There are things in this country and things in this world that are sheerly good. Culver’s comes to mind. There are these places and these traditions and these institutions that hold no cachet with the sugar-filtered Instagram sect which tells us what’s the right kind of home, or with the puffy-vested business school sect which tells us what’s the right kind of work, or with the glitter-sprinkled red carpet sect which tells us what’s the right kind of entertainment. These things are the antidote to our desires to ‘keep up with the Joneses.’ They are a rebuke to those who get their kicks from fleeting momentary senses that they are superior to another, momentary senses which assure them, briefly, that they are not the things they are afraid they are. Put otherwise: If someone conveys that they are ‘too good’ for a thing we love…we’re in the right place.
The Daytona 500 is today, an afternoon-long festival of sponsorship and chance and souped-up automobiles going very, very fast. It’s the biggest stock car race in the world, run mere miles from where bootleggers once raced their work vehicles upon hard-packed sand. It’s a spectacle, and to those unacquainted with its grandeur, a perplexing one. Why, many ask, do so many people care about men in racecars repeatedly turning left?
The race is ridiculous, to be sure, even if it makes perfect sense when traced back to its roots. Football is the same way, but fewer question that. Imagine seeing a man in full football costume on the street or in a classroom, had you never known the sport to exist. He would look the silliest. The difference between reasonable and unreasonable pastimes is not their intrinsic, objective reason. It’s how much the beholder likes them.
When it comes to NASCAR, and specifically to the Daytona 500, the source of interest boils down to one evident thing: We’re seeing who can go the fastest. It’s more than that, of course—some among us enjoy the mechanics, some enjoy the personas, some (this is The Barking Crow) are big fans of the thorough chaos superspeedway racing brings, and the frenzied glory of the final laps—but that’s the gist of the situation. The fans, the broadcasters, the owners, the crew chiefs, the tire changers, the drivers…we’re all seeing who can go the fastest.
It’s more than that, though, especially with this race. Beyond those original sources of interest, those original sources of love, there’s a wrinkle. Sometimes, things are simply good. Sometimes, those good things draw scorn and ire. Sometimes, some of the least secure among us communicate that they—somehow they, with their fearful inclination of their own self-worth plastered upon their sleeve—are ‘too good’ for the simple good thing we love.
Happy Daytona Day.
We’re in the right place.
