This Sunday I did something I’ve never done.
I plopped down on the couch with a cold drink and a frozen pizza to watch the 50th running of the Daytona 500.
Not once in my 20 years on this planet have I ever watched NASCAR, and, considering the Daytona 500 is the Super Bowl of racing events, I decided to give it a shot.
So, I sat down with my food and drink and watched. And watched, and watched, and fell asleep, and woke up and watched and mercifully saw the end as Ryan Newman held up an oversized trophy.
Five hours and two bags of Doritos later, I learned only one thing about racing; I will never watch NASCAR again. Ever.
Don’t get me wrong, I find nothing wrong with the length of the Daytona 500. I love my couch. I can sit and watch TV for hours without a problem. “The Godfather” takes a whole night to watch, and it is right there at the top of my DVD rack. I’ve watched it at least a dozen times.
Don’t even get me started on college football. I am non-existent on game days watching the early game, the afternoon game, the night game and even the West Coast late, late game, but NASCAR is a lost cause for me.
Maybe it’s the hundreds of laps, the left-hand turns or the constant starts and re-starts, but racing has no drama.
There are no faces, no smiles, no personality. The revving engines and burning tires worked for about 15 minutes, but by that time, I was hoping my TV came with picture-in-picture.
So instead of channel surfing and giving up on my quest to watch the entire race, I let my mind wander to other things.
Somewhere in the depths of my thoughts (more of a puddle than an ocean, I’m afraid to admit) I think I stumbled on a fantastic racing phenomena just waiting to be discovered.
The Interstate.
Just think about it. Is anything more entertaining to watch than a maniac with road rage or a speeding Benz getting stuck behind a grandma in a Buick?
Now imagine Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jimmy Stewart in their “Cars of Tomorrow” racing down I-85 unbeknownst to Aunt Linda in her Ford Taurus or your next-door neighbor Dan in his white Chevy Tahoe with his German Shepherd Brutus in the back seat.
(By the way, how can it still be called the “Car of Tomorrow” if they’re using it today? Couldn’t they have just called it the “Brand Spankin’ New Car?” It’s not like “The Car of Tomorrow” is a clever name anyway.)
Not only are they racing each other, civilian traffic and road conditions, but they are also up against the Highway Patrol.
The thrill of riding down the interstate going slightly above the speed limit eyeing the fuzz on the horizon is something NASCAR lacks. Sure, there is the risk of a car wreck, but as most of us know, there is nothing more nerve racking than getting a ticket from the police.
Get a ticket, and you’re out of the race. Hit Aunt Linda in her Taurus, and you lose.
That’s car racing worth watching.
Fox could even film it from helicopters like a car chase scene. It oozes drama. (O.J., Simpson anybody?)
It touches everyone. Haven’t we all dreamt of racing from Auburn to the Georgia state line?
It’s a sport we would all be able to identify with.
NASCAR’s left-hand turns only take us in circles (poor pun intended). Racing cars is something we all dream of and should be able to identify with, but NASCAR has done almost everything it can to take away the audience’s ability to identify with its product.
They drive in perfectly shaped oval tracks with perfectly paved roads. They all have essentially the same car and look essentially the same.
There’s no edge or grit to the sport.
Besides the occasional dust up usually involving Jeff Gordon or Tony Stewart, there isn’t anything to watch for in the absurdly long 330 minutes dedicated to Sunday racing coverage.
Maybe one lazy Sunday in the distant future I’ll give the good ole’ boys running NASCAR another try, but until then I’m sticking with Face the Nation and if I’m lucky, re-runs of “Boy Meets World” to keep me company on my couch.
