At the mere mention of NASCAR, most journalists will dive into a barrel of well-worn cliches.
Cliches such as its fans are all Coors-guzzling rednecks with Confederate flag tattoos. Or that the technology is so Stone Age, it makes a ride-on lawnmower look like VSS Unity. Or that the tracks are ovals because Americans can’t remember to turn right as well as left. But not me. Nope. I would never stoop that low. Especially as I’m currently sitting in the belly of the world’s angriest car, and everything has just become very serious indeed. The vibrations are making my eyeballs rattle around in their sockets, I’m uncomfortably hot, my head is throbbing and my nerves are frayed to the point that if there wasn’t netting covering the windows, I would happily paint some new graphics down the side of the car.
Images: Mark Fagelson & Rowan Horncastle