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CONCORD Here's how drag racing works.
Two cars line up next to each other. Lights flash. Cars take off. First one to finish wins.
It's short attention span racing. Instead of running 600 miles the way they do across the street, they run a quarter mile.
They go from zero to 100 mph in less than a second. A race takes less than four seconds. If you don't like the last one, you'll like the next one. If you don't like either of them, that's eight seconds out of your life. Live with it.
If you tire of the cars at the zMax Dragway@Concord, walk behind the grandstands to Nitro Alley, which is like the county fair with horsepower instead of horses.
National Hot Rod Association driver Melanie Troxel signs autographs across from the Pontiac exhibit featuring Johnny D, the Pontiac Girls and some quick, quick automobiles.
Otherworldly cars that make high school kids and old men swoon are strategically placed. Because swooning makes you hungry, there are lines at the trailers that sell corn dogs, lemonade, bratwurst and ice cream.
Beyond the ice cream are the NHRA drivers, their crews and their cars. Who has access? Everybody has access. Fans can watch them prepare their cars.
It's a gearhead paradise, and nobody leaves hungry.
The crowd is – and I hate this word because of the way it's been twisted – diverse. There is a greater percentage of black fans than I have ever seen at a NASCAR race. It's not close.
Close is what I want. I ask if I can stand on the starting line. A guide agrees to escort four of us. But there are rules. Sign a waiver. Wear sunglasses. Breathe through your mouth. And, because I'm wearing a white shirt, find a good drycleaner.
And don't use ear plugs unless they are ear plugs the size of Coke cans. Instead, stick your fingers all the way into your ears.
Towed by SUVs, the Top Fuel cars are dropped off in front of us. The cars look long and strange and impossibly fast. They burn nitro methane fuel and generate an estimated 8,000 horsepower.
One revs its engine and the earth moves. I mean, it really does move and shake and undulate.
We are led to a median at the starting line between the cars, only a few yards from each. They take off and almost instantly attain 315 mph. The air rushes away. It's like being body slammed backward. The nitrate burns the eyes. The ground feels like quicksand.
Can I do this again?
In search of a brief escape, I walk no more than two minutes and see hills and trees. Next to a dragway parking lot is the Rocky River Golf Club. The view from the first tee is so pretty. I see rolling hills, natural wetlands and a bent grass green. I also see the dragway's John Force Grandstand, which is so close I can read every letter and hear every gear change.
I have no complaints about the noise. The annoying sound a club striking a golf ball makes?
I can't hear it.
