Mrs. Nott and I went to the Sirius 400 NASCAR race at Michigan International Speedway with another couple. They’re about 15 years younger than us, but I had no idea how different. I’ll call 'em Sam and Ida. We had a fine time the evening before, at dinner. Then Sam & I assembled his little gas grill. We all went to bed early, and got up early to join the slow stream of cars in the one road to the track. The race went nicely, enough lead changes to keep it interesting. Back home, I had bought a chance on a race board, and I drew Matt Kenseth. To crown a fine afternoon, Kenseth won, and I won $100!
At last year’s race, we parked quite near the track, and after the race, it took 3 hours just to leave the parking lot. This year, we parked way out near the road. We were able to leave the lot in ten minutes, and begin the stop-and-go crawl down Road 12 back to Coldwater. Ida had been putting away vodka and orange juice since 9:00am, and she was swept away by the emotion of the moment. She had been howling, “Hoooooooooooooooo!” at odd intervals since lap 180. We were all in my truck; Sam and I, being taller, were in the front seats and Mrs. Nott and Ida were in the back seats. Ida was howling out the windows, and when she’d get someone’s attention, she’d flash her tits at whoever was watching. The intervals were unpredictable, and a couple of times she just missed flashing a cop. One guy even pulled up beside us with a video camera. I kept the music turned up, and kept plugging in fresh music tapes. At the end of one tape, Sam started singing along with some disco era song on the radio. Arrrggghh. I hit the seek button, and a Latino station belted out a Cubanismo thing. Sam switched gears, spouting cat noises and “Arrrriva, rrriva!” while Ida yowled from the back seat and left nipple prints on the back window. I started to imagine the inside of some county jail.
Finally, finally, we got back to the hotel at Coldwater. I parked next to Sam & Ida’s car. Sam set up his dinky grill and started cooking burgers and bratwursts. He also opened up his car and cranked up a Kid Rock CD. Aaaarrrrrgggghhhh! I can’t stand Kid Rock; not his performance, not his obnoxious persona. With her feet back on the ground, Ida was keeping her shirt on, but the howling continued. I tried to explain to Sam that Kid Rock just sounds like a very angry duck to me. “Quackquaquackquackquaaaaaaack, quackquaquack, kaquackquack, kaquackquack…muddervuckin’ quaaaack!” It made no impression on Sam. He thinks KR is the best thing since sliced Madonna. Eventually, I retreated to my truck, where I put up the windows and played Tom Petty loudly enough to drown out the quacking. Depression was settling in. I was trapped. The tailgate of my truck was the buffet table for the party, and two out-of-control drunks were battering me with sound recordings that made my gut hurt. Like Bono, who obviously dropped heavy objects on his toes before each song, Kid Rock apparently sang duets with chainsaws until he got his tone just right. I applied Knob Creek bourbon until the pain subsided.