Cathy Elliott: On NASCAR

Home is Where the Heart Is

By: Cathy Elliott

At first glance, it is a textbook example of any large, public NASCAR event. It is packed with fans. Many of them are dressed in racing paraphernalia, loudly and proudly advertising their individual team loyalties. It is bone-chillingly cold, but they’re not going to budge. They are loyal; race fans have heart.

Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson jackets fight for dominance alongside Tony Stewart sweatshirts and Matt Kenseth fleeces. NASCAR team hats? Take your pick. Everyone is represented. So are the series sponsor and all four auto manufacturers.

There are NEXTEL Cup Series drivers here, too, and throngs of people—approximately 150,000, we are told--have gathered in the streets, on the sidewalks and even on the tops of buses, craning their necks for a brief glimpse of their favorites.

Every type of camera, from digital to disposable, is flashing as fans capture random moments of this event for their photo collections. Everyone is excited. It is just another day in NASCAR paradise.

Or is it? Suddenly, you look up and notice the massive skyscrapers towering overhead. Lights blaze on every building, and it’s only 7:00 clock in the morning.

All the people around you are talking, of course, and you hear that distinctive accent, and then it hits you. This is not Talladega or Texas, Martinsville or Michigan. This is Times Square. You are standing in the midst of a crowd of screaming NASCAR fans, in the heart of New York City, waiting for the start of the Victory Lap.

The Victory Lap, which has become a signature event of Champions Week, consists of the top 10 NEXTEL Cup drivers lining up their cars on 44th St. and Broadway, firing them up, and making a 1.5-mile circuit through the heart of New York City.

New York bears down on you and lifts you up at the same time. To be here for Champions Week can prove almost overwhelming. The city dresses to impress, and is spectacularly successful at it. Whatever your role in the NASCAR community, from weary worker to fervent fan, being here really does make you feel that you’re part of something bigger---a whole lot bigger—than yourself.

We still hear a fair amount of talk about the New York market being a tough nut to crack. Some wonder why Champions Week is celebrated here each year rather than in a more "NASCAR-centric" city such as Charlotte or Daytona.

I expected a large crowd to show up for the Victory Lap, and was looking forward to talking with as many of them as possible, asking what part of the country they hail from, and hearing their opinions of the event.

What I didn’t expect was for the majority of the attendees to be native New Yorkers.

Shame on me for making assumptions. I let go of my preconceptions—I shouldn’t miss them too much, they were totally wrong anyhow—and for a while just let the voices and stories of these race fans wash over and around me. Here are a couple of them.

A little girl who looked to be around 10 or 11 years old had managed to hoist herself up on a rack of traffic barricades (with her mom standing right there to serve as a stabilizer). She had a great birds-eye-view type of vantage point up there, and with a sure and practiced hand was filming video of the Victory Lap as it unfolded.

Two guys wandered up and stood behind her, calling out their location to a third friend, decked out in a photo vest and lugging a huge camera, who in spite of all his props couldn’t manage to work his way through the crowd to get a decent picture.

He was loudly bemoaning his lack of proper equipment; he needed height to get the shot he wanted and there was none to be found. His friends pointed out the young videographer and, laughing, said, "Hey, Ray, we found you a tripod. It’s right over here, wearing a hat with a pompom on it."

Sure enough, he handed her the obviously expensive camera and large attached lens without hesitation and asked for a favor, a photographic souvenir of the Victory Lap . "Could you get a picture for me?" he said. "Anything will be fine. It doesn’t even matter which driver … oh, wait, hold on. No Fords if you can help it."

"Don’t worry, mister, I’ve got it covered," she replied. "I only take pictures of Jeff Gordon."

Buster works in the city, although he was vague about exactly what his job entails; something to do with the subway system. When I commented in his general direction on the impressive crowd, he said, "Yeah, there are way more people this year than last year. I come every year."

Great; now we’re actually talking. "Really? Cool," I said. "Have you ever seen a race in person?"

"Nah, but I really like to watch it on TV," Buster replied. "I come out here every year to look at the cars and see the drivers. Last year I took a vacation day. Today I called in sick. I don’t think they’ve caught on to me yet."

Busted, Buster. Sorry about that.

The race cars seem bigger here, and louder. The drivers look more physically imposing. The colors appear brighter and more vivid. When those 10 engines began their simultaneous roar and the cars started to roll down Broadway, the collective gasp from the fans seemed amplified, the moment more momentous than usual.

In the end, it truly was just a crowd of race fans like any other, assembled en masse for an event like no other, in a place with no equal.

Many people feel that New York is the greatest city on earth, and I wouldn’t care to argue that point. Each visit offers a new experience gained, a new lesson learned. New York has heart.

As I walked back to the hotel, I considered the people I had met and the things I had heard and seen. I realized that I had indeed been taught something that morning.

Race fans are not identified by addresses in Florida, or Fontana, or Queens, They are not defined by a slow Southern drawl or a flat Midwestern twang or the sharp, fast patter of the Bronx. They are defined by their passion for the sport they love.

The old saying holds true: Home is where the heart is. So of course NASCAR should be in New York, and in Georgia, and Nevada, and everywhere fans welcome and support them so enthusiastically. Shouldn’t we all be so fortunate?