I attended the Winston Cup race at Atlanta Motor Speedway Oct. 26-27 and came away from the experience preferring drag racing even more.

Raceday started off like any other, with a roundabout drive through the mid-Georgia countryside in order to arrive about 10 a.m. on the back side of the track and avoid most of the pre-race congestion. Okay, that sounds a little too tidy. I did make a slight navigational error along the way that cost us a few extra miles and minutes, but that's not really the point here.

Anyway, after parking the DRO Jetta, my wife and I, joined by a couple of friends visiting from Toronto, trundled off to our designated spots in the East Turn grandstand, where the view from high above Turn 3 truly was quite spectacular. There, we deposited our coolers full of adult beverages, my friend Don's official, Jeff Gordon-endorsed ass pad, and other assorted race-going paraphernalia.

Thus situated, and with more than an hour before pre-race festivities were to begin, we ventured forth to walk the grounds. Don made a beeline for one of Mr. Gordon's many souvenir trailers while the rest of us hung back and cheered (heckled?) him on. He finally settled on a lovely, red, knitted #24 hat -- "Or toboggan, or skull cap, or toque," the helpful souvenir man explained. "It don't matter much what you call it; it still costs 15 bucks." -- and I hate to reveal this, but Don seemed genuinely torn over whether he should also buy a Jeff Gordon-themed afghan blanket. Really! Sanity prevailed, however, and we soon headed back to our seats.

Along the way, while thousands of fans eagerly milled about contributing to NASCAR's bottom line, I noted how far away we were from where I knew the real action was happening. I thought about how, at that very moment, mechanics were giving 43 stock cars the final once-over, while even deeper in the infield and out of sight for the most part, 43 crew chiefs were plotting strategy and 43 drivers were anxiously awaiting the command to fire engines. I thought about how, as a fan, unless you laid out big bucks for a limited-access garage pass, or knew someone who knew someone who knows a guy with the (insert sponsor name here) team, there was no way you were even peripherally going to experience any of that.

In contrast, I thought about how, at an IHRA or NHRA national event, we may still have been souvenir hunting, but we'd also be mingling in the pits. Without any special passes or cajoled privileges, we'd have been watching crew members bring 6,000-plus horsepower to life and perhaps even talking with big-name drivers and crew chiefs who are no less busy than their roundy-round counterparts, but remain oh so much more accessible.

I thought about the up close assault on the senses that even the most timid drag racing fan can experience: the throat-choking properties of nitro; the distinct scent of alcohol fuel; the sound of a Pro Stock engine clearing its carbureted throat. You know, the stuff that makes attending a drag race fun and informative even before the first car hits the track.

Instead, we made it back to our seats in time to hear the invocation and national anthem through a wholly inadequate sound system (both NHRA and IHRA should be commended for upgrading their P.A. services the last few years), followed immediately by a fly-over by a B1-B bomber. Now, that's something the drag race sanctioning bodies need more of. That fly-by really got the crowd buzzing.

Then the racing began. After a few slow pace laps the green flag dropped and if you've never heard the sound of some 34,000 horsepower coming to full song at once, you owe yourself the pleasure of attending at least one Cup race in your life. Though not nearly as startling as the starting-line staccato of a pair of Top Fuelers; the Cup cars combine to create a crescendo that builds and sustains and I'd defy anyone to sit impassively as the field thunders past.

But that's about it. Once the field spread out, and I hate to say it (really I do, because I was once a huge Cup fan), it quickly became little more than a multi-colored procession. Sure, if you go down near the fence you get a true feel for just how fast those guys are driving (and it's very fast! In the neighborhood of 190 mph at AMS - which may seem slow by T/F, F/C, or even P/S standards, but remember there are turns involved). However, from our seats with their vista-like views, the race for the most part resembled rush hour on I-85.

Again, it got me to thinking about contrasts with drag racing, where when two cars go to the line in eliminations, you know something is about to happen. It may not be spectacular, it may not be record setting or even historically significant, but you know that someone will be going home and someone will be going on to the next round.

Maybe it's just attention deficit disorder kicking in, but I prefer the instant gratification that watching drag racing affords. In 4.5 to 7 seconds you know how each pro match will shake out, and I mean, what's the longest that even the slowest bracket car can take in the quarter-mile? 20 seconds? 25? Even I can wait that long.

Plus, I just like drag cars better. They look cooler. I also like the variety of the different classes and I just think they're more interesting than stock cars from an engineering standpoint. Especially after you consider the computerization and mechanical know how that's required to go more than 320 mph in less than five seconds.

Anyway, back to Atlanta. After suffering through a lengthy rain delay, we finally got back to the race, with me hoping for a caution after about 30 laps to bunch up the field and give us another dose of the mass hysteria that punctuates each restart. Instead, the procession droned on, interrupted only by a couple of spins that granted my wish, until the rain returned and put a premature end to our fun.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like watching stock car racing and I thoroughly enjoy covering it as a journalist. I like speaking with the drivers and crewmembers, and I admire the work and technology that goes into the cars. But as a spectator I think NASCAR is best experienced through a TV set, where commentators can supplement those long green-flag runs with strategy analysis and pit-road interviews.

On the other hand, TV just doesn't do drag racing justice. Of course, it's the sound that first comes to mind when first considering television's inadequacies for conveying the drag racing experience, but beyond that I think the sport's basic premise of getting to the far end first speaks for itself. Sure, the pit interviews are nice and every once in a while an insightful comment will come from the announcers, but overall the live experience serves a fan best. After all, there are no fuel strategies to discuss (unless you count T/F tanks!), no pit stops, and no drafting partners. It's pure man-to-man/machine-to-machine combat; and that's the way I like it!

Support your local drag strip!

(more stories)

Copyright 1999-2002, Drag Racing Online and Racing Net Source