You Can’t Be Serious(80)

When I first saw NASCAR on television, I thought, They drive cars. I drive cars. How hard could that be? A lot harder than meets the eye, it turns out. The cars are moving so fast that you have to be in total and complete control of your body. Even the slightest wrong movement of a steering wheel and you could be toast. Besides that, temperatures in those stock cars can top 130 degrees Fahrenheit, so you have to be able to withstand tremendous amounts of heat and keep your head about you. And it’s not just the drivers, either. Pit crews go through rigorous training the same way other athletes do. Those tires and gear are heavy, and they need to be able to move them in and out in a matter of seconds, with immense technical specificity. You need to be strong and agile, just like a football player. Take that, bowling.

I was getting into it. I was discovering an exciting new world with Josh as my guide. He eagerly explained all the things that he already knew, steering me in the directions of my natural curiosity (NASA comparisons! Soap opera dramatics between drivers!). And my interest just grew and grew. By the time Josh and I graduated from casually dating to formally being together, I was following a few of the drivers on Twitter, and I was even bantering back and forth with other fans.



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For my birthday that year, Josh handed me a neatly wrapped square box. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I said in the obligatory manner, “but I appreciate it.” Inside was a sturdy white-and-blue mug with an astronaut on it. Just below the astronaut, in big block letters across the side of the mug: Kalpen. It was easily the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever gotten me. Josh had remembered the story about my childhood obsession, knew I’d never find a mug with my name on it at a gift shop, and had one specially made. What a keeper.

That same week I attended my first in-person race at Richmond Raceway, a two-hour drive south of Washington, DC. Josh and I were joined by two Republican friends and one lefty vegan. The five of us rode in my American-made hybrid car, and we tailgated in the infield. Our version of NASCAR, and tailgating, is subject to rare bipartisan agreement—koozies from the Reagan/Bush ’84 campaign peacefully coexisted with my OBAMA COLORADO bumper sticker.



We scored some “pit passes,” which allow access next to the track, and met drivers like Carl Edwards and Joey Logano—great guys who introduced us to their engineers, press peeps, crew chiefs, and families. Everyone was so easygoing. Carl even put up with my extended interrogations about the physics of it all. Just before the drivers started their engines, out of the corner of my eye, just a few feet from where we were standing, I saw the puppet—Danny Hammerdropper—in the flesh (well, fabric).

The day was special to me—Josh was the real fan here, and I was taking my crash course in racing, playing catch-up. I enjoyed every minute. A NASCAR race is aural, visual, and olfactory: not just the crazy-loud cars that you feel in your chest as they speed by, but hearing technical conversations about fuel allotments, smelling fresh rubber while you watch a car pit.3

Josh and I were having so much fun that I wanted to take our relationship to the next level—I wanted to go camping in the infield, at one of the biggest races, like the Daytona 500 or Talladega. I reached out to a wonderful woman named Gladys Cheng at NASCAR marketing for guidance, letting her know how much of a superfan I had become. I quickly got an email back that I had never, ever expected: an invitation to be a presenter at the NASCAR Awards in Las Vegas.

I guess I had never expected it because, like you before reading the last sentence, I had no idea that the NASCAR Awards were a thing. Josh and I rented tuxes and flew out to Vegas for the weekend. Hammerdropper wasn’t in attendance this time, but we did get to hang out with a bunch of drivers and team owners, including some of our new friends (Rutledge, Logano, Edwards, and his incredible wife, Katherine). Onstage, I got to introduce Jeff Gordon.4 The highlight of the event was a special tribute to a NASCAR driver from back in the day. His name was Tiny Lund.5

Sadly, most relationships come to an end eventually. We had had some good times together, but like many other fans, I got tired of some of its quirks, like the constant rule changes; my work schedule also made it tough to get to races. NASCAR in person is where my love blossomed. Watching it on television just didn’t feel the same… Although, if I’m being honest, while flipping through channels on a Sunday if I happen to catch part of a race, I find myself rooting for Logano, Bubba Wallace, or Ryan Blaney.

While my relationship with NASCAR may not have sustained, my relationship with Mississippi koozie Josh turned out better. All in all, I walked away from my NASCAR phase with three permanent things: a fiancé, an unironic appreciation for beer koozies, and a recognition that stock car racing is, in fact, an honest-to-goodness sport.6 For the uninitiated, if you’re able to hit up a race in person, I still highly recommend it. Go for the day with friends, or camp out in the infield for a weekend. It’s a great time. And when you see flames erupt, act cool: It’s probably jussalittle ohlfaar.


1?I did not have a top-secret security clearance.

2?I found out later that Dale Junior was a super popular driver who drove the number 88 car, and the puppet was a superfan.

3?For the uninitiated, pitting is when they change the tires and refuel the car in like five seconds, and you make a dad joke like, “How come they can’t do that when I take my car to the shop?”

4?If you’re not a NASCAR fan and you’re wondering why Jeff Gordon’s name sounds familiar to you, it’s probably because of the Nelly song “E.I.”: “I drive fastly, call me Jeff Gord-onnn, in the black SS with the naviga-tionnnnn /… Andele andele, mami E.I. E.I. Uh-ohhhhhh.” NASCAR’s awesomeness is everywhere!