2008 Woodie Awards
RSSCostumes
Column
By Doug Moquet
Issue date: 11/2/07 Section: Opinion
Halloween is upon us and while my friend is dressing up as a pregnant nun, I consider dressing up like Mad Max and reliving my day at the Mahoning Valley Speedway where a sea of about 1,000 fans sported racing T-shirts with their favorite modified driver set against an American flag backdrop.
White Pennsylvanians, some overweight, have tattoos on their forearms and some wear Budweiser hats. Some sit in lawn chairs or push baby strollers, wearing John Deere jackets, work boots and jeans. Children of all ages line up to buy 4-by-6 photos of their favorite racers for $1.50. The line to the concession stand stretches 50 people and fans wait 15 minutes to buy Shrimp and Fry baskets, Southern Style Chicken BBQ Sandwiches and cheap Race Burgers.
I feel like I'm wearing a costume of my own in a polo and chinos. Last night at Leon's, I felt like one of the flock. Today, I'm staring straight into the face of Eugene the track hand, a protruding maw of yellow teeth telling me incoherently how to avoid getting into a fight.
The atmosphere in the pit is an electric mix of high octane petrol fuel, cigarette smoke and testosterone. Every few minutes, my conversation with a Paul Skodacheck is punctuated by the deafening roar of a 600-horsepower Chevrolet small block blasting by.
I breathe deep and my nostrils fill with exhaust vapors and a faint hint of fried pirogues, trying to absorb as much of this culture as possible before the circus moves out of town. The changing season is too cold for auto racers and college students, who lock their doors, turn up their thermostats and hang up their adventure cleats sometime in November.
Paul's 25 and he's married with two kids. His car sits less than an inch off of the ground, and its angular, wedge-like body reminds me of a pinewood derby car I raced in Boy Scouts. Its wheels are exposed completely and protruding from each door are menacing-looking welded steel bars that protect the car's huge exhaust pipes from impact. The body of the car is offset to the left, adding more weight to the inside and giving it more traction because it never races any direction but counter-clockwise.
Paul claims he isn't superstitious, but when he's sitting in his car right before each race, strapped into the five-point harness and with a radio piece taped into his ear, he says he tries to fall asleep.
"You should be as comfortable in your car as you are sitting in your living room."
Twenty-five modified cars are sitting in spaces with spray paint markings that denote their starting position. It's hard to imagine whether Paul's eyes are closed behind his racing helmet's jet black visor, or that he's managed to catch any Z's amidst the tidal wave of racket generated by the 16 or so Camaros. The racers start their engines and the sound is like Mt. St. Helens opening up.
Paul's about to go 100 laps at 90 miles per hour in a 600 horsepower race car against 24 other drivers, yet he's completely calm, reclining on his living room sofa, taking turns one at a time and against extreme odds.
I've never met any race car driver's at Leon's and I probably never will. I have, however, sat on my couch and tried to imagine what it's like traveling for a living, opening up a fruit stand in Chile or becoming a Zen rock-gardener instead of getting a job that requires polos, chinos and a plastic smile every day - but such musings are characteristic of armchair racing and are better suited for Halloween costumes.
Back at the race track, the green flag flies, everybody mashes the throttle and there's a plume of smoke so big it swallows half of the bleachers. And then, smoke in my eyes, I'm happy to be out here, an outsider in a polo costume.
Doug Moquet is a senior journalism and international relations major and photo editor emiterus for The Brown and White. His column, Burning Down The House, appears alternate Fridays.
White Pennsylvanians, some overweight, have tattoos on their forearms and some wear Budweiser hats. Some sit in lawn chairs or push baby strollers, wearing John Deere jackets, work boots and jeans. Children of all ages line up to buy 4-by-6 photos of their favorite racers for $1.50. The line to the concession stand stretches 50 people and fans wait 15 minutes to buy Shrimp and Fry baskets, Southern Style Chicken BBQ Sandwiches and cheap Race Burgers.
I feel like I'm wearing a costume of my own in a polo and chinos. Last night at Leon's, I felt like one of the flock. Today, I'm staring straight into the face of Eugene the track hand, a protruding maw of yellow teeth telling me incoherently how to avoid getting into a fight.
The atmosphere in the pit is an electric mix of high octane petrol fuel, cigarette smoke and testosterone. Every few minutes, my conversation with a Paul Skodacheck is punctuated by the deafening roar of a 600-horsepower Chevrolet small block blasting by.
I breathe deep and my nostrils fill with exhaust vapors and a faint hint of fried pirogues, trying to absorb as much of this culture as possible before the circus moves out of town. The changing season is too cold for auto racers and college students, who lock their doors, turn up their thermostats and hang up their adventure cleats sometime in November.
Paul's 25 and he's married with two kids. His car sits less than an inch off of the ground, and its angular, wedge-like body reminds me of a pinewood derby car I raced in Boy Scouts. Its wheels are exposed completely and protruding from each door are menacing-looking welded steel bars that protect the car's huge exhaust pipes from impact. The body of the car is offset to the left, adding more weight to the inside and giving it more traction because it never races any direction but counter-clockwise.
Paul claims he isn't superstitious, but when he's sitting in his car right before each race, strapped into the five-point harness and with a radio piece taped into his ear, he says he tries to fall asleep.
"You should be as comfortable in your car as you are sitting in your living room."
Twenty-five modified cars are sitting in spaces with spray paint markings that denote their starting position. It's hard to imagine whether Paul's eyes are closed behind his racing helmet's jet black visor, or that he's managed to catch any Z's amidst the tidal wave of racket generated by the 16 or so Camaros. The racers start their engines and the sound is like Mt. St. Helens opening up.
Paul's about to go 100 laps at 90 miles per hour in a 600 horsepower race car against 24 other drivers, yet he's completely calm, reclining on his living room sofa, taking turns one at a time and against extreme odds.
I've never met any race car driver's at Leon's and I probably never will. I have, however, sat on my couch and tried to imagine what it's like traveling for a living, opening up a fruit stand in Chile or becoming a Zen rock-gardener instead of getting a job that requires polos, chinos and a plastic smile every day - but such musings are characteristic of armchair racing and are better suited for Halloween costumes.
Back at the race track, the green flag flies, everybody mashes the throttle and there's a plume of smoke so big it swallows half of the bleachers. And then, smoke in my eyes, I'm happy to be out here, an outsider in a polo costume.
Doug Moquet is a senior journalism and international relations major and photo editor emiterus for The Brown and White. His column, Burning Down The House, appears alternate Fridays.
