The Daytona 500- A Novices View Today was race day. My husband had invited a few friends and family over (I should say family who are friends, thats not always the case) to watch the race and have a light lunch. We roasted one of the smaller turkeys that we had raised last fall, sandwiches were made, chips and dip were passed around. I think it says something about us as a group that no less than *four* different kinds of dessert were brought by my visitors. Yeah. We invite the *good* guys. (sadly, one invitee could not come, please feel better soon, Mike! You always bring good food.) Now, I know almost nothing about NASCAR. I know that cars are involved. I know that sitting in front of a TV for hours is involved, making profound pronouncements on a subject in which you may or may not have *any* real proficiency is involved, but it will sound scholarly with the soundtrack in the background. All that noise and chatter is a gift for the novice, it makes you sound...strangely competent when you ask questions that reveal your total and all-encompassing ignorance, such as but dont these cars have windshield wipers? No, to my astonishment, they do not. Any crap that flies onto their windshield at 200 miles and hour is just...there. Until it falls off or is wiped off in a lightning-fast pitting. (Which does not in any way resemble removing seeds from fruit.) No, they dont need windshield wipers because the race is postponed when it rains. Im serious. The cars all pull over, and something like one of those crocheted toilet paper roll covers is slipped over each individually. Only they all look high tech and ergonomic (in case the cars had to go ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE very fast) instead of like enormous crocheted belle of the ball flounced hoop skirt dolls. And...this is priceless. They *dry* the racecourse. This actually had me bent over with laughter. I was getting hard looks from serious NASCAR fans for inappropriate celebration. Huge trucks circle the track slowly with blower hoses and compressors, I suggested sprinkling some baby powder. No. Gold Bond? NO. More hard looks. Honestly, I had to look away, it was so ridiculous. No windshield wipers, no tread on the tires. This is the Dysfunctional 500. It gets worse. Of course it does. Its like the old James Bond movies with Sean Connery from the early 60s. A woman walked up to him and said My name is Pussy, Pussy Galore! And he doesnt miss a beat he says But of course you are. So when I say It gets worse, well of course it does. In the Daytona 500, the cars are all outfitted with restrictor plates that keep them from going too *fast.* Lets review. Its a race in which the cars all go the same speed. Yeah. Its really Zen, really Mindfull. The Daili Freakin Llama drives the Tiger Balm car. Number 9 Million for all the names of God. Its orange. Now, my NASCAR teachers agreed that the most exciting part is the last 50 laps. Why, I inquired couldnt they simply eliminate the first 450 laps and focus on the 50 most interesting? My teachers looked at me for a moment then went back to their conversation. I was left with no explanation for that, or, come to think of it, why it is that the *fastest* car gets to start the race first and not the slowest who needs the head start? It doesnt seem...sporting? But...Arent they all supposed to go the same speed because of the restrictor plate so how can fastest or slowest be a concrete measure? (Warning...warning...illogical...Nomad...exterminate!) As of this minute nobody has won the Daytona 500. It is still raining. Baby powder. Hee-hee!
Posted on: Mon, 24 Feb 2014 00:03:17 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015