On the Throttle Stock Car Racing

1 Swirls of tiny insects danced in the breeze, shoved along by a steady, insistent southwesterly wind. The gentle rushes of air provided little relief, though, in what was already becoming a hot, hazy Midwestern morning. Thunderclouds were already lining up impatiently in formation out across the distant prairie, not even waiting for the heat of the afternoon to give them impetus to begin marching in. But this particular early August weekend was promising to be a hot one in other ways. Cars and trucks were already lined up, streaming in from all directions as if answering some kind of homing call only they could hear. The small neighborhood of modest homes seemed almost to be shielding the giant speedway from those who would seek it. But the fans found it all right, tucked there in the middle of the nearly cut lawns, trimmed shrubbery, and towering water oaks. Hundreds of thousands of racing enthusiasts were converging on the facility and its rectangular ribbon of asphalt. Most of them looked on respectfully as they approached its magnificence, gazing in quiet awe at the massive shrine, at its hallowed ground, sacred for anyone who worshiped speed. What had not actually been visible before suddenly appeared above the roofs of the houses and the mature trees like one of those thunderstorms building out on the horizon. Many of those who were heading her way would unconsciously pause and stare at the massive facility. Others scrambled for cameras. They would literally turn the corner and, suddenly, there it would be, hulking proudly before them. How could anything so huge have been hidden from them until they had gotten so close? The intricate ironwork of her long, low structure formed an almost natural beauty, as if the speedway had been created by something volcanic, geological, not by the hands of men. The place had a profound gracefulness that seemed lacking in most of the newer, more modern racing facilities. And that's why even those who had visited often would usually pause reverently for a moment and stare at her, as if in worship, before heading on for her gates and turnstiles. It was, after all, Indianapolis, a place whose name was synonymous with speed the world over, regardless of the language that might be spoken there. Inside the place there was already a festive atmosphere, as joyous and high-spirited as could be found at any major sporting event. There were brilliant colors, fluttering flags, all kinds of music, exotic, enticing smells, and, of course, a patiently waiting but clearly excited throng of loud fans. And down there before them, the focal point of all that excitement, were two long lines of multicolored racing machines, stretched along the pit lane like a pair of rainbow-hued snakes sunning themselves while they awaited the command to roar to life and race away. Soon, the men who drove those machines would duel with each other to determine who among them had what it would take at the end of the day to bring home the victory. Who would head the field for that last time as the cars eventually crossed the narrow strip of bricks that marked the finish line for any event that might be run here? Who would make the strongest case for bringing the trophy home from Indy? The verdict was still several hours from being rendered, and the jury of several hundred thousand people was prepared to witness the testimony. The race crews were mostly oblivious to the crowd and the prerace ceremonies as they made a series of last-minute checks on their machines. One of the crews scrambled around a sparkling, bright red Ford that rested in fifteenth position, on the inside of the eighth row. The sky-blue highlights of the car's trim and numbers blended well with the dark blue logo of the machine's primary sponsor. The scripted letters spelled out "Ensoft," the name of one of the hotter companies in the compWright, Kent is the author of 'On the Throttle Stock Car Racing', published 2001 under ISBN 9780812545098 and ISBN 0812545095.