Blowing Up & Other Fun Hobbies
(There's more than one definition of "traction")
There are a lot of things in America that I don't understand. Reality TV that isn't. Miracle cures that don't. Fast food that's neither. Soy milk. Wisconsin politics.
But right up there near the top of the list are weekend hobbies that cause you to catch on fire.
What I'm not talking about here is learning how to prepare blackened fish. I tried that once, too, in an apartment I was renting in Charleston. The apartment survived, and I didn't technically catch on fire, but I stood a good chance of getting arrested for murdering a security deposit.
What I am talking about is combustible-engine-based vehicle racing: that catch-all collection of off-road, on-road and near-road events, where people who like to drive too fast buy a bunch of beer, get together with a bunch of other people who like to drive too fast, buy more beer, and then proceed to thin out the collective human herd by dying, and if the spectators are really lucky, exploding.
Maybe it's just me. I am probably what you would refer to as a "wimp," if you were a lumberjack, or a shark wrestler, or Sarah Palin. After all, my idea of a wild weekend is watching the uncensored "director's cut" of a 1930′s Marx Brothers movie. (I know, I know – the societal implications of such unbridled hedonism are chilling. I would imagine your biggest fear in life is having an unmonitored maniac like me move into a house near your child's school.)
Now, I'm the first to admit that there's talent…not to mention bravery…involved in vehicle racing. After all, it takes keen reflexes and a dedicated focus just to survive a "civilian" morning commute…and that takes place on public roads. Just yesterday, in the shopping district of one of South Carolina's metro areas, police identified the atrophied body of a driver who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a left turn across incoming traffic since 1968.
But, speaking in a classical sense, there's bravery involved in putting your hand on a hot stove. Sadly, though, after you're done, there's nothing much left but discipline, as you learn to spell your name with your other hand.
So I can admire the challenge; I just don't get the cheering. I appreciate the skill, but not the thrill. I fail to appreciate the attraction of driving around in circles, much less watching other people drive around in circles.
If wanted to pointlessly rush around in circles, I'd go to work.
And why so many circuits around the same oval? I mean, it's not like the race officials are moving the tarmac around, pushing up moguls and gouging pot-holes in-between laps. Come to think of it, that would make things much more interesting. After all, even in professional golf, they occasionally move the holes around. And golf has been mathematically proven to be the most boring spectator sport in the known Universe, except for bowling, or watching Geraldo Rivera inject himself into breaking news.
It's true, of course, that thoroughbreds and greyhounds are often forced to run around in circles, as if they were filing health insurance claims, but at least the horses and hounds get to stop after completing the lap. (The greyhounds, however, have been justifiably irritated ever since some do-gooder leaked the news that, all this time, they've been chasing a fake rabbit on a stick.)
Now, I understand that there are millions of vehicle racing fans, spanning all social and cultural segments, and they may have insider insights to which I am not privy. I also understand that, since we're talking about loud, outdoor public events that involve beer, I could spend the next half-hour coming up with "privy" jokes. And, of course, many professional vehicle racing events involve the participation of nearly-clad women, who apparently can earn a decent living by wearing a bikini, stiletto heels and a sash that promotes motor oil, while tip-toeing around on a bunting-laced platform and waving giant bowling trophies.
I guess I'm just overly cautious. Personally, I wouldn't make it through day one at Vehicle Racing School.
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INSTRUCTOR: Hello, class, and welcome to Day One of our summer elective, How To Drive In A Counter-Clockwise Circle Without Dying Much! My name's Parnell. Please sign these legal disclaimers.
MODERATELY OBSERVANT STUDENT: Where's your other leg?
INSTRUCTOR: Today, we're going to discuss Voluntary Immolation! First, we'll watch a short training film entitled, "Learning To Write With Your Good Hand," and then we'll head outside to the track, measure you for your flame-resistant Abrasion Minimizing suit, and strap you in to the cage.
(Sound of Barry's receding footfalls)
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As part of my exhaustive research for this column, I spent almost five whole minutes on the internet, where I discovered many websites that cater to these weekend warriors, or to their eventual medical needs. In order to hammer home their sales pitch, most of these websites are heavily dependent upon very bold graphics, very bold air-brushed photos of nearly-clad women, and staggeringly obvious typos. For some reason, I never expected in this life to be able to include … in the same shopping cart … a set of tires, an in-dash CD changer, a collision restraint system, a 10-vial "party pak" of nitrous oxide, and a self-activating fire extinguisher.
See, to me, that's a great huge clue. Never select a hobby that involves both compressed explosive gases AND volunteer fire department supplies. This is what seasoned pundits would call a "self-fulfilling prophesy" or, roughly translated into street-speak, what the rest of us would call "rock stupid."
In my own defense, may I point out that I come by my caution honestly. Several years ago, during a nice lake weekend with friends, I learned by accident how to not parasail. I've shared that story with you before, and I won't bore you with it here. Let's just say that, if you ever decide to try parasailing for the first time, don't try it with a boat pilot who's also trying boat-piloting for the first time.
And you may want to invest in a custom-fitted Abrasion Minimizer.
