There are a few well-known graduation requirements that kids at Duke are always gossiping about. We have all heard of climbing Baldwin, having sex in the stacks, visiting the tunnels under East, eating mushrooms in the gardens and driving the wrong way around the West Campus circle.
Although this is certainly a solid list of goals Duke students should aim to achieve before they graduate, I believe one more thing needs to be added to this list: attend one of the annual NASCAR races in Martinsville, Va.
I know what you are thinking-"What the eff is this kid talking about?"
Well, as hard as it is for a person of non-Southern or Midwestern descent to comprehend, NASCAR is now the most attended "sporting" league in the country, and the second most watched on television (at least according to the NASCAR Web site and Wikipedia). Granted, this somewhat perplexing revelation is skewed by the sheer dominance the racing circuit has in the South, but it is all the more reason that during our stint going to school in the South we should experience a day at NASCAR.
Or so I convinced myself as I forked over 60 bones for a ticket for what I soon learned would be a great American cultural anthropological adventure.
We left East Campus by bus around 10 a.m., armed with roughly a case per head and a decidedly "Northern" group of Duke students. No, Brandon, being from NoVa does not qualify you as "Southern."
As we crossed into Virginia, the country began to show signs of life-although I swear I could hear the theme song from "Deliverance" ringing in the distance. And by signs of life, I mean giant "We sell NASCAR gear" posters and banners.
I can't emphasize this enough. We were in the middle of friggin' nowhere. Our entire drive consisted of two-lane highways flanked by cows on both sides with churches forming the only semblance of organized society.
Needless to say, those of us who had come ill-equipped with redneck attire did our best to stock up on tacky sunglasses, racing shirts, soft coolers and Marlboro beer koozies the second we pulled up to a smelly run-down gas station. I practiced my best Southern drawl with the gas station attendant, although she was an Indian immigrant who barely spoke English herself.
At around noon we rolled into the "parking lot," which was nothing more than large sets of clearings within the trees. After spending some time ensuring that we were all in the proper state of mind for witnessing cars speed around an oval track 1,000 times at 180 mph-a process that involved substantial amounts of Natty Light-we packed our cooler (did I mention all NASCAR races are B.Y.O.B. events?) and headed for the speedway.
As I entered the stadium with my friend BJ, who was visiting from San Diego (you may remember him from "It's the Cheese" column fame), we felt like we had been transported to another planet where teeth and traditional grooming habits did not exist. Despite all of our best efforts to dress for the occasion, I am pretty convinced we stuck out like a group of black kids accidentally stumbling on a KKK rally-which is fairly appropriate given the sea of Confederate flags we were walking into ourselves.
It was amazing to see just how happy these people were to catch a glimpse of the race cars. This while being rendered completely deaf by the thunderous noise coming from the track-not to mention getting high as balls off of the all-consuming carbon monoxide cloud that sat comfortably in the speedway. Maybe that's why they like the sport so damn much, although it certainly didn't do it for me.
The highlights of the day included a member of our crew making out with what he believes was the ugliest woman there. I contest this presumption on the grounds that she was sporting a full set of chompers-a feat not achieved by the average audience member. There were also the four corn dogs I sucked down, with some fried bologna mixed in. Yeah, I'm still not regular.
All in all, it was one of those experiences that I am glad I had, but I would never do again. I honestly think most of the appeal for NASCAR comes from the redneck, Southern, up-yours-Yankee image that it projects. It's a rare chance for hicks from within a 200-mile radius to congregate and celebrate their heritage.
For us, it's a chance to contemplate why we didn't just let the South secede, and to learn a little bit about more about "what it is to be an American."
Dan Belzer is a Trinity senior. His column runs every Thursday.
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