Most folks watch Drag Racing on TV, but even the most sophisticated home entertainment systems cannot properly convey the controlled eruption of 11000 horsepower.
At the track, spectators have access to the pit area. Dragster teams’ warm-up the Nitro Car engines to double-check the rebuilds after every run across the three days of competition. As you wander the pit area, the unmistakable rumble begins and magnetizes the true gearheads and the curious, pulling them towards the thunder like ants muster to spilled ice cream.
The car sits on jack stands; a bodiless, tireless, jumble of tubing and wires nestled between the haulers covered by a branded canopy. The dedicated crews huddle in the confined space, most of them wearing gasmasks. As the nitro fuel does its work, an acrid cloud billows forth like something found on the acidic surface of Venus. Some fans grab their noses, but that doesn’t leave enough fingers for their ears and burning eyes. Those with ear protection steel themselves in this HAZMAT environment. As I turn and study the people near me, I see my own joy reflected in their tortured faces. A man with a cane sees me and nods his approval as we share and endure multiple sensory overloads. Suddenly, the throttle is jacked. Loud doesn’t come near to describing this physical assault. The controlled explosions move the ground under your feet and invades, every hair follicle, nerve, muscle, and bone without invitation. It’s a fight or flight mugging. Eight or nine people turn in fear and scurry away, darting through the remaining disciples. It’s like being near a lightening strike and subsequent thunder. You jump, shocked and afraid for an instant, then awed and humbled by the unimaginable power of it. Then, all goes silent. The people around you cackle with joy and acknowledge our shared communion, a tribe that held together against a common foe. One stranger, who was without ear protection, turns to me with a crumpled grin on his face and simply says, “Ouch”.
The Adventures of Spaghetti Eddie 