The Smell of Nitro in the Morning... Smells Like Victory

So, I'm a dude. I like dude things. Football, sports cars, steak and potatoes, my wife in her birthday suit...you know, stuff like that. Well, I had the opportunity to experience a true "dude" event this weekend in my home town of Dallas, Texas.

That event was an NHRA (National Hot Rod Association) drag race, which included top-fuel dragsters and funny cars. Wow... Just writing the words "top-fuel" gave me goosebumps and caused a flashback of yesterdays action. You may be saying to yourself, "So? What's the big freaking deal?"

I'll tell you what the big freaking deal is. Unless you have stood on the deck of an aircraft carrier during the launch of a fighter jet or been present at the launch of the space shuttle, you have never, never, ever heard a sound as unbelievably loud as a top-fuel car streaking by at 300-+ miles per hour, right in front of your face...

And the sound is only half of the goosebump-inducing, adrenaline-pumping experience. As the cars passed in front of me, the ground shook so intensely that, combined with the deafening roar, made me feel as if the world was coming to an end, or that the race track was being bombed. It's that violent.

The only disappointing aspect of the entire experience was that, from the time I entered the gate 'til the time I exited the gate, I don't think I drew one breath of air that didn't contain cigarette smoke, B.O., beer fumes, or some combination of the three. At some point after constantly (and I do mean constantly) smelling cigarette smoke, I became acutely aware that, in every direction, in the stands, lining the fences and in the pit area, were rednecks.

Even more startlingly, these rednecks were the prototypical, quintessential brand of redneck: Deep tan from years of sunburn presumably caused by working outside in the sun and attending hundreds of events just like this one; dirty baseball caps advertising their favorite race car driver, their favorite auto parts store, or their favorite brand of malt liquor; cut-off blue jean shorts; the ubiquitous mullet on both men and women; cigarette dangling from a mouth full of yellowish-brown teeth; and last, but not least, plastic bottles of Coors light gripped firmly in hand.

For a brief time, I was actually distracted from the majesty of the cars racing as I gazed, open-mouthed, at the sheer volume of white trash that surrounded me. My first thought was, "Well, at least now I know why I can't get the smell of cigarette smoke out of my sinuses." Another thing surprised me: There was not one disturbance, despite the vast number of drunken idiots stumbling around the complex. Not one fight, not one verbal altercation, nothing.

The only violence came from the 7,500 horsepower engines of the top-fuel cars. And, you know what? In spite of the company I'll be forced to keep, I absolutely can't wait for the opportunity to go to another NHRA race...