No Yellow Flags

Have you ever been to a car race named after a number and has multiple flip-overs and fires?  I have.

In south Texas I went to drag races.  The race lasted 4.5 seconds.  Don't blink twice or you miss them.  After we moved to Iowa Doug and I went to stock car races.  It's deafening.  Your chest vibrates as the cars go rumbling by.  The races last forever.  Especially if there is an accident and the yellow flag must come out.  The excitement is high nonetheless.  I have now discovered something here called Figure 8 races.  It is the coolest thing since Rockem Sockem Robots. 

My son, Robby, our cousin, Shannon, and myself drove a hour away to a town with a population of 1,232.  We walked into the Fair Grounds where a lady was perched on a bucket collecting the cash admission fee.  Settling in the stands I observed we were improperly dressed in our regular t-shirts and bedazzled tank tops.  We were not wearing neon colored t-shirts that were at least two sizes too large and advertised our favorite driver.  Nor were we wearing our towns'  fire department t-shirt.  (Yes, I know.  Doug is a member of the Irwin fire department.  But he has yet to snag a shirt.)

I searched for the track.  All I could see were a couple of tractor tires stacked up toward both ends of a field of dirt.  Dirt that was being hosed down by the local fire department.  It took the firemen five minutes to muddy the field and fifteen minutes to get the truck unstuck and off the field.  The firemen then donned their fire gear in the summer heat.  They positioned themselves three feet from the track beside their fire extinguishers.  I was getting the impression this was going to be exciting. 

Poxed cars shook up to the field, which to my surprise, was the track.  These guys (I didn't see any female drivers.  We are the more intelligent species.)  were wearing helmets and t-shirts or muscle shirts.  Most drove with only one hand.  There was no real track.  They just went around the tires in a figure 8 pattern trying not to crash in the middle as they accelerated.  It didn't matter if they piled up around the tires.  The drivers kept the pedal to the metal until one car would be spun around, shoved out of the way for the other cars pass.  Sometimes the cars would be stubborn, refusing to be pushed aside.  This would cause one car to be tossed into the air crashing onto its roof perhaps even onto another car.

The red flag would come out and everyone would have to stop, back up and make room for the front loader.  He was the hero to unflip the car and push the degraded car off the track.  Off zoomed the cars again.

Debris flew in every direction.  Cars zipped over bumpers and fenders that littered the track.  There were no yellow flags in this race.  If the car died, hopefully the driver was in tune with his motor and could limp to the edge of the field.  If not, the car stayed where it conked out.  It didn't matter if it was smack dab in the middle of the eight or on the tight turn around the tires.  I'm positive a lot of praying was going on in those dead cars.

Two flagmen wearing shorts were stationed on the sides of the track within flying distance of the mud.  They looked like black spotted cows when the night was over.  What about the firemen and their extinguishers you ask?  Yes, they used them.  Three times!  The fire truck roared onto the track when flames shot out of a tired engine.

Robby now thinks this is his future employment.  He plans to pony up $200 and buy an old clunker.  He's positive he can assemble a team to jazz up the motor and strip down the extra weight.  I know he has t-shirts.  I have seen him drive with one hand.  He is qualified.  I have just one request of him.  I really like pink.  Could your t-shirts be neon pink so I can look good while you are on the track with the flying hoods and smoking cars?