WHERE DID YOU BECOME A RACE FAN?
FOR ME, IT WAS A summer night at the base of Chesley Mountain in rural New Hampshire in the mid-Eighties. Standing atop a stack of hay bales, swatting mosquitoes and drinking Pepsi from a can, I was mesmerized watching local yokels racing stripped-down LTDs, Impalas, Novas, and Bonnevilles, bashing into one another around a muddy, dusty dirt oval under lights that had been roped into the tall firs lining the track. The smoke from burning oil in my nose, the carbon filth in the air—you know the sensation. These guys—they might as well have been superheroes—were racing street cars that my parents drove. And the V-8s were so loud, I thought my heart would burst. Who were these lunatics who painted numbers on cars and raced to the death under the…