I-55 Raceway

Went to the I-​55 races with Tony, my parents, and my aunt Shelly and uncle Wayland. There were lots of crashes this evening, and although we enjoyed watching the races, I sincerely hope that no one was seriously injured! Congratulations to all of the winners.

What do you see in the greasy mouthful of a pork fritter making its way to the icy, condensated lip of a Coors tallboy? What legacies do you find nestled, burrowing their way round the hot, dusty belly of a country racetrack? What hymns can be heard cycling through the drone of a thousand horses, a thousand circling eyes, a thousand milliseconds of a single heart beat? Americuh! Americuh! Americuh!
In this chorus my voice rings true.
When suddenly I found myself, bearing witness in jean shorts and cowboy boots, inside the pit of I-​55 Raceway, shaking hands with a driver, marveling at the inner workings and goings on of a race pit, what more could I do than testify the passion play of this my fellow patriot?
Four classes of cars raced that night, and four respective qualifying heats and two trips to the snack bar later, we hunkered down on the first inside turn and waited for the showcase showdown to begin. On an otherwise dull, kick the can sort of southern cicada night, one can imaging there ain’t nothin more thrilling than watch twenty Late Models barrel towards the very spot you stand, with only inches and a chain link fence between you and god. After hearing a driver died recently at another dirt track, that release waiver I signed started making more sense. Then again, does Americuh exist without some mechanism of bodily danger? I shrugged that thought off just like Nick Lyons in the number 2 car did to Michael Koos in the 6, gunning off the low side to win by a heartbeat and metal, scraped up nose.
Now, I’m no fan of NASCAR, and it’s been told these dirt tracks are where the legends get their start. Spending time in the pits at I-​55 Raceway to me is like being the first of a knowing few to follow a cool indie band, back when they were real, scraping together their own tour money, sleeping on people’s couches; before they have time to impale themselves on a second album, get on an awards show and sell out.
This is Americuh people! Heck, I’m still scratching those hours of freedom flyin dirt out of my hair. God and country’s right. If you ain’t first, you’re last.

Oval dirt track racing excitement for a cheap price.
Nothing like watching and all out car race from 10 to 50 feet away.
The pros go fast and the amateurs crash a lot at I-​55 raceway. There is different divisions from watching little cavilers and neons with just rollcages added bang around the racetrack to full modifies that pitch sideways and throw dirt on the spectators sitting on the turns. As the cars and drivers get better I can start enjoying the strategy of how people take the turns (high full throttle or low throttle out) and trying to pass on such a small race track
If you decide to come, where a hat and glasses to protect yourself from the flying dust. Plus bring ear protection atleast for the kids. Start off sitting away from the turns so you do not get hit by dirt, unless you decide you want the FULL experience.
There is a large reinforced chain-​link fence between visitors and the racetrack, but I would not allow my kids to hang on the fence. I walk a couple feet away because metal bends as it absorbs impact.
Enjoy hearing «I tell you what» and «I heard that» from your nieghbors. The food is… interesting (eat just before you go). The restrooms are terrible. The «good old boy» experience is off the charts.