THE WHITE RACE

My family – wife Laura and daughters Brenna and Ayla – are also White. More specifically, we’re Celtic-Americans with subtle traces of Czech, French, and German. This means that we don’t tan, we burn; we don’t dance, we convulse, and we can easily get caught up in the mindless diversions that White people have created to burn up our free time while someone else stitches our Nikes or prunes our rhody’s.

That’s why we decided to see the Monster Truck Show at the Fairgrounds. It’s almost a genetic predisposition for us to indulge in over-the-top spectacle. Monster truck racing is a slapdash mix of jousting, prizefighting, and a Bachman-Turner Overdrive concert combined with vengeful outlaw engineering, and po’ boy macho auto hi-jinx presented as a tribute to the power of the common man.

That is to say, the power of the common man with a hundred thousand dollars of skimmed tow truck company profits to sink into a vehicle that has only one purpose; to stampede like a bull on the streets of Pompaloma with a helmeted frat boy on its back.

In fact, Monster Truck competitions supply all the essential elements of White American entertainment in one heaping dose: a race for the winner’s trophy, the reassuring triumph of man over machine, deafeningly loud noises, the stench of alcohol (both as fuel and grandstand refreshment), thousands of screaming, sweating yahoo’s and a multi-megawatt p.a. system manned by a local Country Western radio deejay who’s got more adjectives than brain cells and a pronounced denture whistle.

It was my family’s end of summer chance to cheer for the red, white and blue “Airborne Ranger”, the Tolkienesque “Dragon Slayer” or the ghoulish spectre of “Grave Digger” bouncing their way to ultimate ground-pounding glory. Heavy-handed classical archetypes and the Battle Royale are the heart and soul of car-crushing extravaganzas. After all, Monster Trucks show their dominance by flattening rows of wrecked passenger cars.

Think of it as Steven Seagal versus Frank Sinatra at a nude tetherball beach party. It’s not pretty sight, but it’s a strong masculine survival metaphor.

Unlike Stock Car races, where puny names like “Tide”, “Mello Yello” and “Yorktown Peppermint Patties” are splashed across the flimsy fiberglass hoods of gutted, overpowered race car skeletons, the realm of Monster Trucks demands a powerful name and elaborate thematic paint job. These are nearly as important as 500 horsepower engines and outlandish vehicle designs.

No true MT fan would ever cheer for a lime green entry called the “Cocktail Shaker” or a decorator beige competitor driving the “Unbalanced Maytag”. The most popular trucks assume a powerful persona like an enormous hairy “Bigfoot”, or a sinister all black “Darth Vader” or a mismatched plaid entry named “Loud Ex-Girlfriend at a Buddy’s Wedding”.

Well, maybe that one’s just my nightmare.

At seven p.m. sharp, the show began with an earthshaking roar. Clouds of acrid smoke and noxious fumes choked our lungs and stung our eyes as the horrific shrieking built to a unbearable level - and that was just what was coming from the other people in the grandstand. Which, by the way, was so uniformly Caucasian it looked more like an immense schmear of large curd cottage cheese with an occasional third-degree farmer tan and a sprinkling of hair-tufted moles here and there.

I saw only one non-white man in the crowd of thousands as he stood up and abruptly left the grandstand before the race began, probably when he realized that the pre-show music was an endless loop of Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, “We are the Champions,” and for some bizarre reason, the Village People’s “YMCA.”. For this one musical offense alone, white folks should re-consider a heartfelt apology and reparations. I’m sure that if the Village People had showed up to sign autographs, there would have been a lynching or two.

The Monsters roared to life and the crowd went hog wild. It was a Sears Diehard Inspiration moment.

“They’s started!” the guy next to me yelled to his kids. “Woo-wee, them trucks is runnin’ “ It may sound a little like Ebonics, but it was a genuine Caucasian, good ol’ boy, dirt track, mush-mouthed exclamation. In Ebonics the same phrase would be, “Them trucks be runnin'"

Incorrect usage of third person singular present indicative versus incorrect usage present subjunctive is the dividing line between rural redneck motor sports and world racial unity. And we thought it was cultural? I want a tee-shirt that reads, “It’s a Strunk and White thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

After one quick lap around the track, the Monsters screeched to a stop, then lined up in the infield and shut down their engines. Amazingly, these jacked up muscle cars can only perform for a couple minutes before overheating and conking out. Once again, the masculine virility metaphor holds true to form. Now the promoters prodded the crowd by adding a dash of perspective. Like a family photo of a huge Irish Wolfhound, we needed something else in the picture – like a newborn kitten – to show how big the monster dog (or truck) truly is.

So, in came the competition go-karts. Three of them buzzed out onto the track and droned around and around looking more like shorty beach chairs on wheels powered by smoky, unmuffled, leaf-blower engines.

The crowd went absolutely nuts and, over their screams, the deejay hyperventilated trying to describe the race as though it was a NASCAR event. “They’re drafting behind the lead kart just like Winston Cup World Champion Dale Earnheart to conserve power and fuel!”

Yeah, sure, just like my Winston-smoking Dad drafts behind the Lawn Boy mower after a couple of beers.

Midget beach chairs on tiny racing slicks, friends, like big noisy bees that leave a stanky, oily, blue vapor trail.

The checkered flag ended the annoying buzzing, but the deejay, high on adrenaline, carbon monoxide, and his own megawatt ego, sprinted out onto the track to buttonhole the winner. He was probably looking for a motor sports interview to paste onto his radio DJ demo reel, “Howdya’ do it? Howdya’ win?”

“Well, I tried to stay out in front as much as I could, and when I got passed, I tried to get out in front again.”

“Brilliant!” the deejay announced to the crowd. Tepid cheers and knee-jerk applause rose like compost stink from the Pale-American crowd. Then he turned to the runner up. “Howdya’ do it? Howdya’ grab second place?”

“Well, I tried to stay out in front as much as possible, but I guess the best man won today.”

“Whoo-ee-boy, yeah!” shouted the deejay, waving his arm to the crowd to fan up some applause, then chased after the third place go-karter to keep everything even and fair. “Howdya’ feel when you saw that checkered flag?”

The loser looked at him for an uncomfortable moment before taking the mike and addressing the crowd.

As if on cue, the Monsters fired up and rumbled out onto the track drowning out whatever he was saying. But given my own experience in broadcasting and listening to hours of superfluous post game interviews, the last interchange probably went something like this: “Well, I might of lost this race, but Jesus is my pit crew and we’re runnin’ a much longer race, so I’ll be looking for my trophy when the big checkered flag comes down.”

Then the deejay would probably respond by saying “Praise the Lord” or by making a disparaging reference to finding a better pit crew next time. His choice of response would depend on whether the deejay was scared of pissing off the crowd or had a hot job lead in a better market and a damn strong demo reel.

Although the MT’s bounced around each other for a few minutes, bringing the grandstand back from their blue smoke exhaust fume stupor, the promoters once again decided to stop the show so a bunch of amateur drivers could bounce their trucks over a wimpy version of the course. In a nutshell, those who nearly destroyed their vehicles were cheered on and applauded. Any sign of weakness, i.e. the slightest show of safety or driving skill was met with boos and catcalls unheard since Mike Tyson used Holyfield’s head as a chew toy.

One poor moron took his family’s Jeep Cherokee onto the track and demonstrated how to kill its resale value in fifty-two seconds. Although everyone laughed, I’m sure most of the crowd wished they’d thought of such a bone-brained stunt first—“I coulda’ done it in fifty flat!”

Unflinching Pioneer spirit and high-octane blockhead bravado bring out the best in us. Bungee jumping, hotdog skiing, and ritual hazing would be all but unknown without ardent enthusiasts and envelope pushers. So, rev up the S.U.V. Mama, we’ve got a chance to spray our spoor across the record book monolith!

I nudged my daughters and suggested, “Hey! Why don’t I get our Wagoneer and try beating the record?” My eyebrows flipped wildly above my bugged out eyes to let them know this was an attempt at sarcastic hyperbole. My ten-year-old cautioned me, “No Dad, you’ll wreck it.” I gave her my most insane conspiratorial smile and nodded enthusiastically, “Yah! Wreck it, but we might win!”

I turned to my thirteen-year-old and she summed up the whole experience. “This is boring. It was fun for a minute or two, but now it’s getting old. Let’s go see the rest of the Fair. We want to go on rides.”

Perfect. I understand now. Kids want to go on the carnival rides, not watch grown-ups in Monster Trucks imitate carnival rides. Hey, I don’t want to drive a Monster Truck or go on Carnival rides. I’ve seen enough Carney ride operators with missing fingers and flat Alpha wave race crash victims to know that, as an adult, I like to watch.

Later, watching my daughters scream with delight while the Scrambler spun them and a couple of dozen other kids to a dizzying fare-thee-well, I thought, “Maybe there’s hope. They like to ride rather than watch. Maybe they won’t grow up as White as me after all.”

Either that or their gonna’ have way cool Monster Trucks.