Operation Git-R-Done
by Scott Hardie on May 22, 2007
This past weekend, I explored my inner redneck in a NASCAR-centered visit to Charlotte with Steve Dunn and my family. Here are the highlights, good and bad.
Thursday: Very little sleep before the trip: The Jeep parked outside my window sounded off its car alarm every five minutes (I timed it) from 10pm to 10am. Everyone who says it's time I got out of this apartment is right.
Friday: Steve and I clicked right away upon meeting at the airport curb. He's just like I imagined him, except maybe for the Carolina accent, which I should have imagined. We ate at colorful local landmark The Penguin (fried pickles, mmm) and then stayed up into the wee hours talking about everything, life and family and hobbies and philosophy, while Koyaanisqatsi and 2001 played on his TV. He learned a lot of behind-the-scenes secrets about the site and gave me a number of great suggestions for it, and I learned a lot about him and how he thinks. He's as funny and considerate as he seems online.
Saturday: Steve's wife Kelli and their baby joined us for lunch at another Southern-themed local eatery (fried green tomatoes, not so mmm) and a tour of the city. The afternoon was dedicated to tailgating with newfound redneck buddies, tossing beanbags into holes in plywood and eating grilled chickens with Bone Suckin' Sauce and listening to wavering country music on the radio and engaging in macho speculation about the women walking by. I started to feel queasy halfway through, and chalked it up to dreading the long walk ahead: A mile to the speedway, which itself was a mile and a half from end to end, and our seats were at the far other end. By the time we got seated, my head was swimming and I had to close my eyes to concentrate on not throwing up, which obviously affected my appreciation of the race. It didn't help that the speedway was a place of intense odors, particularly the cigars and cigarettes all around, making it hard to get a breath of fresh air. I enjoyed the racing part of it, and I now agree with Steve's contention that NASCAR is like baseball and hockey in that it's much more exciting in person than on TV, but it was a physically unpleasant experience for reasons that had little to do with it.
By the time the race ended and we concluded the Bataan death march back to the van, my body couldn't take any more. We were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to leave, and I voluminously threw up while frantically trying to get the door open. It sounded something like (rapidly) "unlock the door BLAARGH oh my god BLAWWG HUFF fuck me BLAAUGH I'm so sorry Steve BLARRG fuck me in the ass BLAOOCK sorry about the van BLAAGH HUFF HUFF." As Steve pointed out, the people in the next car must have seen me in their headlights and figured I was just another redneck who got hammered – in a sense, I got the "true" NASCAR experience without drinking a drop of alcohol. Despite my clothes being soaked with puke, we laughed about it on the drive home, because hey, you have to laugh.
Sunday: I continued to throw up into the morning, so by the time we converged in the family room, I just wanted to spend the day lying on the couch watching Comedy Central with the volume down, which probably suited Steve fine after all the beers he'd had the night before. Things went better after he dropped me off across town at the home of my aunt Suzie and uncle Pete, where I was still drowsy and queasy but in better spirits. I don't see the family as often as I should (other than my mom and a cousin in Pittsburgh, the Charlotte clan is all I have), but we got along like always, and the incoming parade of kids and spouses and grandkids filled the house with cheerful noise. It turned out my cousin Lisa has a web-related job that my company is trying to fill for the first time, so it helped to get some insight from her about how to think of it. After a brief dinner in which it seemed like no more than four adults were seated at the table at once, I helped the oldest grandkid assemble a dinosaur puzzle while the toddlers charged around, giggling and eating potsickles. It made me simultaneously love kids and wonder how parents of multiple toddlers do it. After the extended family left, we settled in for The Sopranos, the first time I had seen it in first-run on HBO (hey just in time), and I didn't mind the end-season spoilers one bit.
Monday: With a helpful sendoff from Suzie & Pete, I had a slightly nauseous but mostly fine return trip. With the weekend still fresh in mind, I sat down and wrote this entire blog post, until a momentary power flicker restarted my computer at the last minute – welcome back to Florida.
Me at the track. Longtime friends will recognize this as the first time I've worn a shirt with a corporate logo in perhaps ten years. When Steve asked me what kind of NASCAR shirt I got, I said, "A black shirt, with a decal on it." "Saying?" "Uh, the names of the drivers." "And?" "I dunno, there are lightning bolts." I think that kind of describes all NASCAR shirts.
Steve at the race. The red-eye kind of drives home the impression of general intoxication, or at least that's my excuse for leaving it in.
They call the game "cornhole" – four players, eight beanbags, two pieces of plywood, and a whole lot of sweatin' and gruntin'. (I am aware of having used the terms cornhole and sweatin' & gruntin' together in a sentence.)
Dale Earnhardt Junior! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Sorry, it's become force of habit.
The view towards the speedway from where we parked. Yeah, it's that far away.
The view inside the speedway. Yeah, the other end is that far away.
I like this shot, because it simulates how well most fans can see by that point in the evening.
My thanks to Steve, Kelli, Suzie, Pete, Denise, my mom, and everybody else who helped make this a great getaway.
Two Replies to Operation Git-R-Done
Lori Lancaster | May 23, 2007
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