The trailer park roots of the 20 Prospect clan have been well documented, so I don’t hesitate to share this next story with you dear readers. Ever since summer began, I have had Friday night July 8th circled on my calendar. For last Friday the World of Outlaws Sprint Cars came to Cedar Lake Speedway. As I blogged about last September, 20 Prospect Jr. and I enjoy going to the local stock car races. Here in the Twin Cities we are blessed to have 6 tracks within a 1 hour drive of our home. If that doesn’t dispel any delusions outsiders have about “progessive” “liberal” “enlightened” Minnesotan’s I don’t know what will. Apparently Garrison Keillor has never been to one. To be honest, I’m glad he hasn’t.
Because these are my people. Sadly.
No, I mean that in a nice way. There’s no pretensions at the Dirt Track. It’s like a mini State Fair. Just about anything goes. I saw more cleavage and butt crack on Friday than I have all summer. Cleavage and Butt Crack never go out of style in rural America.
Cedar Lake Speedway is just across the St. Croix River in Wisconsin, which is like a suburb of Heaven to me and Mrs. 20 Prospect. I may live in Minnesota, but my heart belongs to the Cheeshead State. Yet despite our mutual affinity, for the Packers, and Colby Cheese, Mrs. 20 Prospect has never taken an interest in car racing, which is understandable. Women aren’t the target market for Dirt Tracks.
But for a red
necked blooded American Male, there is no more exciting phrase than “Gentleman Start Your Engines!”. Well, maybe “Hot Girl on Girl Action”, or “Cold Beer Here” but don’t hear those phrases spoken anywhere near as often. Unforutnately.
So I was floored when Mrs. 20 Prospect called me at work on Friday afternoon to ask if she and Lil’ Miss 20 Prospect could come along with us to the races. If ever I doubted her love for me, or her sanity, Friday night cleared up those misconceptions. In searing 90 degree heat, we sat in the bleachers at the speedway with sweat trickling down our ribs, as 800 Horsepower sprint cars thundered by mere feet away. The smell of burning enthanol wafting through the air, the dust rising from the clay oval, and the scent of cheap waterey beer, was like exhilirating. They should bottle that scent and sell it.
The kids ran along the fence by turn 3, playing in the rain of the mud pellets that the cars spewed into the crowd, and I sat next to my true love explaining the finer points of racing. The woman is a Saint.
As a half moon rose over the cornfields, and woodlands of Western Wisconsin, the clouds of dust floated into the night sky. There are fancier and more comfortable ways to spend a Friday night, than sitting on am aluminum bleacher as dust settles over you, and clings to the back of your sweaty neck. But for this trailer trash fella, this ranks right up there.