That's three colliseums' worth of people - and the comparison is no mistake. In many ways the NASCAR phenomenon is akin to the spectacles of ancient Rome, spectacles where human life was regularly destroyed in the name of visceral entertainment. While the possibility of death, or at least the anticipation of disastrous high-speed collisions, is certainly a major draw for many fans, the sacrifice in NASCAR comes from the bosom of of Mother Nature. By most accounts, an average NASCAR series season comsumes about 200,000 gallons of fuel. This figure excludes practice, qualifying, and tuning, all of which undoubtedly inflate it considerably. The consumption itself is staggering, to be sure, but the rate at which these machines suck down gas is matched in intensity only by the jet-engine-level noise they throw into the atmosphere. The shit is loud. Really loud. Ears-bleeding, eyeballs-bulging, rib-shaking loud.
In fact, the experience of the racetrack is blistering for all five senses. Not only is your auditory capacity at the complete mercy of these massive, churning dynamos, the smell of burning rubber and Marlboros stuffs your nostrils, the cold, damp touch of a sweating Budweiser can preoccupies he fingers. And then the sights - oh the sights! Jean shorts and flame-tagged hats, no-name hightops and decaled pickups, meth addicts, swingers, smokers, mullets, spare rib and hamburger profilgacy, small children and old ladies, beer bellies and big titties, booze upon booze upon booze upon booze, more booze, a strikingly high number of full families, and a surprisingly low contingent of police. And caucasia everywhere.
They are 150,000 pilgrims to the high altar of motorsports, and on sunny Sunday sabbaths they trade in church for, as one pre-event prayer read, "racing in the name of Jesus Christ, the way God intended." And for many the spectacle is nothing short of a religious happening. Mom, Dad, and Grandma show up in the RV on Thursday night, watch qualifying, the truck race, the Busch race, and then gear up for the main event, the consecration of the entire ceremony, the culminating act of the whole shebang: the Nextel race.
Nextel races draw, on average, more spectators than for any other major sport in the United States. They command the second position, behind NFL football, in the television ratings battle. And watching a race, either in person or on that magical talking box Americans love so much, one is exposed to unparalleled volume of corporate sponsorship. Alcohol manufacturers, car insurance dealers, office suppliers, home-improvement stores, and even the US National Guard claim primary sponsorship of a Nextel car, a billion dollar a year commitment. Their logos displayed prominently on all sides of the vehicle, creating a permanent, three-hour long TV spot and a mobile billboard at the same time. Merchandise sales routinely top $2 billion annually, everything from model cars to clothing to furniture.
So why do they come? Why do these people tune in and turn out 40 weeks of the year to this fuel-wasting, environment draining, consumerism-inciting spectacle of excess and incest? They do it because the human animal is addicted to entertainment, compelled naturally toward the possibility of destruction, still governed, at some level, by the craving for viceral stimuli. And Goddamn it, dem cars go real fast.
