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NASCAR, Richmond Style

They crawl through miles of traffic, past signs for $25 front yard parking, Boy Scouts selling earplugs and sandwiches, columns of orange cones and a seeming legion of police.

They pull into the grassy lot and emerge, most already half-cocked, from the rows of T-birds and Mustangs and trucks and I-Rocs and conversion vans and…trucks.

Tents are pitched, lawn chairs unfolded, grills ignited— 'Hey, toss me a bur!' —beers cracked. 'Hell yeah, it’s on!' And so it begins, NASCAR in Richmond. The two are old friends, been hanging out twice a year since 1953, and as any one of the 100,000 fans will attest, racing under the lights on the Richmond short-track: 'Well dang, it don’t get no betta.’ Couple that with the unveiling of Chase for the Nextel Cup , NASCAR’s first ever playoff system, and the third anniversary of 9/11, one that brought out the likes of Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld , and you’ve got a national spectacle second to none in terms of pure, red-blooded American patriotism. 'Yee-I said Yee-haw!' The green flag won't drop until dusk, but that doesn't mean fans don't get there before noon. (It's amazing what 100,000 NASCAR fans do for the entertainment value of a giant field somewhere in the nether regions of Henrico County.) Along with drinking and grilling and eating and smoking and drinking, there's more than enough to keep even the most incredulous of attendees amused. ‘Ladder golf’ for instance, a game where players toss golf-balls connected by lengths of rope, attempting to catch them on the rungs of homemade plastic ladders. Or there's the ever-popular, never dull, surprisingly challenging contest of throw-the-rock-into-the-beer can; hours of fun, right there.

People watching's good too, especially when surrounded by the demographic more responsible for putting the mullet on the map than Canadian hockey players; where it’s never a bad idea to iron your jean shorts, and where Reebok high tops go best with dark socks, menthol cigarettes and fanny paks— adorned with the logo of a favorite driver of course. And speaking of favorite drivers, allegiances run deep in NASCAR, real deep. Though when pressed about the reasons behind their affinity for Dale or Jeff or Kenny or Mike or Tony or…Dale, most fans reply with a simple, 'Don’t know, just like him I guess.' As the afternoon wanes, anticipation builds and a restlessness does settle in. There's only but so much to see at the Chevy Rock-n-Roll Expo , and the line to scale the Go Army commando wall is huge, ends up just trailing into the mass of people. So it’s hard to tell who’s thinking about being all they can be, and who just wants a fried Twinkie from one of the pup-tent vendors.

But there’s Gene Simmons ! He’s signing autographs, women’s chests, and people shout, 'Show us your tongue!' But he doesn’t, and after ten minutes disappears back into his trailer that is roped off with red velvet.

At 6, those with the proper credentials hanging from their neck get an up-close view of the pits and the cars and the crews. It's hot and smells like gasoline and asphalt. Men in colorful, sponsor-adorned jumpsuits with serious faces and serious jobs walk or sometimes jog or sometimes sprint past. It's getting close to go-time, getting close to those boys puttin' the hammer down. Collective Soul is on, sloshing through a set of ‘90’s tunes, and everybody's about to put those ear-plugs in when things really heat up— Rumsfeld is here. He gets mobbed inspecting the line of idling cars on pit row. His entourage is casual, friendly yet firm in their encirclement, vigilant in their protection.

Asked about NASCAR, “It’s a thrill to be here,” he says. Asked about 9/11, “We’re safer but not safe,” he says. Asked about John Kerry, “I don’t do politics,” he says.

Then comes the pomp, the ceremony, the photo-ops, the driver introductions: Meet Dale Jr. Meet Rusty Wallace. Meet Ricky Rudd. There's the Pledge, the Anthem, the American flag—enormous and back-lit in the grandstand, wavering and perfect; enough to give even the most apathetic of souls goose bumps—and as the F-15’s streak overhead, leaving in their deafening wake the chants, 100,000-strong, 'USA! USA!' , and it sinks in that you’ve just seen the front man for KISS hanging out with the U.S. Secretary of Defense, you ask yourself, 'Where am I?' NASCAR, my friend. Richmond style. Photo Gallery : Check out more images from NASCAR! Discussion Forum : Were you at NASCAR? What sights did you see?