It’s kind of astonishing to think they had an automobile race here in Chicago in 1895. It was the first one ever, actually — a race to Evanston and back, with the winner averaging 7 mph. (Must have been the curves near Hollywood and Sheridan.)
To be honest, I didn’t know cars existed then.
We all know Henry Ford started cranking out Model Ts in 1908 — in colors ranging from black to black and, yes, black — but inventors had been tinkering with engine-powered vehicles as far back as the late 1600s. So shut my mouth.
The point is, once you invent something that moves, humans are going race it.
I went to the NASCAR Winston Cup Tropicana 400 race held in Joliet back in July 2001 and was amazed it drew 75,000 fans on a weekend featuring the Cubs-Sox series at Wrigley Field. People seemed to have a great time at the speedway (those who weren’t deafened by the sound, anyway), the action was intriguing, and down in the pit, some amazing stuff did happen.
The dudes who change tires could be strongman contestants, and the mechanics are like hyped-up surgeons with wrenches. One thing I found fascinating was the checking process done by overwhelmed inspectors, and the obvious fact that every team will try to rig its engine to the point where tuning meets cheating. And beyond.
“Here’s the deal,” Hall of Fame mechanic Bud Moore once said. “I’ll do 10 things to the car. NASCAR is pretty good. It will find seven of ’em. But I’m still three to the good.”
Racing and cheating. Could anything be more American?
Cars themselves are the epitome of the USA, the essence of us. Everything a car lets you do, everything you can do in a car, everything you can do to a car — it’s the stuff that makes you feel free, in control, beyond the law, fast.
Or, it used to be that way. Cars without seat belts, engines with cylinders the size of soup cans, back seats the size of couches, trunks you could camp in, gas-guzzling, gaudy and ridiculous cars with fins and air scoops — those were the days. Say hello to cops, speed guns, airbags, waist and shoulder restraints, catalytic converters and quiet, electric vehicles that park themselves and soon will do the driving, too.
NASCAR is from another era, but its appeal is undeniable yet. Almost a quarter of NASCAR fans watch it only on TV, but a third have been to at least one race. And 94% say they’d likely buy a product endorsed by a NASCAR driver.
So take that, Michael Jordan and Nike. We’re talking serious loyalty.
I went to a NASCAR race in Rockingham, North Carolina, in late February 2001, just a week after superhero Dale Earnhardt had died in a crash on the final lap of the Daytona 500. It was a tough weekend of mixed cheer and mourning, with everybody wearing No. 3 ballcaps or flying the Earnhardt No. 3 flag with Dale’s black “Goodwrench Service Plus” Chevy emblazoned beneath his stern, sunglassed, mustachioed face.
I won’t get into the rights or wrongs of taking over the center of a city in the middle of summer and inconveniencing Chicagoans for weeks just to have a loud NASCAR race with ticket prices rivaling those of a Taylor Swift concert. “What, and for whom, are city parks and streets for?” you could ask.
Nor will I mention the oddness of a NASCAR race laid out like a Formula 1 track or the fact that police have been cracking down hard on young Chicagoans’ illegal street racing and “drifting” at rowdy intersections. You can watch “Fast & Furious” movies, kids. Do not imitate.
But NASCAR has an ongoing appeal. The “stock” in stock car means these cars theoretically are what you or I could buy from stock at our favorite dealership. Of course, that’s not true anymore. Like you can find a car with 800 horsepower, a cockpit and slicks at the nearby Ford showroom? Did you know the whole outer shell of these cars is just a facade — the front lights and whatnot painted on?
No matter. The legends of guys named Buckshot and Junior and Fireball, their suped-up moonshiner cars “runnin’ through the woods of Caroline” (to quote Springsteen’s “Cadillac Ranch’’), the roar of straight pipes and barely controlled recklessness — it’s primitive and enduring and, yep, American.
NASCAR’s here, like the traveling circus. Might as well put in the earplugs, folks, and climb aboard.
