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Last Updated: Oct 16th, 2008 - 13:33:17 |
Our mile-high city lost a gem when the Denver
Grand Prix was closed down due to a lack of sponsorship.
But fear not, with the National Hot Rod
Association accelerating in popularity, championship
racing is far from dead.
The NHRA came into the Mile-High city July
13-15 to give racing fans the amazing experience
of high-octane racing and thunderous excitement
of the hot-rod world. It was time for the Mile-High
Nationals at Bandimere Speedway and I took in the
smells of burnt rubber and nitro gasoline, the sights
of spinning cylinders and cheering racing fans and
the heat from the cars, the track and the sun.
I stood 15 feet from the starting line and
watched as crewmembers pushed their colorfully
painted vehicles closer to the line. With both cars
on the line, I anticipated what I thought was just
another race. You could hear the rattling from the
engines as the drivers anxiously waited for the array
of starting lights that stood in between the two
competitors to give them their cue to accelerate.
But where was my cue? I stood idly by convinced
I knew what I was about to witness: two
aerodynamically built
super cars with jetsized
engines, racing a
short distance at high
speeds. I did notice
other fans wearing
earplugs, but having
attended other racing
events, I thought it was
for those who couldn't
take the high decibels
and wanted a nice quiet
day at the track. I told
myself I was going to
man-up and experience
drag racing without restraint.
But I let my attention
down for two
seconds to grab my
notepad, and at that
moment I thought the
world had just ended.
The cars got their
green light and their
engines erupted like
an earthquake that
shook up my legs,
through my chest, and
into my skull, leaving
me speechless. This
was drag racing.
Once I regained my frightened composure, I
checked to make sure I was still in one piece and
realized what I had just witnessed and felt. I never
saw the race, as it was over in fi ve seconds, but it
was now clear to me why this sport attracts enormous
crowds wherever it goes.
The NHRA is the second most attended racing
sport in the U.S., next to NASCAR. Exhilaration
takes hold of the crowd as two vehicles power up
their 7,000-horsepower engines and accelerate to
speeds well over 300 mph in less than four seconds
in a quarter of a mile race.
It was my turn to accelerate as I raced over to
the closest merchandise stand and purchased earplugs.
As much as I wanted to let every crashing
decibel into my head, I feared it would be the last
sounds I would ever experience. I dashed back to
my spot to actually view the race since my fi rst
attempt was left in the dust. After the "Christmas
tree" starting lights went yellow, yellow, green,
the two funny cars took off leaving behind huge
clouds of smoke that followed them past the fi nish
line. A parachute then ejected from the rear of the
vehicles to slow them down. Funny cars got their
name when they were fi rst built in the 60s from
non-traditional parts.
I decided I needed to view this race from a
higher distance and I
proceeded to the upper
VIP section, which
gave me a bird's eye
view of the starting
line, the many bustling
mechanics and other
cars waiting their
turn.
Propped against a
wall, I found myself next
to two gearheads who
were wearing ripped
jean shorts, sleeveless,
ratty shirts exposing
their tattoo-fi lled arms
and dirty old Harley
Davidson hats cocked
over their long, oily
dark hair. Both were
toting large beer mugs,
hooting and hollering
as each race took place
below. Now this was a
VIP section I could get
used to. The energy and
power of the race still
reached our elevated
position and I still felt
a push in my chest from
the horsepower.
As the races continued, I looked over to see
the gearheads chatting away on their cell phones. I
couldn't hear myself think, much less try to discern
what someone on a cell phone was saying. They
both began to chuckle when I asked them if they
were regulars at the track and if they could really
have a conversation during the raucous.
The man closest to me took a swig of his beer
and laughed, telling me he was leaving a message
on his friends' answering machine about what a
great time he was having and how deafening it
was at Bandimere. The other gentleman looked
at me and said the same thing, telling me a quick
story about how his friends didn't come because
they thought it was outlandish to watch cars race
for fi ve seconds over and over again. I concurred
that I had had the same perceptions about this
sport and related my earlier earth-shattering experience.
Both guys tapped their mugs together,
hollered that this is what drag racing is all about
and welcomed me as one of their own.
I thanked them for their hospitality and moseyed
my way over to the plethora of vendor's
tents. There were was something for everyone:
food stands, merchandise carts, interactive tents
with video-game simulations of drag racing, places
to buy car parts to beef-up your own ride at home,
and information about how engines were built, the
history of the NHRA and the complete creation of
hot-rod racing machines.
The smell of exhausted fumes increased as I
found myself in the pit area where freshly driven
cars pulled in to be adjusted. Vigilant crewmembers
twisted ratchets and grabbed ominous car
parts, getting vehicles prepared for the next run.
Each team only had 70 minutes to rebuild blownout
engines, reinstall clutches and replace each
and every bearing, which melt from the scorching
heat the engines radiate. Soon after, the crews
fi red up their respective cars and looked them
over to ensure the next go-round would be quicker
and just as safe.
During intermission, while the racing was at
a standstill, Tom Cochran's "Life is A Highway"
echoed throughout the eerily quiet venue: "...life
is a highway, I wanna ride it all night long." That
is when the sun ducked behind the mountain
and fans took a timeout to feast on turkey legs,
sauerkraut-fi lled sausage dogs and cotton candy
for the kids. Soon enough, the races were back
on, and in the dark of night, the spectacle
of the header fl ames
- which resemble the exhaust of the Batmobile,
except with four pipes spewing vertical fl ames
from each side of the vehicle - became the talk
of the crowd.
My day at the drag had fi nally crossed its fi nish
line and I was still in awe of the brute force the
hot rods bestowed on my being. From the alcohol
that constantly resides in the air, to the sounds
of the engines detonating every 10 minutes and
the nitro fumes that lurk past your nasal cavity,
the Mile-High Nationals was heaven for every racing
fan that sweats oil and has gasoline running
through their veins.
As I left Bandimere and headed to my car, the
hot rods gave me a hearty goodbye, their engines
pounding the ground as I walked away. I will
always remember the
car alarms going off by
the dozen.
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