Ohio Girl

I love Alabama because on the drive down I get to stop at the Last Chance, right on the border before you leave Tennessee. It is a hole-in-the-wall out in the country; cement block and wood-paneling. The parking lot looks like a Silverado dealership. Couples dance and older gentlemen sing karaoke. The bathroom door doesn’t lock quite right and the man with the least number of teeth is bound to look my way. I feel right at home as a once, or twice a year regular.

I love Alabama because when I drive in at night and roll down the windows the air smells heavy and my hair gets curlier. The next morning the skies are just as blue as the song lyric describes.

I love Alabama because of the statue of the God Vulcan that watches over Birmingham. He looks like someone’s kind-hearted grandpa who goes out to check the mail in nothing but his boxers.

I love Alabama because of the Voting Rights Act Museum in Selma. Housed in a little building smelling of mold, it is testament to those who marched all the way from Selma to Montgomery. Old shoes--worn clear through--photographs, and hand-written notes tell the tale. One slip of paper on a wall says, “I was arrested in Selma in 1965.” Another note farther down says, “I was a state trooper in 1965.” When I walk across the Edmund-Pettis Bridge I cry. White girl from Ohio, or no, I feel a sense of pride, a sense of understanding about what it means to be an American, that I have never known before. And I swear I can hear the echo of footsteps.

I love Alabama because of the Peach Pit in Clanton. They sell fried, sweet potato pie and fresh cobbler with homemade ice cream. Every visit I am forced to reconsider what I thought I knew about dessert.

And I love Alabama because of Talladega Superspeedway.

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The lots at NASCAR races are part Grateful Dead show, part football tailgating. There are families, bikers, good ol’ boys, and young women decked out--head-to-toe--in the merchandise of their favorite drivers. Some of them come and spend days in RVs, or tents. Little communities develop with dogs and kiddie pools, grills and card games. At night there is beer around the campfire.

Talladega is all of that with an added mix of southern hospitality, southern passion, and southern eccentricity; the carnival meets church revival. Dizzying as the world is just outside of the track, the world inside gets turned upside down.

Walking in, it feels as though the clear, blue sky has been scooped into a bowl and served for your pleasure. Seated almost anywhere on the front stretch you can see perfectly into all the corners with only a small portion of the back stretch obscured. At other superspeedways, like Indy, you can only see what is directly in front of you. The banking reaches four stories and the speeds are high, even with the restrictor plates.

The racing is fast and close. Real close. Cars go three and four wide into the corners. And there is a whole lot of passing and bump-drafting. That there is not a wreck on every lap is a testament to the skill of race car driving.

But Talladega IS legendary for its wrecks. I have watched Elliot Sadler somersault through the air only to land on his wheels and cross the finish line. I have watched as 25 cars pile up, one after the other, going into a turn; each contact producing a flash of light from the wall of smoke.

I have watched Junior come from the back with only a handful of laps to go and win the race. I have watched lead changes that are so close you can almost feel the driver’s adrenalin. I rarely sit down at Talladega.

Watching on television is not quite the same, but this past Sunday didn’t disappoint.  There were cars passing in packs by razor-thin margins. There were multiple lead changes, and of course, there were some big crashes.

But the ending was the story. McMurray took the lead from Stewart with 13 laps to go. Then Kenseth took it from McMurray. Schrader crashed after losing a tire bringing out a late race caution and the green-white-checker. When they got back to racing, Stewart made a fast, outside pass on Newman and then swooped down for an immediate, inside pass on Kenseth. Stewart looked to have it locked, but then Jarrett, who had helped bump Stewart back to the front, pulled ahead on the outside. He pulled ahead just enough. And this was a big win for DJ who just got his old, crew chief back and who finally broke a long, dry spell. He was beaming like an 8 year old who just hit is first, little league, home run.

And that is why I love Alabama.