12/5/2002

12/5/2002 - 12:00

THE 480 MOTOR SPEEDWAY

Speeding out of pit-lane all intent on the lead. Gritting teeth and jockying for position. Cut off, tail-gated and brake-checked. Speeds in excess of 85 mph into turns, 4 abreast.

Helmets sworn off. Rollbars for wimps. Seatbelts optional.

Before dawn spills over onto this midwestern wonderland, thousands of saints and angels are off to the races. Not to spectate, but to win. Some are given a gentle farewell kiss, others a somber, solitary departure into the blue-black pre-dawn race. Whatever their status, all are as equal on the speedway as the number of tires they push through the ice. On the first leg, one simply needs to make it to work in one piece. On the second leg, home.

Many do not meet their goal. Stranded victims of the rush line the lanes along the speedway. No yellow flag, only angry racers. Angry because they stuble over the fallen.

On the final lap, we sometimes relax and let our guards down. The sidestreets team with bent and broken befuddlement. The intensity must endure all the way home.

We slip unnoticed into our garages with no cheering crowds or blondes half naked or champaigne showers. Deep down, though, we know we have won. And that sweet victory boils in our blood. And we rest, to race again...at dawn.