August 4, 2005

NASCAR - Life in the fast lane

The view from within

By Kymberli W. Brady
Staff Writer

Having grown up a racing fan, I could hardly maintain my professional composure when offered a ride down the streets of San Jose in a race car headed for its inaugural grand prix.

Brady's view of the road from a passenger's perspective as the parade of Historic NASCAR Stock cars headed to the Convention Center on Friday, July 29. Photo by Kymberli Brady

I was not alone in my excitement when I called Diego, our sports editor and asked if he would like to join me on what was guaranteed to be a high-octane adventure inside two historic NASCAR stock cars.

Motor sports have been a big part of my family for as long as I can remember. My brother and I were introduced to leathers, boots, helmets, and Yamaha 80 Mini Enduros after our uncle befriended world motocross champion, Pierre Karsmakers. When he graduated from two wheels and whoop de doos to formula cars and the asphalt of the former Riverside Motor Speedway, we followed. He even braved three grueling Paris to Dakar races through the desserts and ancient ruins of Africa. If it had wheels and raced, we either watched it from the comforts of home or the intensity of the pits.

Today, NASCAR remains the most popular motor sport in the United States—so popular in fact that Paul Tracy, who took the 2003 Champ Car Series title and finished second in San Jose's first ever Grand Prix is considering a shift to the NASCAR circuit.

For me, it was a trip down memory lane, back to the days of Dale Earnhardt, Richard Petty, Rusty Wallace, Jeff Gordon, Bill Elliott, and Sterling Martin in an experience that was even more exhilarating than the traditional call to “start your engines” on race day.

While Diego crawled into the 1994 #7 Exide Ford Thunderbird, driven by Bruce Swanson of Swanson Ford in Los Gatos. I slid into another T-Bird, a 1993 fan favorite #68 Country Time Lemonade, in all its pink and yellow glory. Russ Romer now commands the wheel, as well as the trademark fire suit that went with it.

As the car roared to life, my single-sensory memory of decibels and earplugs suddenly became a joint effort of all my senses—I could smell the fuel, feel the hot, vibrating chassis, see the heat radiate off the hood of the car, and taste the perspiration on my upper lip. The only thing left was the wind in my face and a sampling of its brut force on the road.

The journey from the storage yard to the Convention Center had to be coordinated carefully with local police, who had to temporarily close off normal traffic in an effort to ensure the parade safe passage and a minimum 40 MPH route. Anything less would result in lower RPMs, overheated engines, stalled cars, and less than happy drivers. Most of the drivers seemed to be more concerned with navigating the two-mile trip to the paddock area than the race track itself.

To members of the Historic Stock Car Racing Series [HSCRS], including Russ Romer [front row center] it's more about keeping the NASCAR legacy alive (not imprisoned), even if it means having to put the cars back together again.. Even though there was only one winner, they celebrated together. Photo by Kymberli Brady

Even though this parade wasn't on the Grand Prix schedule, it turns out it didn't need to be. There's nothing like a police escort and the roar of 30 high-octane engines to draw spectators out of homes, local eateries, and auto body repair shops to witness the first time NASCAR stock cars would roll down San Jose city streets.

Instead of capturing images of the procession, I had the rare opportunity of shooting the crowd. There was the typical—men with their hands on their hips and wanting expressions on their faces and children with pint-sized smiles that stretched from one ear to the other, muffed by tiny little hands. Then there was the not-so-typical—cell phones, cocked open and attached to outstretched arms. People weren't talking on them. They were taking pictures of us.

Although I have one and have used it much the same way in the past, this was all about perspective, one that never put me in the position of witnessing such a high-tech display from the opposite end of the image, until that moment.

After crawling out of my bright yellow ride, I helped push it into place in the paddock area and posed for a few ceremonial photos with Russ, before meeting back up with Diego, who had his own story to tell.

The next 30 to 40 minutes spent getting to know the other drivers gave us a unique behind-the-scenes look at the camaraderie and passion behind the men and women who shell out a minimum of $3,000 a race to share the same track as the pros and delight life-long racing fans with their version of a “rolling” museum, one they say is better suited for the track.

For me, it was a rush, an intimate experience with the sport that before now I only enjoyed from the stands instead of the front seat—where the earplug-muffled roar of the engine now includes that of the hot, roaring machine under my seat and a breathtaking view of the road from the driver's perspective. It's the closest I'll ever get to a sport that unites young and old, men and women in the age-old “need for speed.”

I only wish we could have gone faster.