LIVE FROM MEMPHIS

In Millington, a quick 20-minute drive from my apartment in Midtown, is Memphis Motorsports Park. The facility includes a quarter-mile dragstrip, a paved NASCAR-style oval, and a twisty road course. It hosts NASCAR Nationwide Series racing, National Hot Rod Association (NHRA) drag racing, Camping World Truck Series races, and an array of more locally focused events. They also host qualifying events for PINKS, a reality show on SPEEDtv involving a national drag racing tournament; on the final show, the winner gets the loser's car.

I've known the park was there for years, but I'd never gone. I'd also noticed that the local media hardly mention it, aside from a quick blurb in the CA when the Nationwide Series is there, despite the fact that there is national-level talent there several times a year and regional events on a near-weekly basis.

On a recent Saturday, I decided to investigate.

First things first: If you're planning to watch the races, bring ear protection. (I recommend Hear-Os brand earplugs, available at Walgreens for a couple dollars.) These cars are LOUD; when they drive by, you'll feel your internal organs rattling. Which is awesome.

Admission to the land of metal and asphalt is $10.  The crowd for this night of drag racing was sparse: perhaps a few hundred people, mostly friends and family of the racers. Especially for Memphis, the crowd was notably integrated; people of all races and ages mingled, laughed, high-fived, and cheered. The atmosphere is reminiscent of the Mid-South Fair, but far more relaxed and less crowded. There's food and drink available—AutoZone Park isn't the only place in town to get barbecue nachos—and walking around the big lot next to the dragstrip, you can walk right up to the racers' cars, talk to the drivers, even touch and inspect the cars. Try that at a NASCAR race sometime.

It also seemed to be a great, safe environment for kids; Doug Franklin, the track's director of Public Relations, told me with obvious pride that a lot of kids who would otherwise be out roaming (or racing on) the streets at night were here instead. In the Junior Dragster category, kids as young as eight years race scaled-down cars that nonetheless can hit a top speed of 85 mph or so. Some of the younger attendees looked they might own the director's cut of The Fast and the Furious, and some looked like they might not own a DVD player. Without exception, everyone was friendly and cheerful.

That goes double for the employees. There's something about racing cars that attracts characters. Guys with names like Augie, Alvis, and Rooster joked with each other, laughed, and generally seemed to be having a ball at work. 

The overall experience of attending is visceral. The smells of burning rubber, gasoline, fair food, and adrenaline create a powerful miasma that reminds you you're not in your living room. Smoke hangs in the air. The noise can be astonishing.  Your eyes are gritty by the time you leave—contacts wearers will want to wear glasses instead.

The cars race side-by-side, over either an eighth-mile or a quarter-mile straightaway. In "bracket racing," the cars aren't racing against each other; each driver does three time trials, picks the time he or she (yes, women drive too) expects to come closest to on the fourth run, and declares that their target time. The fourth run is the one that "counts," meaning they try to match the time they declared earlier. In other words, it's not a question of how fast you can drive; it's a question of how consistent you are, and how well you know your car. 

Safety is Priority One at the track. Every car receives a thorough inspection before it gets on the track. If a car leaks fluid during a run, all racing stops while a crew goes out and cleans it up thoroughly. If a car starts shedding bits of metal—lug nuts, valve caps, whatever—a team walks the entire track making sure the road is clear. A metal doojobber the size of your thumb can cause a tire to blow, and there are no minor crashes at 150 mph. I asked several employees how often there's a crash on the track, and got the same answer each time: "Not that often." No one seemed eager to elaborate on how often "that often" might be.

Cars line up, waiting to race.  Any kind of car can race at one time or another.  Got a grudge with a friend?  For $30 each, you can settle it on the dragstrip any Thursday night.  People drag in cars with those air intakes that look like an alien laid an egg under the hood, and people drag in minivans.

Fans of beautiful cars will find a lot to like here.  

A "superpro" car. When these cars take off, the acceleration is shocking; you almost can't turn your head fast enough to watch them. This one reached 200 freaking mph by the end of a quarter-mile. It has a 700-cubic-inch engine, twice the size of the engine in a Cadillac Escalade with probably a quarter of the weight.



Colorful characters and colorful vehicles abound.



Before a race, the cars spin their tires in the "water box" until they smoke. This serves a dual purpose: it heats up the tires and makes them sticky, increasing traction; and it is fucking cool. Walking across the concrete with so many years of rubber burned onto it, you feel it grab your shoes and suddenly gain a new appreciation for the word "traction."



The owners of the car at left had spent the last 18 months working on it, and Saturday was to be its first race. At full throttle, the engine produces a jaw-dropping 2,000 horsepower. Unfortunately, it was hobbled at the starting line by a fuel filter problem. The owners did not seem too downhearted.

The concrete where the cars heat up their tires has layers and layers of rubber burned onto it.  If you walk across it, it seems to grab your shoes and hold on.



Racing continues late into the night. 

Attending a drag race is a vivid, tactile experience.

Photography by Angy Champine