The Greatest Show on Dirt

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.


15 thoughts on “The Greatest Show on Dirt

  1. Oh, the sprint cars. Noisy little guys, amiright? I’ve been a few times, in Southern Indiana. I can see the relevance to the county fair, as it’s nearly the same thing, except the ride operators are more skilled, and limited on seating.

    I haven’t seen a tube-top outside of the county fair for at least 15 years, but they seem to thrive there. I think they sell them at the door. Maybe they sell them in the porta-potty. I can’t, nor do I want to be, sure.

    When Mrs KYA and I were first dating, I took her to the Knox County Fair, where we watched the Demolition Derby. I’ve grown up loving this sport for the sheer ridiculousness and insanity of it all. Had I not been so rebellious, I’d been promised I could participate when I was 18. We wandered the small fairgrounds, avoiding slack-jawed townspeople and eventually took home a souvenir bronze spoon with the Kentucky crest on it.

    Sounds like you’ve got a fun-loving Mrs, sir. That’s an awesome thing.

    • Nothing beats a good demolition derby. Although, I’ve seen them race School Buses thru the figure eight. It’s amazing how much abuse a bus can take before it dies.

      Don’t worry, they let the kids out first.

      • Who said I was worried? In fact, sir, I’m a little dismayed. I thought this was a sport, not some pansy parade with occasional carnage. I have no time for casual carnage, sir. No time at all.

        • I admit, the bus races would be a lot more thrilling with the faces of screaming children pressed up against the windows. It would be just like Dufmanno driving the kids to school in the minivan.

  2. I pay a local gentlemen to play golf for me so I don’t have to. Now it would seem I must hire one more surrogate. So many things to avoid like the goddamned plague.

  3. This is something I’ve never done, even though my two boys are total gear heads and speed freaks. Wait, that makes them sound like drug addicts. So no.
    Okay, let me rephrase. My boys love cars.
    There that sounds better.
    I wouldn’t even know how to locate something like this near me. What do I type into my google query?

    • Seriously, this is the stuff little boys love. I’m guessing if you head due West of DC until the locals start looking like the kid in Deliverance and you’ll find a dirt track

      • I’ll crack the windows and listen for the telltale twang of the banjos.
        Just as an aside here, I’ve always felt that banjos fell out of favor due to Deliverance and they’ve been trying with Steve Martin to make a comeback ever since.

        • I love me some good banjo. The Avett brothers are one of the few that dare to use them outside of bluegrass.

          But then again, I like Polka, Accordians and Schrapnel, so take it as you will

  4. The Avett brothers? Bela Fleck is so good it’s almost trite to be a fan. Not that a Grammy is a measure of excellence, but nominations for country, pop, jazz, bluegrass, classical, folk, spoken word, composition, and arranging (Wiki)? Classical for chrissake!

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