A colleague shared this week that her son is camping with some buddies in the infield for the Winston 500 at Talladega this weekend. (Or whatever the race is called. It was the Winston 500 in my childhood, or even more commonly, “the May race.”)
Now I was 12 the last time I spent any time in the Talladega infield, so it’s been more than 30 years. That was long enough ago that you could roll up in a U-Haul with a straight ladder, and they’d just wave you on in. (In case you’re missing the assembly here: use the straight ladder to get on top of the U-Haul and watch the race from up there. Drink lots of beer. What could possibly happen?)
It wasn’t the first time I ever saw women’s breasts in person, but it was the first time I saw so many. I remember different campsites having big signs, advertising to women that if you would show them to them, they would be happy to look. (There was little modesty in these arrangements. After all, there’s not really a dignified way to conduct such.)
I imagine the alcohol probably flows as freely as it ever has, though I wonder about the Breast Factor in 2017. Is it still like I describe? I mean, guys would make signs with spray-paint on bed sheets. There was no secrecy about it at all.
(I told my colleague that if her son got back and was actually dissatisfied with his view of the race, then Atlanta was a much better place to go and watch from the infield.)