Twenty four, modified class, stock cars get the green flag, which means "get going". On the three eighths mile track, they come alive like an angry beast. By the back straight away they are at close to a hundred and twenty miles an hour, every dude and a few gals driving as fast as they possibly can. You feel it in your chest like a Metallica bass solo. I like the smell of race fuel.
I have heard it said that hockey is sorta like cocaine, not everybody likes it but, folks that do, like it a lot. The same can be said for car racing. Guys wil race anything. They race snowmobiles on grass. They race belt sanders in an old sail loft in Boston.
So get on down to your local dirt track oval some friday night this summer and have a taste. But don't get hooked. If you start knocking the glass out of the family sedan and welding the doors shut and building it into an enduro car in your garage, you may end up in motorsport rehab.
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