Personally, I really don’t understand the rising popularity of NASCAR.  I think it’s really dull, those guys driving around and around the track.  Even though it’s really fast, and there’s the suspense that anything could happen at any minute, to me it’s still a big snooze.  Also, I find it disturbing when people crash, which, I believe in my cynical heart, is the reason many people watch in the first place.  So I guess I’m probably missing the point of the attraction anyway.

 

But just because I think NASCAR is stupid doesn’t mean that I’m not a fan of the automobile.  Anyone who knows me can tell you that I hate to fly, but love, love, love to drive.  I love road trips; I love getting around on the ground.  My seven-year-old son, Ethan, wrote in a Mother’s Day card to me that if he had the money to buy me anything, it would be “a Toyota convertible with cup holders.”  The kid knows me well: my preference for foreign automakers, my dream of someday owning a fancy car, and last but not least, my penchant for coffee in to-go cups.  

 

I like to drive because it’s my favorite way to get around and see new places.  I confess that sometimes I may exceed the local speed limit by a bit, but it’s never excessive.  I’ve never been a really fast driver, or ever had the desire to see just how fast my car could go.  Also, I never thought I had the kind of car that would tempt anyone to think of racing.  But after what I saw last week, I’m starting to think differently.

 

It all started with Tom, our really cool neighbor, and his home-built, high-tech racecar.  Tom informed us that he was going for a personal speed record at the Samoa Drag Strip, and that we should come down and watch him race.  I’ve watched him and his wife build this car, and I must confess that I was curious to see if it would actually run.  So, off we went for a sunny Sunday at the drag races.

 

The Samoa Drag Strip is on the site of an old airport tucked in amongst a bunch of sand dunes near the ocean west of Eureka, California.  The former runway is now a quarter-mile straightaway track for auto racing.  There are no permanent structures except for some rickety bleachers, and a funky little tower for the announcer and track judges.  In attendance that day were a taco truck, an ice cream truck, and probably 100 spectators waiting to see 40 or 50 cars of all kinds take a shot at the track.  The cars go down the track mostly two at a time, all out.  There are some very serious drivers there, like Tom.  His car, it turned out, was very loud and very fast, and it actually scared me to death to watch him blast down the track.  I was afraid something might happen (see paragraph 1).  But it wasn’t these serious high-investment cars that I found the most interesting that day.  Oh no.  It was this other thing, something I never knew existed, something that captured my imagination and just about made me split a gut laughing:  The Street Class.

 

Allow me to explain.  It turns out that there is a category called “Street Class” where people enter their personal cars in the races.  There are some rules and whatnot, but for the most part these are just regular old autos driven straight from their driveways to the drag strip where they are run flat-out for a 1/4 mile.  They get to line up two at a time, revving their engines, waiting for the racing lights to click down the tree, just like at the big tracks.  

 

Then they’re off!  A Ford Taurus versus an El Camino.  A Mustang versus a Camero.  A pickup versus a Pinto.  I saw a young dad in a late model Honda hatchback, baseball cap turned backwards, baby seat still in the back, bombing down the track as fast as he could go.  One guy in a Chevy Nova ran his whole race while looking back over his shoulder to see if the second car was gaining.   Most cars had only a solo driver, but two young women, dressed in black and wearing dark glasses, rode together in a shiny black 240Z.  There was an off-duty policeman driving -- what else? -- a refurbished police motorcycle replete with flashing lights (I bet the siren still worked, too).  In the big dreamer category: a late model Yugo.  Top speed in the 1/4 mile:  56 mph.

 

But my personal favorite by far was a woman driving a gray Dodge Caravan, eyes focused down the track, a look of complete concentration on her face. No brood in the back of the minivan this time, no destination but glory.  I don’t know what inspired her to pay the entry fee and get in line, but I bet for the 15 or 16 seconds that it took her to get down the track the last thing on her mind was soccer practice or the PTA.  I’m sorry, but I was impressed.  I also have a crappy minivan, and although it works great for getting music gear to gigs, I wonder: can it beat 15 seconds in the 1/4 mile?  Actually, I seriously doubt it.  I’m pretty sure the engine would drop straight out of that thing if I pushed it at all.  But all of this has fueled my imagination, and one of these days I am going to get one of those Toyota convertibles and take it down to the track.  I’ll just make sure the lid on my car cup is screwed on tight.