Column: An American Obsession

That's right, the end of another Atco Raceway season. Yes, after the 15th of December, there will be no more ear-rupturing, piston-clapping, nitrous-guzzling, funny cars tromping down that quarter mile. Environmentalists and asthmatics can breathe a temporary sigh of relief while the monoxide-spewing Jet Dragsters are put into storage. I first learned of this horsepower haven when I was accosted by a militant radio announcer. He barked, "AT ATCO, ATCO, ATCO SPEEDWAY! It's the Eastern Nitrous Nationals! See Big Daddy Don Garlits blaze a trail to hell in his fire spitting, nitro-juiced, 2000 horse power DODGE OF DOOM!! BE THERE . . . BE THERE . . . BE THERE!!" I was always a little curious, but I scoffed at the American passion for the automobile. I would never make the 30 minute drive to Atco -- that is, not until Ron moved in next door. A thunderous roar roused me from my bed one early Saturday morning. I was sure it was nuclear war. But as I scurried down to the basement to count the canned goods, I saw from the window a burly, bald-headed man puttering with a loud yet unique-looking automobile. "Damn it!!" I thought, "I'm gonna put a stop to this!" I marched outside, preparing a verbal assault for this imbecile. From a distance he resembled Mr. Clean. But as I got closer, I realized he was as big as his automobile. His arms were like two baseball bats, tattoos in place of Louisville Slugger labels. As he turned to address me, I noticed his great, bulbous nose and inset eyes under a mile of forehead that radiated a mental abnormality. He held a car battery, probably weighing 15 pounds, in one hand. His fingers were mottled with the white, crusted acid. Before anything was said, he spit a shining red globule of chewing tobacco at my feet. I resigned to introducing myself as his untroubled, gracious neighbor. Well, since that first encounter, Ronnie and I have become good neighbors. I've gone to see him run his dragster at Atco, and along with seeing 3000 pounds of steel hammering down a quarter mile in nine seconds at 150 miles an hour, I've witnessed some other interesting things. For instance, Ronnie suggested I go to the Atco 31st Anniversary Showdown. Naturally, it was an onslaught of noise and fumes. One car was so friggin' loud, when the driver hit the accelerator I dropped to my knees to shove the parking lot gravel in my ears in a feeble attempt to save my hearing. During a merciful break in the racing, some unfortunate dolt named Benny "The Human Bomb" Koske packed himself and a charge of dynamite into a red car. Yes, Benny and the car were blasted back to the Stone Age in a fiery eruption, sending small red fragments of metal raining down on the crowd. Mr. Bomb emerged unharmed. Other than Benny's performance, it was cars, cars, cars. I had a conversation with a greasy young man named Joe. He said "Yeah, I dropped a four forty six-pack into her . . . ya know. I got heavier springs, but can ya believe I had to cut the fire wall out to make room for it? But now I need a bigger blower 'cause it gets so freakin' hot inside . . . ya know?" I said "Really?" He continued, "Yeah, I fitted her for the Edelbrock manifold and the carbs are Holley 'cause the stock carbs sucked. I'm runnin' about a . . . ah . . ." He actually stopped in mid-sentence when he realized my ignorance, and then he simply walked away. Atco is an open exhibition of the American fascination with the automobile -- a fascination that insures the longevity of the internal combustion engine. It's a strange obsession that urges a grown man to weep over a door dent or park so he can see his car from the office window. I have a brother-in-law who washes parts of his car with a toothbrush. He also waxes the engine. But if you have some spare time, take a ride down to Atco. The drag racing can be monotonous, but go to meet and watch the people. I think John Steinbeck said it best, referring to the Model T Ford in Cannery Row: "Two generations of Americans knew more about the Ford coil than the clitoris, about the planetary system of gears than the solar system of stars." Gregg Ventello is a graduate student in the Masters of Liberal Arts program from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Odi Et Amo has appeared alternate Mondays.

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