RaceCars

The roar of the engine, the smell of burning rubber, no, I am not talking about doing donuts in a parking lot, it’s boogity, boogity, let’s go racing boys, shake and bake, it’s the big kahuna of stock car racing, the “Chase for the Cup.”

To no avail, I tried to get an opinion from several local car racing aficionados on who would grab the Cup, “No comment” and “Don’t use my name” were common responses.
Back in the day, stock car racing was truly a Southern sport, now it has become the largest spectator sport in the nation, fueled not only by the 110-octane lead gasoline burning beasts, but all that strategy and buddy system driving.

There used to be the “Daytona 500” and the “Talladega 500,” now it’s the “Tums Fast Relief 500,” not to be confused with the “Goody’s Fast Pain Relief 500,” plus a lot of other 500’s, but what could beat this name for a race, “Checkers O’Reilly Auto Parts 500 presented by Pennzoil,” well, I’m guessing the “Missouri-Illinois Dodge Dealers 250 presented by Ventrilo.”

My strategy—wait until the last lap, run into the room, watch as all the drivers come down the straightaway an inch off each others bumpers, or I would be like a lot of race fans who are sent into a trance watching drivers making left turns for 500 miles.

The TV race commentators dressed in shirt and ties (who wears a tie to a car race?) screaming at the top of their lungs, “do you think he will take on 2 or 4 tires?, do you think he can make it on fumes over the finish line?, what is SHE doing in a car?”
Laughter.