D'you Go to Dega?

I did, in fact, go to Dega. Talladega, Alabama. Home of the Talladega Superspeedway. And the place where the masses converge to cheer, guzzle beer and pick fights as their favorite NASCAR contenders drive (or perhaps "fly" would be more accurate) around and around in circles for hours in hopes of being the first across the finish line at the end of the 188th lap. "Interesting" doesn't even begin to describe the experience.

I should start by saying that I am not, nor have I ever been, a race fan. I have family members who are. And it's probably safe to say that a vast majority of the Southern population gets totally immersed in the racing culture from year to year. Hey, to each his own. But for me, I have never understood the appeal of watching cars drive around in circles. It just seems incredibly counterproductive to drive and drive and never get anywhere. But I digress.

I saw a lot at Talladega. A lot of beer, a lot of tattoos, a lot of mullets, a lot of scantily clad women (who were wearing more clothing than usual, I was told, due to the overcast skies), a lot of sunburns, a lot of dirty feet, a lot of racing apparel (especially Dale Earnhardt Jr. gear. Seriously, is EVERYONE a Junior fan?) and a LOT of people missing a significant number of teeth. The man across from me on the tram from the parking lot to the stadium had only three teeth. I wouldn't make that up. It also should be noted that the tram was pulled by a tractor and the parking lot was, in fact, a field.

Since I have no loyalty to any driver or organization, I picked a favorite based on the one-line descriptions given to each driver in the special racing section of The Birmingham News. "Most likely to wreck somebody." Sounds like the guy for me. Juan Pablo Montoya. I also enjoyed hearing his name announced amongst the throng of uber-American racers like Dale Jr., Jimmie Johnson, Jeff Burton and winner Kyle Busch. For some inexplicable reason, Juan Pablo (or JP, as I like to call him) made me incredibly happy.
So did his second-place finish.

I can't get over how much fun I had. I was expecting to be amused, but I wasn't expecting to actually get involved in the race. Once I got used to the deafening roar every time the pack whizzed by the bleachers, I found myself eagerly anticipating the next lap. And feeling inredibly sorry for the driver of what I affectionately dubbed the Honey Bun car - a.k.a. the Little Debbie Ford - who got so far behind that the badasses up front actually caught up with him. Oops.

I'm sorry to say that we had to hit the road with 40 laps left to go in the race. Otherwise this girl wouldn't have gotten back into Starkville til the wee hours of the morning. So we missed the 13-car wreck and the final lap. Had I known that crash was coming, I would gladly have sacrificed a good night's sleep to witness it. After all, it ain't a good race unless there's a wreck. Isn't that how it works?