Diary of a NASCAR Newbie

There's a tradition -- or so I'm told -- that first-time visitors to the infield of Michigan International Speedway are supposed to identify themselves by donning yellow "caution" tape in one way or another.

If such truly is the case, I should have looked like a mummified crime scene Friday.

I'm not a NASCAR guy. I wonder more about how car racing contributes to global warming than who has the fastest ride on the globe. I plug my ears when I hear a jet-like stock car come within 200 feet of me. I'm more interested in whether Tiger Woods can finish down the stretch at the U.S. Open than if Carl Edwards can defend his title at the two-mile track.

So when I ventured to Brooklyn for my first taste of NASCAR Nation, I left glad that I had more teeth than most of those in attendance. I looked like a fish out of water and flailing on the kitchen floor. My blue button down shirt signaled I was either displaying my feminitity, trying to bring a more cultured side to stock cars, or just a stupid idiot. Ironically, I was the stupid idiot there.

The wardrobe was tacky at best. There are more shirtless guys at the track than the beach -- and not for anybody's pleasure. Plaid was the new style and baseball caps were practically mandatory. Anything with a number 3, 8, 9, 48 or 88 gives you major bonus points. Just don't be caught with the number 24 on anything -- and it's not because of Kobe. I swear I even saw mini-confederate flags wrapped around the biceps of a high school freshman.

The people worship their athletes (yes, they're athletes if they have to answer to so many reporters as often as they do) as if they're members of the family. Dale Earnhardt Sr. fits somewhere between Jesus, God and the guy who invented Budweiser in the hierarchy of NASCAR fan heroes (the order depends on who you ask). Kids line up with miniature cars, credentials, t-shirts and anything capable of receiving a John Hancock during practice runs. Jeff Gordon is subjected to questions of why he isn't performing well this year -- he's in eighth place, right in the thick of NASCAR's goofy playoff.

Beyond appearance, it's the rides that turn the wheels of NASCAR. Buses have been morphed into RVs (I went into a guy's bus that had four futons, checkered linoleum tiling, a bathroom and no seat belts). RVs have been decked out in hundreds of thousands of dollars of purchases (mental note: Pimp My Ride of CTV would be brilliant. Has somebody done it already?). Campers have decks on top for fans to see the cars as they whizz around the track at you-better-not-blink speeds (is that how you spell whizz?).

Best of all, there's a camraderie among those in attendance that's reminiscent of one big family cookout (the kind where a whole pig gets roasted and Jeff Foxworthy jokes kill -- I've been to one or two before). I was offered beers twice, was told by random people that they could answer my questions without even knowing what they were, was brought into a stranger's bus (would have been creepy in any other situation) and learned how to literally apply the phrase, "No shirt, no shoes, no service," when Sprint Cup qualifying was suspended by rain.

Yes, NASCAR Nation has quite the character about it. I get the feeling it's actually not as boorish as I presume it to be, but it's still kind of early to tell.

Right now, I'm too busy being wrapped in yellow tape.