My son, Eli, and I spent the weekend at Talladega, a NASCAR track in Alabama. It was our first NASCAR event.
I might love NASCAR, the wholesomeness of it, the innocence, the obliviousness, the sensuality, the Americanness; the families and strollers and pretty young couples, the people in wheelchairs and limping behind walkers, the t-shirts and hats in team colors boasting car and driver and Sharpie-scrawled signature, the adults in fake racing suits to match the Nomex suits of heroes, the young kids darting through the crowds unsupervised and free, the booty shorts and tiny tops and cowboy boots, the lesbian couples, the POC (not many but they’re there), the mixed race couples holding hands, the well-put-together gay guys, the stern young VIPs with their laminated VIP cards and long strides. And yes, the drunks. But not many. And the Trump swag, but not much of that, either.
Talladega seats 175,000 people. Wading through the crowds, the gentleness, the politeness, the respectfulness as elbows, shoulders, hips and feet inevitably collide is a cacophony of “excuse me” “my bad,” “ya’ll go ahead,” “ya’ll have a nice day.” There’s the holding of doors and stepping aside. There’s chattiness and jokes in the seats and standing in line for pulled pork, fries and a Bud Light (I couldn’t help myself…). There’s the pre-race “Garage Experience” where fans can talk with the crews of their favorite cars. I had a long chat with Jeremy from the #34 Love’s team, no condescension or hurry, just nuts and bolts car talk.
NASCAR is pro-wresting with a roll cage. It’s a show. It’s a suspension of belief. It’s made-up cars competing in a made-up event; it’s half-million dollar, purpose-built machines driving around a 2.77 mile oval 188 times, every turn a left turn. The race cars are cars that vaguely resemble street-going grocery-getters. And have nothing else in common with the cars parked in front of the Piggly Wiggly, not engine, not drivetrain, not chassis, not brakes, not tires; nothing is shared but a brand logo and the profile of the bodywork (which is measured with lasers to ensure nobody’s cheating. Although, as they say in NASCAR, “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying.”) So, next time you go car shopping, don’t buy a Ford Mustang because you saw Michael McDowell in the #34 Love’s car go fast in one at Talladega. The car your dealer wants to get you behind the wheel of will be different, much different. Besides, Michael came in 21st. We’d hoped for better.
The joy of NASCAR is primal. Lap after lap, there is a clutch and release to the roar of thirty-eight five-hundred horsepower V8 engines (less crash attrition), a rhythmic rise and fall in sound that every 50 seconds or so builds to climax, pummeling the ears, eyes and psyche with the raw power of its decibels and spectacle. As the cars thunder past in a 200 mile-per-hour rainbow blur, the decibels drop and fade and there is a drained and weary bliss in the stands, and a shame that isn’t talked about. The shame lasts until the next lap when the decibels and joy build again. It’s exhilarating. It’s exhausting. It’s embarrassing.
It could be that NASCAR is America at it’s finest, gentle, polite, accepting, funny, loud, oblivious and weirdly sexy. It celebrates a world that is fast leaving us and we have no idea where it’s going. Amid the tumult of change and fear, America stands once again at a crossroads, struggling to live up to our ideals and promise, struggling to recognize our greatest strength, our greatest asset: our neighbors. Old fashioned ideas about gods, race and the penis are a distraction in the battles for America’s promise. At Talladega, that promise, those ideals are on their feet in the stands. I think I might love it.
My plan was to follow The Great River Road, the Blues Highway, the Highway 61 Revisited by Bob Dylan, from Minneapolis to Memphis then cut across to Birmingham for two days of NASCAR at Talladega with my son, Eli. Neither of us has ever been to a stock car race so, yeah; if you’re going to celebrate the South, NASCAR! We bought infield passes, because the “ribs are better in the infield.” That’s what they told me on the phone.
In Missouri just before Bob Dylan highway meets Interstate 64, I changed my mind and decided to cross the river to East St. Louis and ride south to Cairo, on the Illinois side. My purpose was to stop and visit with Frazier Garner, General Manager of the East St. Louis Monitor.
I walked in the front door and staff called for him and he greeted me and remembered me from earlier in the summer and we shook hands. Almost no small talk, it didn’t seem to flow, and then I told Frazier that the lynching photo hanging in his office stuck with me. I was curious about how he managed the anger.
The rage he denied he directed at me, spitting the words that he was “about love” and that he had no anger in response to the photograph, that the photograph didn’t matter, that he didn’t care about the photograph, that the photograph that hung on the wall in his office in such a way that every time he walked in he had to confront it, in such a way that his every visitor had to confront it, that that picture wasn’t important. This went on for a number of minutes until he stormed out of the room. I didn’t argue, there was no point at which I could interject or clarify or make amends. After he left, his sister, a co-worker, came in, initially looking at me with suspicion but nodding with what seemed to be an annoyed understanding once I’d described the exchange.
I’m thinking about emailing him an apology and trying to set things right but I’m not sure about that. I like Frazier and I’d like to visit with him again. The problem could be that Frazier, after fifty-some years in the newspaper business writing to and about the black community, has had his fill of well-meaning white people that speak and write pretty words that change nothing for him or his readers. Or maybe the random white dude stomping in the front door of his office and asking about his feelings deserved a firm fuck off. Or maybe the man who’s been fighting the fight his entire life has the right to wonder where I, the bleeding heart liberal I imagine myself to be, have been for the last fifty years. Or maybe he was just having a bad day. Something to think about.
Last night I stayed at the Quality Inn in Cairo, Illinois, the only motel in town still open for business. They have a breakfast buffet that includes Trix breakfast cereal, waffles, scrambled eggs from powder, sausage patties from powder (I guess) and coffee. Perfect. At breakfast, I met Angela and Alijah, Alijah is Angela’s niece and has a week off from school. Angela delivers school busses for a living. They’re from Atlanta and are on their way to St. Louis. The bus has a gasoline engine and no governor and they’re doing seventy-five.
Last night a friend asked me how I find the small, locally-owned motels where I tend to stay. I told him I just wander around whatever town I’m in until I see a motel-looking building that doesn’t have a Holiday Inn Express sign on top. You don’t meet interesting people at a Holiday Inn Express. And that’s the purpose of my wandering, to meet interesting people: steel workers, powerline workers, asphalt workers, concrete guys, carpenters, electricians, windmill erectors, engineers, government inspectors, young couples, retirees, farm laborers, low-budget lawyers, helicopter pilots, circus workers, long haul truckers, cowboys, mechanics, salespeople selling toilet paper and John Deere tractors, beat up women and exhausted children, people with wheelchairs and walkers, people on porno shoots and sexy trysts, drug dealers, rodeo riders, addicts, drunks, hookers, fellow motorcyclists; silent people, noisy people, people who don’t speak English, people beaten down and moving on, people with their heads held high and moving on. These motels house the rich, colorful, fabulous and messy tapestry of our society. And every person I meet has a story to tell. A little situational awareness is advised.
