Saturday
Night at the Park
It
was Thomas Wolfe who wrote
"You Can't Go Home Again"
and since most folks agree
that he was no slouch of a
writer, it follows that there
may be some wisdom in his
title. Last Saturday night,
while staring up a hill at
a large oak tree beside an
old wooden roller coaster,
I finally understood.
It's
a tree and a roller coaster
that I've stared at a thousand
times - standing just behind
the grandstands of an auto
racing track located at an
amusement park. My youth was
filled with the sounds of
that park - the clatter of
the roller coaster, the screams
of the riders, the carnival
music. And behind it all,
the steady whine of stock
cars at full throttle.
Auto
racing was a weekend ritual
in our family. Friday nights,
Saturday nights, and Sunday
afternoons. I lived for the
smell of racing rubber and
waited patiently for french
fries during intermission.
These were the glory days
of NASCAR Modified racing
- Ford Pintos with fat, 15-inch
wide gumball tires and no
fenders. 8-cylinder 358 cubic
inch engines propelled these
rocket ships, and the drivers
who battled week after week
were destined to become legends
of New England racing: Richie
Evans, Maynard Troyer, Geoff
Bodine.
Eventually
my family met a young driver
named Michael Stefanik. I
watched him work his way up
from the beginners division
into the top-tiered Modifieds.
And there, at the race track
at the amusement park, I witnessed
him beat the short-track legends
to get his first win.
After
the races, we would always
hang out in the pits. The
sheet metal of the cars pinged
as it cooled, the drivers
sweaty in their Nomex firesuits
as they rode the tail end
of an adrenaline rush. They
would laugh and replay the
great moves and close calls
of the evening with their
hands, laying them out flat
in front of them as if they
were two race cars.
In
high school I bought myself
a Nikon and met a few racing
photographers who adopted
me. I got to take photos from
the infield of the race track
at the amusement park week
after week, many appearing
in the local racing papers
that I idolized.
It
wasn't long before I began
writing, working for several
auto racing magazines. That
meant traveling, but I would
return often to the track
that held so much of my youth.
And
then somewhere along the way
I picked up a guitar, wrote
some songs, and my music career
took over. Weekends were spent
playing in clubs, catching
races only on television.
I kept vowing that one of
these weeks I'd take a Saturday
night off and go back to that
race track at the amusement
park.
So
I finally did. And as I stood
in the same spot that I had
stood so many times before,
I was painfully aware of the
indifferent nature of change.
The park was sold several
years ago to a huge amusement
park company, and last year
they razed the old race track
to make way for a big super
roller coaster.
The
tree and the wooden coaster
still stood on the hill, but
the grandstands press box
were gone, the asphalt and
concrete replaced by souvenir
shops and carnival games.
All that was left on this
Saturday night were my memories
of a place that, for so many
Saturday nights, felt a lot
like home.
And
in that moment I understood
exactly what Thomas Wolfe
meant.
This
column © 2002 Lee Totten.
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