Gentlemen, start your engines...

Notice: this post will be a mix of nostalgia and blatant mockery. Let's do nostalgia first, mkay?

Thursday was my little brother's birthday. He's old. Which makes me old. But that's another post. He's the resident stockcar driver in the family and so it was only natural to go to the track on Saturday to celebrate his big day. Now, I need to give a little family history here. Growing up, it wasn't unusual for my dad to pack us four kids up and take us to the racetrack on a Saturday night. We'd line up on the bleachers, suck down hotdogs and nachos, and place bets on who would win each heat. We'd scream our heads off, go deaf from the noise of the engines, and breathe in four pounds of track dust. It was great. As an added perk, we got to see the jovial side of my dad that only comes around after a plastic bucket of beer is consumed in the company of his friends. Nowadays, going to the track is even more fun seeing as lil bro is out on the track. We can still scream our heads off but we actually know who's behind the wheel so it makes it even better. Us siblings don't make it out there as often as we'd like but when we do it's just like old times, nothing changed except our height and the legality of us consuming plastic buckets of beer. It's a brilliantly good time, I'd recommend it if you've never been.

And now, for the blatant mockery...

One of the odd bonuses of going racing is the atmosphere. The demographic is a tad different, a bit more, uh, shall we say "small town". You will see brown roots with bleach blonde hair, hypercolor t-shirts still in vogue, and many a hat which reads 'git r done'. The quote of the evening was "I done wore my big girl underpants tonight" by a woman who was hitching them up above her sweatpants to prove to her friends that she was no liar. After the heats were finished and before the main features started, we were treated to small town entertainment. A kid who was old enough to know better decided to roll down the hill and smacked his face on the cement foundation of the bleachers. In what I'm sure is standard protocol, the wee tyke was given a Frito-lays bag full of ice to hold against his face...I've heard the smell of chips is soothing, this proves it. I also noticed that although these tracks don't have expensive firework shows and such, the crowd still would go "ooo" and "ahhh" when a car would shoot sparks as it hit the rail. Or as is the case with my older sister, would occasionally laugh maniacally and shout "THAT WAS SO COOL!!!" (love ya, Manda). If you're a people-watcher, I would recommend going racing merely for the great sightings.

Sitting on the bleachers, surrounded by oddballs and the oddballs I'm related to, it was easy to remember how fun it is to go the races. I'm pretty sure there's a sign above the track that reads "blog fodder". I'll be going back more this summer and I'll be sure to bring my camera so I can show y'all just how, uh...unique it is at the track. Trust me, it's like your home away from home if you lived with a people who thrived off beer and deep fried food and had supremely limited hearing.