Driving Sports

By Stacy Sinclair

I’d never been to a car racetrack before, but I’ve been called a “lead-foot” since I first learned to drive. I had never imagined why people would be interested in driving in circles for hours. This is like the mystery of people riding stationary bikes or doing elliptical machines rather than going out and seeing the world … isn’t driving about the scenery? I had to find out what the hype was all about. It didn’t take long before I could tell that I was the only newbie in the paddock and I was about to get quite an education.

The first stop was turn twelve. There were people with safety gear, communications flags and a safety truck. I could feel, more than hear, the screech of wheels as cars levitated around the turn, the cars twisting in front of me. The physics of fast moving cars, of aerodynamics and oppositional forces registered like a series of high-speed photographs with labels getting filed in the recesses of my brain for later analysis.

Halloween isn’t the usual energy for a race, I’d imagine, but walking over the bridge, into the paddock area and down the row of crews, between the nasty nurses, delicate princesses and walking Star Wars characters were the drivers in their fire-proof jumpsuits. They almost had a glow about them, standing out from the crowd in their brightly colored outfits. These were the celebrities, and it was clear that everyone else’s job was to make their performance possible.

Over the 24-hour race, there was an ebb and flow to the energy, to the congregations and conversations. I listened to the foreign language of mechanics talking about power and torque using numbers as ciphers as they described the difference between engines and the compatibility of parts across manufacturers. The tacticians deciphered computer readouts on driver performance and as the hours slipped by, slowly street cars were stripped for parts, listing like carcasses being scavenged by Michelin-star chefs looking for the choicest ingredients.

The Chump Car race isn’t what I’d imagine a highly competitive race would usually feel like.  Everyone cheered for the mechanics that resurrected a car that had limped into the pit sputtering or worse.  Walking down the pit lane it looked almost like the attention to comfort in the ever-changing weather and the food chosen to keep people running on minimal sleep was more competitive than the driving.

This is a cross-section of a community – from the wealthiest to the least, from the knowledgeable to the newbie, from the rising star to the fading nobility, there’s a respect for those who take part in this culture and an appreciation for what each person can offer. There’s a synergy of talents wrapped in a pervasive respect for safety and dignity.  For a competitive sport, I felt very little competition between teams but rather a fraternity among those who share a similar passion.

As it turns out, I didn’t get to drive, but that’s ok. I helped prepare a few meals, I took a few pictures and I had the privilege to meet a group of unpretentious people. They let me sneak a peek into a mysterious world, and for that I’m grateful.