With the NASCAR season on the horizon at last, this morning I started reminiscing about my first trip to the Daytona 500.
It was 1988, and, then as now, I was immature for my age. I worked for a newspaper. It was weekly. I was young enough to believe I could head off to Florida on a Wednesday night, with a friend who said he had some friends who were already down there, and the two of us could stretch our limited resources enough to celebrate the fact that it was 1988 and George Orwell’s 1984 had not occurred. I’m not sure whether or not that subject actually came up.
Both of us had left our cell phones at home because they had not yet been invented in any approximation of the present form. I knew they existed because the banker Milburn Drysdale on The Beverly Hillbillies had had one years earlier. When we took off in search of the pomp, the pageantry, the human drama of athletic competition, at The Great American Race, I sang to myself, … so we loaded up the truck and we moved to Beverly.