I feel the roar of the engines race through my body
as the cars circle the track with seemingly reckless abandon.
Over one hundred and fifty thousand strong fill the night. The sounds of the race echo high into the night sky.
However, before it all begins they come for the party.

I sit in stark amazement as to why they come.
Filling the parking areas with un-told fun and laughter
they fill their senses with barbeque of pork, chicken and beef. Crabs, shrimp and beer are what others desire.  Ah, cold beer shared with friends and lovers as the evening breeze waffles the air with the smell of racing fuel and exhaust.
 
She is in all her glory sitting with those she loves.  Having the time of her life looking at how happy he is. Another beer down and more to go.   He holds her hand softly as they walk through countless vendors peddling their favorite driver’s newest wear.  She fancies herself in hot red with a big ole eight tattooed on her ass.  She is at home with him during this night. The hollering, carrying-on is part of who they are.

Hundreds of flags are fluttering in the evening sky as they wait in line to get their seats. A few cold ones packed for the night with some snacks and a lot more love.  As OLD GLORY flies silence grips the mass. She feels the words penetrate her body:  “Gentlemen
Start Your Engines” echoes through the air.

She steals a glance and knows she will start his engine later even if she looses as she looks at her man taking in the atmosphere.  The lights, smoke, beer and more came to the track straight from all the parking lots.  She loves this night with him as they stand to watch the pace car leave the track.

Faster the drivers go as they enter into turn one then two, three and four. Without something on your ears, the sound is really loud. Zooming by at great speeds, tiny balls of rubber fly along the walkway from the track. The crowd erupts when in turn three a crash. Quickly scanning the field to see who it was, they hope it is not their driver.

Hours fly like minutes as the laps dwindle down as they battle for the lead. On the edge of their seats they sit. Each of their drivers share the spot. He yells and yells for the twenty-four.  She doesn’t hesitate in screaming for
the eight. They look at each other as the white flag flies.  She’s  gonna win and he just might cry.  As the checkered falls and Junior’s car spins rubber in tight little
circles rotates, she looks at her baby with a devilish grin and says.
“Now baby how bout kissing my number eight. “   

rb.