NASCAR Nation: One journalist's journey of discovery

National Review, Nov 10, 2003 by John Derbyshire

Up close the cars look surprisingly small and flimsy. Their "stock" nature is, at this point in the evolution of the sport, highly theoretical. Eligible models in the Winston Cup series are the Chevy Monte Carlo, Pontiac Grand Prix, Ford Taurus, and Dodge Intrepid, but none of the cars I saw bore much resemblance to the street models of those marques. None of their side bodywork panels paused to include a door, for instance; the driver climbs in and out through his side window (which has no glass). An owner I spoke with, who had a Monte Carlo entered in the race, described to me in loving detail how his mechanics hand-tool all the car parts in his 75,000-square-foot machine shop. I interrupted him to ask: "You hand-make everything? So where, exactly, does Chevrolet come in?" He looked a little flustered. "Oh, you know, they supply some parts . . . the chassis design . . ."

It is commonly said that car-racing fans go to the track in the hope of seeing a grisly crash. From my own encounters with fans on the infield and in the stands, I don't believe this. Aside from the sensory thrills of speed and noise, and the rude social pleasures of the infield, the main appeal of the sport, for most fans, lies in rooting for their favorite drivers. Each one has some points of character, personal history, or driving style that endear him to, or repel, some section of the fan base. A few are wildly popular with practically everyone: Dale Earnhardt Sr. was, and his son, Dale Jr., now is. ("On account of his daddy," a lady fan in the stands said fondly when I asked why.) A few are widely disliked. Kurt Busch, a fast-rising young star known for . . . unorthodox driving tactics, is a villain to traditionalists, and to the kind of Southerner who believes in maintaining the exquisite manners of the region even when you are trying to kill someone. When the drivers were individually announced during the pre-race proceedings at Talladega, his name was greeted with a great outbreak of booing from the fans.

What then of those stereotypes the NASCAR suits so strenuously try to distance themselves from? The Southern bias, for example? Since Talladega, smack plumb in the heart of the Heart of Dixie, is the only track I have ever been to, my personal experience of the sport has not been well balanced, and I shall dutifully report that you can attend a stock-car race in any part of the country. There are major tracks in California, Kansas, and New Hampshire. The mathematician in me wants to check the numbers, though, and the numbers suggest the following broad truth: Half of this sport belongs to the South, while the other half is spread out among all the rest of us.

Take the location of tracks, for example. Defining the South to be the old Confederacy plus Kentucky, of the 21 major tracks (not counting road courses) in the U.S., 11 are in the South. These Southern tracks have 15.4 of the available 32 miles of roadway and 1.31 million of the total 2.46 million grandstand seats. Over a half, nearly a half, and over a half. It is the same with the 43 drivers at Talladega: I tallied 21 drivers from the South; the next biggest regional group was from the Midwest, with 11 drivers.