Exacta.
Accepting my assignment, I sought the advice of several friends who are NASCAR savvy. Unbeknownst to me, I had been assigned to one of the most popular events on the racing circuit. The more I heard about the event, the more excited I felt about going. A resident of the Roanoke area since 1983, I saw this opportunity as a sort of southern rite of passage, like driving to the Roanoke star or visiting mini-Graceland. Armed with my tickets and an open mind, I set my headings south towards Bristol.
The Tri-Cities area of Tennessee is somewhat similar to Roanoke in terms of topography and is a scenic place except for the huge chemical plant that sits in the middle of Kingsport which makes the area smell like a combination of vinegar and flea spray. It was in this city of smokestacks that I would pick up my guests.
Cruising towards our destination, one of my passengers casually mentioned that we would have to park a few miles from the track as the surrounding streets are closed for the event. “A few miles?” I thought, “he must be trying to pull my yankee-fied leg.”
He wasn’t. Joining a parade of race patrons, we began our journey on foot. After the first mile my legs were beginning to wane; by mile two I recalled reading about the Bataan Death March in Western Civ class and wondered if I would be discarded on the side of the road if I wasn’t up to the challenge. The final mile seemed like twenty as I stumbled along. Finally, like a great ray of heavenly light I beheld the glorious, huge Bristol Motor Speedway in the distance, AND IT WAS ON THE TOP OF A HILL! What cruel architect would design an obstacle such as this at the end of our woeful walkabout?
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I began to climb. When we reached the summit and we were greeted by a guide who was to escort us on a tour of the pit area. Exciting, yes! More walking, do you really need to ask? In order to reach the pit area we had to negotiate the stairs leading to the track (just a few thousand of them as I remember). If I could have rented a donkey to take me back up those stairs at the end of the tour, I would have sold my only son into indentured servitude for the opportunity.
Exhausted, I spent most of the race sleeping in a comfy chair in the back of the suite. I can’t remember who won the race, nor do I recall much about the trudge back to our vehicle, although I can vaguely recount the two fellows walking in front of me having an argument about whether Italians or Japanese people make the best opera singers. This seemed like the most unlikely conversation imaginable to take place among the thousands of race fans leaving the stadium, but who am I to judge.
I am unsure if I will ever return to the track for another race. If I do decide to take another crack at it, a month of physical training will surely precede any ticket purchase. Some people might think that NASCAR drivers are not “real athletes” and whether that is true or not is not for me to say. However, I can personally attest that you have to be in tip top condition to survive a night race in Bristol. Like tires on the track, comfortable shoes are a key element for any racing fan.
Gentlemen, start your Nikes.
By Jon Kaufman [email protected]