Why drag racing isn't a drag

With clenched fists stretched in front of him, 8-year-old Kyle Molina gripped an invisible steering wheel. He grinned when the roar of two cars jetting down the track shook the bleachers.

“I was pretending I was in the car,” he said.

Kyle was one of about 100,000 people who flocked to Gainesville Raceway to watch Gatornationals, an annual drag racing competition held March 14 to March 17.

Although professional dragsters race in NHRA competitions around the country, drivers and fans alike seemed to fit in comfortably with the North Florida atmosphere and culture. Like NASCAR, the roaring engines and staggering speeds hold a certain Southern appeal. It’s dangerous enough to get the thrill of living vicariously through the drivers, and it’s safe enough to bring the whole family.

Although I’d grown up and lived my whole life about 30 miles from Gainesville, I’d never been to a car race before. I showed up on Day 1 equipped with only a notebook and pen. I though the people milling around with cool, neon earplugs and earmuffs plastered with NHRA stickers were making fashion statements until the first car fired down the track, and I dropped my pen in terror. The bleachers were vibrating, and my chest was pulsing like I was at the loudest metal concert of my life.

I crawled up into a corner of the stands and braced, hands clapped over ears, for the next explosion. Why do people enjoy this? I wondered as I watched kids like Kyle soak up the festivities with their families. I left an hour later with a splitting headache.

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During top fuel qualifying rounds Saturday, I was back in the stands. When I watched the pairs of 25-foot-long cars lining up to zoom down the straight, quarter-mile track, I was ready.

I’d gone home and trolled the Internet the day before, looking for some insight into what was happening on the track. What I read started to instill a respect for the sport in me. I learned the cars travel at speeds sometimes topping 300 mph, and the name of the game is basically to stay in control of your car while driving straight ahead. When they do the ear-splitting burnout before taking off on a run, it’s not to be obnoxious. It’s to lay some rubber down for traction. It’s science – the science of speed.

I’d also bought a 10-pair pack of orange foam earplugs from Walgreens on the way. I popped them in, feeling like I was jumping on the fashion bandwagon – at least at this event – and joined the mobs swarming under the grandstand to the pits.

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First glance could tell any bystander that the fans of drag racing come from a wide variety of ages, backgrounds and economic statuses. Some were perhaps stereotypical of the sport: men in their 50s wearing camouflage baseball caps and sipping beer from Coozies. The fashion choice for many of the women – and there were a lot of women at the event – seemed to be flawless makeup, big hoop earrings and jerseys sporting the number of their favorite driver. Kids trailed adults, squinting and sweating and either wearing earmuffs or earbuds.

There, behind the east grandstand, spectators hoped to get closer to their favorite drivers, with their helmets off, maybe spitting sunflower seeds, foot propped up of the tire of their car.

Unlike professional football and basketball, where the stars scurry to the seclusion of the locker room after games, Nitro drivers hang out in the public eye. Many of the drivers had been eliminated by this point and were standing by their RVs interacting with fans.

The pits resembled the midway of a county fair. Crews rebuilt engines and changed out tires beneath colorful awnings attached to RVs and trailers. Most drivers had a mini complex of three or so trailers clustered together that were plastered with sponsor ads: Michelin, Valvoline, Vodka, U.S. Army.

VIP areas with decorative fences extended off of some RVs. Small, round tables topped with checkered cloths and potted flowers created a coffee shop ambiance amid the smell of diesel and burning rubber. Drivers’ guests relaxed in the shade nibbling on horderves, and onlookers on the other side of the fence cast longing glances at them as they were carried along in the stream of people.

Despite the blatantly public VIP areas, Nitro drivers seemed to prefer what one of my professors calls a “low power distance.” For the drivers, stardom seemed to mean letting fans watch them work on their cars and greeting bystanders. No hierarchy, really. No aloofness.

Wearing knee-high black leather boots and watermelon-colored lipstick, 26-year-old Brittany Force autographed T-shirts, seat cushions, ticket stubs and ball caps and let fans scoot in close for photos.

Force said she grew up watching her father drag race, and 2013 is her rookie season of competing professionally.

Force started drag racing at 16, and her younger sister, Courtney, followed suite. By the time they were students at the California State University, they was competing in a gig every weekend.

Force said balancing the sport with academics was tough, but she made it work. She scheduled all of her classes late Monday night through early Thursday morning so she could fly out of town over the weekend to race.

“I’ve been out here since I was a little baby, and now I’m actually driving one of the cars,” she said, grinning behind amber-tinted aviators.

And right then, when she grinned, I knew I liked drag racing because it’s personable. I saw that it’s not about the car or the technology or the speed or the noise in the end. It’s about people. It’s a place where families can bond and enjoy each other and the outdoors. It’s where drivers fulfill lifelong dreams, and in doing so, spark dreams in others.