The sound is huge and electrifying. It’s something you’ve only heard in the movies, except now it’s real, penetrating the foam earplugs crammed in your head. You watch as the safety car leads the way during the warm-up laps, the drivers zig-zagging their cars to warm the rubber tires. A parade of loud colors goes by. They complete one slow lap, then another, and another. Then the safety car barrels down the track, away from the mob of antsy race cars, and ducks behind the concrete barrier. The drivers approach the flag stand. A race official waves the green flag. What sounds like a pride of hungry lions devouring their prey envelopes a cheering crowd. Old men turn into little kids and little kids stare with mouths agape.
Brake rotors glow red as drivers approach corners. The smell of excess gasoline and burnt rubber make a sweet aroma that would otherwise be putrid. A car hits the barrier. A collective “AWW!” from the crowd roasting in the grandstands under the August sun. Fire-suit clad emergency responders clear the debris, and the green flag emerges again. Then it’s over. The last lap is finished. A winner sprays the first two losers with something fizzy in a glass bottle.
The black marks on Korean Vets will be there for months, but the track will disappear. No more concrete barriers or grandstands or food trucks or vendors under tents. It’s like a solar eclipse of automotive fever dream, one that gear heads anxiously wait for all year. And it’s incredible it happens here in Nashville.
