Rednecks rejoice

Blake and I discovered quite the treat this weekend. A place that is like no other. A place so backwards and hick-ish that it blew anything Burns Lake could offer out of the sky. I'm talking about the local speedway. You'll have to use your imagination here. We live on a minuscule island with few resources, yet they have managed to build a "speedway." Now I use parentheses because I'm not sure there is anywhere else in the world that would qualify a pot-holed and crumbly paved patch of tar a speedway. I knew there was something amiss before we had even parked the vehicle in an overgrown lot with dead bismarck palms and ankle high brush. The security guard standing at the roll-away fence charged us five dollars each and indicated that we could park anywhere in the field just beyond the slightly lopsided porta-potty. We came with some friends, and I think there was a tangible silence as we realized this place was reminiscent of a lost scene from Deliverance-slightly eerie. We parked the car and headed towards the track only to be stunned by what was before us. A row of old tires, three tires high, was lined along one side of the strip. A simple metal chain link fence that ended just above our heads was stuck into the ground at varying angles alongside the tires. And we were right there. Nothing but a fence full of holes and three tires were in between us and the lethal speed-demon cars. The surface of the speedway itself was shocking. I have seen better gravel surfaces than the sorry mess there. We all had to snap a few photos just to show our friends back home. All of a sudden a sharp revving sound broke the silence and I am not ashamed to say that I screamed and ducked behind Blake. Despite the fact that we were at a speedway, I couldn't help but feel like Leatherface from Chainsaw Massacre was about to run out of the woods and tackle me. That- or a possessed motor-bike was heading straight my way. The latter was more accurate of what actually ended up happening. The revving belonged to a street bike that rocketed a mere 10 metres away from me. Out of nowhere a loudspeaker announcer evaluated his speed at 5.2 seconds and 118 miles/hour. At this point the announcer also took time to ask us to back away from the fence and sit on the bleachers that were located right behind us. From that vantage point we were in the clear collision path of any vehicle that wished to jump the road, sail over the tires and land on us. Not a reassuring thought. Nevertheless, always up for an adventure, we took our places and waited for the races to begin. Now I should mention that they were scheduled to begin at 3pm. We arrived on Island Time at 3:15. At about 4:00 the announcer gave a long winded speech to his audience of 15 that he wished the officials would learn to respect time, and how all of these years he has been trying to instil a sense of professionalism and punctuality, yet the public continue to disrespect him by not arriving on time. This tangent had us all in a fit of laughter. Nothing like a loudspeaker rant about tardiness in the Cayman Islands. Next to warm up were the cars. It is a giant relief to know that Blake and I no longer have to worry about the fate of our '94 Accord when we leave. We will just race the heck out of it and call it a day. The first race car to hit the strip was an old model Honda Civic- colour: silver, door: black, hood: sunbleached. It flew down the strip at an astonishing pace of 6.9 seconds. My jaw dropped. When I think of racing and speedways I think of race cars and proper attire. Silly me... I couldn't have been farther from reality. It turns out that any old person can enter any old car, as long as it is in working order. Even then, however, there were at least a handful of cars that didn't make it more than a few metres off the track and had to be pushed by hand back into the holding lot. The serious contenders wore biking helmets, all the rest sported either ball caps or nothing at all. One car even managed to lose a belt while speeding down the strip. Unfortunately we missed the last group outing to the track, when apparently a car started on fire and it took the fire truck that was parked next to the bleachers more than five minutes to get their act together, drive a hundred metres and put the inferno out. By 5:00 the races had not yet begun, and since we had carpooled with another couple we had to leave. Just as we were making our way back to the parking field the first race took place. It was neither motor-bikes nor cars, but two trucks barreling down the narrow strip- side by side, vying for first place. Although I would like to have stayed for more, I felt that my red-neck quotient had been met for a lifetime and it was time to call it a day at the track.

PIctured above: the speedway in all of it's glory