"Look, kids. Big Ben. Parliament."

The BDS has been driving in circles for years. That's why the allure of NASCAR for several of its members should come as no surprise. A supercharged version of Chevy Chase's classic scene on the London Roundabout in European Vacation, witnessing 43 sticker-laden stock cars running with their left turn signals perpetually blinking has an intoxicating affect. Then again, that could simply be from all the beer and gas fumes you inhale at the track.

Last Saturday night, we scored free tickets to Sunday's NASCAR race at Texas Motor Speedway. We had planned on chasing turkeys around that day, but the opportunity to see grown men play tag and chase each other around a track at 190 mph was too great to resist. Besides, one of us had never been to a race before and wanted to see first-hand what the hell was so special about Flyover Country's Sport of Choice. So what three words were uttered when the green flag dropped and thousands of screaming horses came flying at us in Turn Four?

Ho. Lee. Shit.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. After fighting through traffic that makes downtown Bogota at rush hour look like downtown Goddard on Christmas morning, we pull into the track and park in the first available ditch we find. With more than one BDSer waking up in a ditch the day after a party at some point in his life wearing nothing but boxer shorts and tube socks, we felt right at home. The first beer is cracked at 8:30, the first rebel yell is hear at 8:43 and the first NRA sticker was seen just before 9:00.

Makes you kinda feel like you're home.

With retired Cowboy Troy Aikmen and comedian George Lopez telling the racers to start their engines, the low hum of excitement is replaced with the loud rumbling of Detroit. When asked, Lopez later said he wanted to say "Gentlemen, start your engines" at the race in Mexico City earlier in the season, but knew there was no way in hell 24 cars would all start on command at the same time in Mexico. Pretty damn funny if we do say so.

As the Chevy Pace Truck leads the drivers out onto the track, you can feel the tension build. The crowd starts to stand. Fresh beer cans start to open. Heads start to nod as if fans are feeling vindicated for spending $120 on a ticket. One pace lap is complete. Then two. On the third lap, the flickering lights of the pace truck are turned off, the pace truck ducks into pit row and all 43 drivers simultaneously step on the gas in one thunderous chorus that sends chills up your spine and deafening vibrations through your ears. As if on instinct, your beer raises above your head and a primal scream rises from your lungs.

And you think to yourself "wow, so this is what it's all about".


Do you actually know what 192 mph looks like? It looks like nothing on TV. Until you're 75 feet from 43 cars pushing the envelope one rpm at a time, it's hard to imagine just how fast that is. Old NASCAR fans like Brian sum it up best: "Don't bother explaining it to people. You can't. You just have to experience it."

No, don't count us among the NASCAR denziens who cloud their back windows with decals and drive to the mall wearing racing gloves. We don't know the drivers without a program, don't have checkered flag tattoos and don't understand how the average fan willingly spends $1250 during race weekend when you can bring your own food and beer inside the track, but we know this:

That was one hell of an experience.