Read Online The Best American Travel Writing 2011 by Sloane Crosley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sloane Crosley
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to a lighter roar, my neighbor turned to face me.
"Where'd you get that?" he demanded, pointing to the press pass that hung from a strap around my neck. I held up my credentials, dumbly inspected them, and explained that I was a reporter. He was interested not in the press pass but in the lanyard that held it.
"I'd trade ya'," he said. All fans wore their tickets necklace-style, but the lanyard issued to the general ticket buyer, I now saw, was a black and yellow band with the word NASCAR repeated along it. Mine was red and white and had BRISTOL running along its elastic material. I could think of no reason why I'd want to keep the artifact, why my children would prefer it to the NASCAR one, and I was nearly certain that it had no or little monetary value. So I swapped him. He rubbed his new strap between a thumb and two fingers, then passed it down the line to his admiring friends. "Man, you don't know how much this means to me," he told me. "Thank you."
He and his friends had driven in that morning from Georgia, about eight hours away, and they would head home after the race. The tickets belonged to his boss, who couldn't use them. He told me he was a Tony Stewart fan, big time, and so were his friends, except one of them, who pulled for Dale Jr. Then he asked me where I went to school for reporting, and whether he might have seen me on TV earlier in the race, and who my favorite driver was. I had actually anticipated being asked this last question, and so had tried to figure out the best response. Over the weekend I had heard each of the top drivers speak during their press conferences, spent half an hour with the veteran Jeff Burton in his trailer, spoken to Jack Roush about his Ford team, and seen the drivers practice and interact with their crews. But under the Georgian's gaze, I could think of no reply that would properly elevate me in his eyes. I told him Juan Pablo Montoya. At least the Colombian looked like a comic book supervillain in his red car and red jumpsuit adorned with the Target bull's-eye logo. My new friend stared at me, seeming to consider my choice. "Yeah, Montoya brings a little more color to the sport, a different flavor," he said.
When he inquired where I was from, because he could tell that it wasn't the South, I told him I was living in Nashville but was originally from Chicago. He used to party in downtown Chicago, he said. Then he offered up his review of northern cities: "Detroitâshitty city; Chicagoâgreat city." He said his mother was from Dayton, Ohio. Which meant he was not like the other guys. He motioned toward his three Georgia buddies. "Yankees," he said, holding up his hands, palms out, in an expression of nonviolence. "They're okay with me."
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Kurt Busch, from Las Vegas, led for 278 of the 500 laps of the race, but then with just seventeen remaining, a late caution gave Jimmie Johnson the opportunity to pit and take four new tires. On the restart, he somehow catapulted from sixth place to first in just three quick turns around the track and then nosed ahead of Tony Stewart to win the race by .89 seconds. (Montoya, for what it's worth, finished twenty-sixth.) It was Johnson's third victory of the young season, the fiftieth win in his career, and his first triumph at Bristol. I looked in the papers the next day, at all the write-ups of this stunning come-from-behind finish, both to understand how it could happen and to see what poetry it might inspire. There was none. Most accounts simply described the race as a failure, Johnson's victory coupled with the lackluster attendance a double loss for the sport.
At the race's conclusion, the track announcer tried to put a smile on things, saying to the crowd that this would be the last Sprint Cup event with the much-derided rear wing. "Fans, you do make a difference. And NASCAR hears you. You didn't like the wing, and we got rid of it." I tuned in to the drivers' post-race interviews.
Greg Biffle: "I'm just so proud of
"Where'd you get that?" he demanded, pointing to the press pass that hung from a strap around my neck. I held up my credentials, dumbly inspected them, and explained that I was a reporter. He was interested not in the press pass but in the lanyard that held it.
"I'd trade ya'," he said. All fans wore their tickets necklace-style, but the lanyard issued to the general ticket buyer, I now saw, was a black and yellow band with the word NASCAR repeated along it. Mine was red and white and had BRISTOL running along its elastic material. I could think of no reason why I'd want to keep the artifact, why my children would prefer it to the NASCAR one, and I was nearly certain that it had no or little monetary value. So I swapped him. He rubbed his new strap between a thumb and two fingers, then passed it down the line to his admiring friends. "Man, you don't know how much this means to me," he told me. "Thank you."
He and his friends had driven in that morning from Georgia, about eight hours away, and they would head home after the race. The tickets belonged to his boss, who couldn't use them. He told me he was a Tony Stewart fan, big time, and so were his friends, except one of them, who pulled for Dale Jr. Then he asked me where I went to school for reporting, and whether he might have seen me on TV earlier in the race, and who my favorite driver was. I had actually anticipated being asked this last question, and so had tried to figure out the best response. Over the weekend I had heard each of the top drivers speak during their press conferences, spent half an hour with the veteran Jeff Burton in his trailer, spoken to Jack Roush about his Ford team, and seen the drivers practice and interact with their crews. But under the Georgian's gaze, I could think of no reply that would properly elevate me in his eyes. I told him Juan Pablo Montoya. At least the Colombian looked like a comic book supervillain in his red car and red jumpsuit adorned with the Target bull's-eye logo. My new friend stared at me, seeming to consider my choice. "Yeah, Montoya brings a little more color to the sport, a different flavor," he said.
When he inquired where I was from, because he could tell that it wasn't the South, I told him I was living in Nashville but was originally from Chicago. He used to party in downtown Chicago, he said. Then he offered up his review of northern cities: "Detroitâshitty city; Chicagoâgreat city." He said his mother was from Dayton, Ohio. Which meant he was not like the other guys. He motioned toward his three Georgia buddies. "Yankees," he said, holding up his hands, palms out, in an expression of nonviolence. "They're okay with me."
Â
Kurt Busch, from Las Vegas, led for 278 of the 500 laps of the race, but then with just seventeen remaining, a late caution gave Jimmie Johnson the opportunity to pit and take four new tires. On the restart, he somehow catapulted from sixth place to first in just three quick turns around the track and then nosed ahead of Tony Stewart to win the race by .89 seconds. (Montoya, for what it's worth, finished twenty-sixth.) It was Johnson's third victory of the young season, the fiftieth win in his career, and his first triumph at Bristol. I looked in the papers the next day, at all the write-ups of this stunning come-from-behind finish, both to understand how it could happen and to see what poetry it might inspire. There was none. Most accounts simply described the race as a failure, Johnson's victory coupled with the lackluster attendance a double loss for the sport.
At the race's conclusion, the track announcer tried to put a smile on things, saying to the crowd that this would be the last Sprint Cup event with the much-derided rear wing. "Fans, you do make a difference. And NASCAR hears you. You didn't like the wing, and we got rid of it." I tuned in to the drivers' post-race interviews.
Greg Biffle: "I'm just so proud of
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