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Author: admin, 19.01.2015
It was a day diving out in the middle grounds, nothing special happened, but at the end of the day, my left ear was dead. This weekend saw the running of both the Kentucky Derby and the spring Talladega NASCAR race within 24 hours of one another. It's a different world in the shadow of the twin spires a€“ a world on permanent pause. As the adults and the twentysomethings who are trying to impress their bosses or their girlfriends' parents party in restrained fashion in the grandstands, the kids in the infield cut loose. Giant screens in the infield broadcast the races, and to the infield's credit, almost everyone crowds around them when the actual Derby starts. And then the horses parade along the track, between the grandstands and the infield, and all 165,000 of us stand. The horses race past the frontstretch spires twice, once to start the race and once to finish it.
Once the race is done, once I'll Have Another has wrecked parlay after precisely constructed parlay, Churchill Downs begins to clear out. View gallery.Fans take part in festivities on Talladega Boulevard at Talladega Superspeedway. Still, the fans journey here from hundreds of miles away, in love with the track at least in part because of its proximity to the abyss. Coming toward the track via Interstate 20 on race day, you can see the haze of campfires from miles away, and once you get within sight of Talladega you smell a blend of wood smoke, burnt rubber and oil that NASCAR could bottle and sell as cologne. There's not the same divide between haves and have-nots at Talladega as there is at Churchill Downs.
Side by side with this lightly-fried depravity is a deep sense of family and connection, one that in many cases runs even truer than blood. The South has a longstanding, well-earned rep for yoking together disparate elements into a whole that somehow improves on both: sin on Saturday, redemption on Sunday, that kind of thing. Heat, sweat and alcohol can reveal more character in an afternoon than your day job can in a decade.


Two combined centuries' worth of traditions, more than 200 races, run around some of the most mythical territory in the entire country.
The infield is as far removed from Millionaire's Row as, well, most of us are from millionaires. As you come out of the tunnel from the grandstands, you see lines of tents and stands where you can pick up more of the omnipresent mint juleps.
Here, a moving bachelorette party winds its way through the crowd, the bridesmaids staggering as the bride-to-be looks on, bemused, turning away proposal after indecent proposal like a Stanley Cup goalie. The Derby has largely killed off the practice of sprinting across the tops of portable toilets, though YouTube videos will live forever.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the horses make their way down the frontstretch toward the starting gate. The voice of the crowd rolls as they pass us the first time, and then all eyes without binoculars turn to the giant screens. The infield grass looks like the remnants of tornado wreckage, trash and shattered Styrofoam coolers and piles of ice and broken lawn chairs in every direction.
Hours after the infield clears out, police will discover a body, a presumed homicide victim, behind the barns located just across the track from the infield. You see entrepreneurs hawking tickets, firewood and knockoff T-shirts the moment you get off the interstate.
Many infield campers have stayed at the same spot for years, if not decades, and they know their neighbors as well as their own relations. At Churchill Downs, this drive embodies itself in feats of fashion engineering, like hats that resemble suspension bridges and in alcoholic concoctions like the precise blend of ingredients that goes into a perfect mint julep.
Throughout the Talladega infield, you'll see repurposed school buses, their insides hollowed out, their exteriors painted in every color except safety yellow.
I broke some blood vessels and did some nerve damage to my inner ear wich led to some hearing lose. Two infields, hundreds of miles and several levels of class distinction apart, bonded by mud and beer and celebration.


Churchill Downs itself sits close to Interstate 65, amid warehouses and lonely industrial streets.
You see it in the walk of the men clothed in seersucker suits or, for the less daring, blue blazers and khaki pants and impenetrable sunglasses.
Smoke from a thousand cigars wafts into the air, and as the day goes on, losing betting slips pile up on the bricks. But the clouds withdrew long before noon, and pale skin turned lobster-red hours before post time. In what seems like a remarkably bad idea for the future job prospects of many infield denizens, there are also plenty of photo booths. Still, there's enough debauchery a€“ both implied and consummated a€“ to terrify parents throughout the Bluegrass State.
The horses make their way through the four turns, and when they hit the final stretch again the sound of the crowd is unlike any cheer I've ever heard in sports a€“ more a physical sensation than a sound, more felt than heard.
This year featured a traveling wooden cutout in the tradition of those where you place your face in a hole, and those on the other side see your head atop the body of a clown, a football player, or whatever. You see it in the subtle hip-shake of the women, wearing outfits and hats that anywhere else would draw stunned stares, if not outright laughter, but here only admiration and praise. And as the day rolls on, the wisdom of serving thousands upon thousands of mint juleps and lilies in glasses starts to grow more and more suspect.
It echoes in your ears and your memory, and as soon as it's gone, you start anticipating when you can hear that sound again. But this particular cutout had only a larger, more horizontal hole about a foot lower, and it was meant for ladies only. Overheated denizens looking for a break from the sun set up their lawn chairs in the damp coolness of the tunnel to the grandstands.



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