I Am Dirt Track
I'm the painful hang-over from Saturday night and a "wolfed down" sandwich on Sunday morning, but when I'm around, I'm around. Some say that I'm more of a disease that has no cure or a pesky hobo who won't go away. When memories slack, and blood tears my back, I grit what teeth I have and drive the dirt into the ground once again. Nerves of steel I think not. I got all put in my car and that's all I got, but when Friday night peaks takes over from day, you'll see me and thousands more tucked away hidden in the out-of-society's-way racing like fools smoking our Kools and believing that we are someone. Someone, what a thing to be. Working at jobs we hate chewing bologna sandwiches made by our angry wives, Millie, Sally, Jean, and Kate. But they show up. Right on time, not every time, but they are there and sometimes holding wrenches and fighting off a drunkard's pinches to watch me get after it one more time. I'm the gas fumes from engines in shells of cars and oil spills covered on weekend's ground. I'm a car sponsor cursing the air for "Dewey Long," crashing on the fifth-lap when all he had to do was "coast" to an easy finish. "Dewey," was okay. I lost a few hundred bucks on my logo to show folks about my American-made furniture. Dirt track is what I am. No more. Nothing to gain, but more of the same. I was once on my way then a man named France had bucks in his pants, a dream in his head and a vision to share but not yet said. I was doomed, but kept on running the Friday and Saturday night races while mud, beer and sweat spread on the faithful fans excited faces. I am dirt track. Make of me what you will. I am not sharp. I am not fancy. I am the dirt where many driver's dreams hide to this day and many will never rise again. But a few tough guys did make it out. For that I can be proud. Parade my dirt, cars, and fill the air with tailpipes loud. I am dirt track. Not tar or slag. Not yellow lines or moments that lag. There's "Jimmy Joe," "Lizard Moe," and "Rory Lonzo," who drive on fumes and faith and never getting the break. God love them. I know I do. When they die they will come to live with me. I am dirt track.
© 2016 Kenneth Avery
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