Why I Love Racing: Daytona 500 weekend

I am one of approximately 30,000,000 women in this country that love NASCAR. There I've said it. Go ahead, look at me funny. Most people do.

If there are supposedly 75,000,000 NASCAR fans in the US, how come I can find a million who like pro basketball or college football, soccer or even curling, but I can only find a few who love the loud, pounding, screaming, rubber-crumby, exhaust-fumed, chili-cheese fry scented intensity of a day at the race track. Except, of course, the 75,000 people who actually go there. But they don't go to my church, work with me and they're not related to me for the most part. So I keep saying I'm a fan and I still keep getting that "oh my, you've grown an embarrassing second head" look.

I don't mind. I think it's awesome to watch two ridiculously expensive metal objects hurtling across the finish line at Daytona going almost 200 miles an hour and in closer proximity to each other than I would drive to another car on I-70 at 55 in perfect weather with new brakes and tires.

I think it's wonderful to spend a day in the sun, sing the anthem, salute the flag and look on in humbled, respectful silence as a Stealth Bomber flies overhead. I love the camaraderie of the other fans, the hot afternoons turning over slowly to a dusty pink twilight as the spectators filter out and we munch contentedly on chips and brats in the parking area while we hold forth with our post-race rundown.

I understand those drivers better than any football player on any team I've ever watched on the Sunday afternoons before NASCAR took its place. I've gotten to know them and even if they are multi-millionaires, they are just a few lucky breaks removed from the guys and women bumming around our own home tracks. For all their fame and fortune, I can still see Dale Jr. changing oil in his daddy's dealership or Kurt Busch working for the water department.

I've seen their spouses, their motor coaches, their kids, their hobbies, their homes. I've seen them in moments of triumph and in times of intense pain, frustration, unbearable sadness and sheer, silly fun. They are friends. They're arrogant and airheaded and slightly insane and they live a big life, which they share generously with those of us who admire what they do when they get behind the wheel. And man, can they drive really fast. Don't tell me that doesn't take amazing guts and skill.

So, happy Daytona 500 weekend, all you fans out there who are still slightly embarrassed by the corn-pone, tobacco-spitting, redneck reputation of your favorite sport. Break out the barbecue and the beans and the Bud Lite because Sunday afternoon is our SuperBowl, our World Series, our Championship.

Like Forrest Gump, that's all I got to say about that.

Oh, except, "Gentlemen, start your engines!"