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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.