The screen cut from Rutledge to… a puppet named Danny Hammerdropper: light brown mustache, dressed in a hat with the number 88 on it, holding a microphone. In a high-pitched puppety southern drawl, he yelled, “Dale Junior ah love youuuuu!”2 I looked back at Josh, who was still watching intently as if all of this was perfectly normal. Sure, Josh was handsome, smart, relaxed, and had amazing eyes. But it was all too much. I knew right then this would really never work out. I just had to get through the next few hours and that would be that.
The race began. Half an hour in, a sort of madness crept in. My limited downtime is important to me. How did I get myself into this situation? What if these races go on for hours and hours, like golf? I don’t think I’ll be able to stand watching cars go around for— BOOM!! A car with a duck logo violently crashed into a car with a beer logo. The lights around the track suddenly flashed bright yellow as the duck logo car erupted into massive flames. Holy shit! No human could ever survive such an inferno. The driver, clearly deceased, was no longer in control of the vehicle, and the flaming duck car sped off the track and spun out on some grass before smashing into a wall. “OH MY GOD! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?! DID HE HAVE A FAMILY?!”
Josh took a sip of his beer and mumbled, “It’s jussalittle ohlfaar.”
“A WHAT?!”
“Jussalittle ohlfaar.”
“WHAT’S AN OHLFAAR?!”
Josh casually took another sip of his beer and enunciated: “It’s. Just. A Litt-tull. OIL. FIE-errrr.”
Just a little oil fire? I looked back at the TV as the dead driver casually pulled himself out of the burning duck car and walked away as if nothing happened. Wow. The crowd loved it—and I had to admit, I kinda did too.
We had more dates.
I asked lots more questions about NASCAR during those subsequent hangouts.
“Why does the guy on the lifeguard stand wave different flags?”
“It’s called a starter’s stand—that’s the start/finish line. Different colors mean different things: green for go, yellow for caution, checkered when the race is over.”
“Why are they all racing in a row, like why don’t the drivers just try to pass each other?”
“They do try to pass each other! That’s the whole point! When you’re going two hundred miles an hour in close quarters, it’s hard!”
“If that’s the case, why don’t people just watch the last ten minutes to see who wins instead of sitting through hours of this?”
“Because the last ten minutes is… not the whole race. What kind of question is that? Would you only watch the last ten minutes of a basketball game, because that’s when you see who wins?”
Josh also schooled me on some of the more sensational aspects of the sport, like drivers having beef with each other. It turned out that NASCAR World was full of intrigue. It could also be a little confusing. Some rich people own multiple cars and have contracts with multiple drivers. Drivers who are signed to the same owner form teams, even though they compete individually. Team members have loyalty to each other, so sometimes drivers on the same team help each other out, and sometimes they don’t.
In March of 2013, Denny Hamlin and his former teammate Joey Logano were neck and neck for the lead in a race in Bristol, Virginia. At a key moment, Denny tapped Joey’s car, sending him spinning into a wall. After the race, an enraged Joey headed over to Denny—a little fight ensued with guys from both teams pushing each other. Later that month, Joey hit Denny’s car and it too ran into a wall, giving Denny a compression fracture in his back. Can you believe the drama? It’s like Real Housewives of New Jersey meets the NFL.
What’s cool is that NASCAR isn’t just spectacle. For Josh’s family—and families throughout the country—NASCAR is way more than a means of entertainment through cars, talking puppets, and idiosyncratic rivalries. It’s a way to spend time together. He told me about how many childhoods had been defined by the trek that moms, dads, and kids would make to see a race, often requiring hours of travel. And not just nuclear families: A day at the track could be spent with cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Friends and neighbors were included. Cars, trucks, and vans were packed with grills and food. They’d set up entire areas outside the track to tailgate, complete with cornhole games, beer and soda coolers, hot dogs and hamburgers. On special overnight trips, they’d also get to tailgate inside the track. Josh explained that many NASCAR tracks allow families to park their trucks and RVs in the middle of the track itself—the infield. You set up your tent or trailer and grill and drink beer as the cars race by. Imagine going on a camping trip as a kid, but you also get to watch fast cars whizzing around you? Wild.
* * *
Growing up, my parents would take my brother and me camping a few times a year, usually in the early fall or late spring. It was an economical choice for a family that wasn’t wealthy enough to take frequent trips to fancy places for leisure, and it was a great way for us to spend time together while getting to enjoy some of the coolest nature spots. Camping became a tradition that I loved. My folks would pack up the station wagon, a process they had down to a science: one sturdy yellow tent, one large blue cooler full of drinks and snacks, two smaller red-and-white coolers full of food my mom had cooked and frozen, charcoal, and some lighter fluid for the grill. Several suitcases in the back, three suitcases strapped to the roof, and off we went. Family time!
We’d head to campgrounds all over the Northeast: some close to the Delaware River, others up through the Adirondack Mountains. Sometimes it was the four of us; other times we’d go with my cousins. One time, a suitcase that wasn’t attached securely enough to the roof flew off onto the highway.
“Was that our bag?” Dad said, looking in the rearview mirror as it disappeared behind us.
From the shoulder of the New Jersey Turnpike, we watched that suitcase get run over again and again. It was thrilling, in a way, waiting to see if my Snoopy shirt would join the few stray items of clothing that might blow over to the shoulder to be salvaged.
On another camping trip with Hansa Auntie, Dhiren Uncle, and my cousins Shami and Sagar, a couple of beautiful birds perched themselves on a branch above our picnic table. Eight-year-old me thought it was so nice to see these little birds watching us make our sandwiches; meanwhile, Hansa Auntie was beyond convinced that the birds were about to poop. We only have enough sandwiches for today’s lunch, kids! She tried to shoo the birds away. The next thing we knew, a mean, MEAN blue jay swooped down and viciously began pecking Hansa Auntie’s head. As she ducked and swatted, she called to us: “Kids, protect the food!”
Birds were supposed to be as cute and docile as they were in Disney cartoons. They weren’t supposed to try and kill Hansa Auntie. I cried. Should I run away and hide in the tent? Would the bloodthirsty blue jay find me inside the car? WAS ANYPLACE SAFE?! Luckily, my cousins saved our lunch and Hansa Auntie chased the bird off. I finished my PB&J with one eye on the trees.
On at least one occasion we were joined by family friends who had returned from a trip to India, where the kids had picked up a few bad words in Hindi. These were eagerly shared among the children. “Did you know that the word for stupid is sally, like the girl’s name?” a fellow eleven-year-old would say. “And the word for penis is lund! If someone’s name was Sally Lund that means her name is Stupid Penis!”