People Driving in Circles: I opine on NASCAR.

Before I moved to Virginia from Okinawa, Japan, professional grade race cars and their sports held only the faintest space in my worldview. I knew of their existence, however, if asked to describe the racing of motor cars, I might mumble about Formula One and the patriots of the Confederacy that I thought might watch it. I was so out of the loop, the tragic demise of Dale Earnhardt was yet unknown to me, and I thought he must have been a local hero after seeing his name and number emblazoned on the commuting vehicles that choke I-95.

A decade later, I have been well educated on the subject- thanks in no small part (actually in one large, entirety-shaped part)  to my darling husband and his fervor for NASCAR racing. He comes by it honestly, a hand-me-down from his dear grandmother (a faithful Mark Martin fan). When I was first being introduced to the races, I politely resisted. How could anyone watch cars that all look the same, drive in a perpetual left hand turn for LITERAL hours? Why would one even bother??

It wasn't until my begrudged attendance to a live event that I started to see the appeal. For several seasons we ventured out to Busch Cup races, as the tickets were slightly cheaper and the stands were less crowded. Each time, I gained a new appreciation for what we were watching, culminating in the last race we attended a couple of seasons ago, at which we purchased my very own memorabilia- an exorbitantly overpriced, white tank top with a tasteful Mark Martin 6 on the bottom corner.

Saturday night, we attended our very first Sprint Cup race. The major-league, if you will, of National Stock Car Racing. It was a most memorable experience, even causing me to wax poetic in the constant internal narration of my own life.

We parked in the yard of some good-natured neighbors to the Richmond International Raceway. We paid them a very competitive fifteen dollars for their promise not to tow us or block us in with other attendees. Their yard parking was very festive, with plenty of lights and even a live band, starring a Willie Nelson looking fellow. I have yet to see a better back-yard-temporary-parking-lot performance. To top it all off, the homeowners even kept their word and we left that night without a hitch.

Upon arriving to the raceway complex, one is immersed in a skirt of booths and trailers forming a happily humming market. We stopped at one of the merchandise-tractor-trailer-things, and got Josh a hat from a cheerful Rubenesque woman who made it a point to question everyone's size choices, to a comical effect. Then we entered the colosseum and walked about a quarter of the way around the building before realizing we had entered near our section. A quick return jaunt and several flights of climbing later, we found our seats; bleachers with numbers stickered on, overlooking a pretty good view of the whole 3/4 mile track.

Next is the part I really like.

The race is about to be underway, and the opening ceremonies begin. Sky divers are parachuting down and one of them is maneuvering a massive American Flag banner. We stand for the pledge of allegiance, and then thank the armed forces for existing. The national anthem always instills a sense of reverence in me, perhaps because of my semi-military upbringing, and I blink back the patriotic warmth that fills my eyes near the end. With a searing whoosh, three prop planes from a local aerial acrobatics troupe fly over in a streak of red, white and blue. There is a prayer for safety and a nice time for all. Then the gentlemen (and one lady) start their engines.

To say that "the engines roar" is not only cliched- but also understates the force of the sound and heat ballooning from the track. I feel like I could lean forward in our bleachers and stay upright, supported only by the forceful noise. The smell makes me think of a busy commercial airport on a summer day. Tarmac, jet fuel, heat-softened tires, red-hot brake dust. It is not altogether unpleasant, and the experience would be severely stunted without it.

The train of cars shoots by with alarming speed, blurring the 40-some contenders together. I can't help but feel concern at the danger of such a pace, on such a small track with such tight corners. And yet, I envy the drivers, drafting and speeding for a living. Drivers in the bottom of the pack tug at my heart- no one likes to be last place, especially when the stakes are so high. I silently root for the slow cars to at least spend a few laps in the middle, I think I might be one of the only fans that does.

Oh no! SMOKE... a wreck!  A couple of drivers have been playing rough and one spins upward on the track; the advancing traffic scatters in attempt to avoid damage. The spinning driver has hit the wall, but appears to be functional. Dragging sheet metal in a fountain of orange sparks, he maneuvers, frustrated, down to the pit where crews rush to provide E.R. to the ailing vehicle. The caution flag waves and half of the field takes this opportunity to gingerly line-up for service; a bit of air here, a wedge there, some tires on one side. Big street sweepers mosey out of their waiting area to clean bits of stock car up off of the track and one dumps bright stripes of quick-dry on places where fluids have leaked. The second sweeper follows behind, vigorously dusting a plume of tan into the stands.

I will leave the play by play of the racing to ESPN- if anyone really wants to know the outcome of our visit, it is publicly recorded and I am probably not allowed to disseminate it.

Let's leave it at this:

Our driver of choice worked his way up to the front of the line, led several laps, got in trouble for a pit road violation, had his penalty redacted- because it seemed borderline and unintentional- and then promptly got caught up in a wreck belonging to some big name drivers. We chose that opportunity to leave, in order to beat traffic out of Richmond. I sort of regret leaving, as the end of the race was rather eventful, but at the same time it was very cold and we were both hungry for not fried-bologna-sandwiches.

Even though at 17 I knew more about illegal drifting and street racing than professional motor sports, at 27 the tables have turned and I am quite knowledgeable on stock cars and race rules and drivers and rivalries and tracks. 17 year old me would probably scoff at the thought of 27 year old me as a NASCAR fan, but 17 year old me was kind of a closed-minded idiot.

Dear Diary

So I am finally going to get in on this bloggery business. I figure,  why not?  For posterity or whatever.

Plus, what if I get amnesia?  A blog would be a useful tool.  So there is that. 

Here is the story of a thing that happened to me at work today,  and some background,  just in case.

I have been at my new job for like five or six weeks.  I am still settling in to the office culture and trying to find out more about office Becca.  She is weird.  Kinda lame, even,  but maybe she will get more interesting once she is comfortable.

Today, we had our weekly meeting for the advertising department   and we were reviewing and discussing a potential new product that is apparently to be focused on "my demographic". 

I don't know specifically which demographic,  but through process of elimination,  I have deduced that this focus is on 25-29 year old- married-childless- non-religious- fiscally conservative- socially moderate - mostly white- women.  Based on that deduction,  I am concerned that this product may be too niche to sell ad space. 

Anyway,  I was picked by my group (in some form of middle aged woman sorority hazing?) to be The Speaker and thusly to stand and eschew forth a coherent string of words in order to convey our haphazard list of brain storm mush to a room of my superiors.  Read:Public speaking,  with hasty notes, in the middle of a room,  with no podium or microphone- just my stage presence to carry me.  It was petrifying.  I managed to fake it and then do an Awkward Girl Curtsy (TM)  at the end,  in hopes of currying favor through the use of my odd humor. I don't know if it worked. 

I got a few complimentary remarks afterwards,  but the critic in me believes that they were extended out of the pity that comes from a place of "please don't make us put nets under all of our windows". 

Fortunately,  I am blessed with the gift of rarely feeling shame.  I reflect on this event with the mind of a scientist,  studying my awkward ways after the fact. 
Why don't I dread public speaking like 99% of sane humanity? 

I clearly should.  I am not very good at it.  I say the word "like" more than a valley girl in Clueless. I notice it,  and then I do it MORE. 

One of the many mysteries of my own brain. 

In other news: 

Today, I planted seeds in little seed holders.  Some veggie babies for my soon to be extant raised-bed- square-foot garden. 

I put little shreds of steamed broccoli in the soil with the seeds. Is that weird? My garden soil was pretty old and dry.  I didn't have any non-questionable soil amenders around. I did have left over steamed broccoli in the fridge. It felt right. We will see what happens.