The Old Coot gets overrun at the racetrack.
By Merlin Lessler
I was at a car race in February, the “Bud Duel” at the
Daytona International Speedway. Two, back-to-back, 150-mile races. Danica
Patrick had the pole in the first one, Jeff Gordon in the second. Sort of a
historical moment, but it was lost on me. I was buried in food wrappers and
empty beer cans by the end of the session. I had no idea a race fan was
required to eat his way through the three-hour event. But, that’s the rule.
The guy next to me in the nosebleed section showed the way.
He waddled through the narrow space between the welded in place, metal folding
chairs, hauling a knapsack and a beer cooler, plopped down next to me and
sighed. I adjusted my position since large portions of his frame invaded my
space. I was sort of cantered in my seat; my head faced forward but the rest of
my body was angled forty-five degrees to the right. It was at that moment I
realized why people opted for the $200 and $300 seats, not the pitiful $120
investment I’d made in mine.
The races were uneventful. Danica achieved her objective;
she finished the race without wrecking her “Go Daddy” car, preserving the pole
position for the Daytona 500 coming up 3 days hence. I forget how the second
race ended. There were very few lead changes. The inside lane was running slow,
too slow to pass the cars running on the outside, so the pack sped along in the
outside lane, like a toy train going around a circular track.
No, the real show was in the stands not on the racetrack. At
least for me. The seat hog with the big fanny next to me ate his way through
the event. Before the Star Spangled Banner was finished, signaling the start of
the first race, he had downed an overstuffed, 12-inch sub, overflowing with
meats, cheeses, onions, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and Italian dressing. It was
with extreme envy that I watched him munch his way through 1,000 calories and
wash it down with two “cold ones” from the cooler between his legs. By the time
Danica made her way to safety at the back of the pack, he’d also put away a
large bag of red licorice. I’d engaged him in conversation, hoping he’d feel
obligated to offer me some. But no, my drooling didn’t move him in the least;
he consumed the entire bag himself.
The same lack of sharing was exhibited as he went through a
two-pound bag of peanuts, shucking and consuming them over the second race.
Apparently, he’d had a different kind of kindergarten teacher than I did. Mine
was big on sharing. The shark-like feeding frenzy in row 43 never let up –
licorice and peanuts were followed by chips, Snicker bars, ice cream from the
concession stand and a bag of Oreo cookies. Interspersed with cans of Bud. The
row was littered with his discards by the time we stood to leave. I sloshed out
to the aisle and down the stairs. Older and wiser.
I don’t know why I was surprised. I’m the guy who can’t sit
through a two-hour movie at the theater without a bucket of popcorn, a
super-size container of soda and a box of Good & Plenty. We’re an eating
society. Eating our way to extinction. And I’m at the head of the pack.
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