Moving Mountains

I just returned from Bristol Motor Speedway in Bristol, Tenn. Returning from Bristol is the easy part. Getting there is another matter.

Bristol is in the mountains of eastern Tennessee. You won’t find much parking near the track. Even if there was more, you wouldn’t want to park there. You’d be trapped for days, snowed in behind more than 100,000 NASCAR fans.

As a result, the only way to get to the track is to walk … and walk … and walk some more. The countryside is rugged. The best thing I can compare it to is being a horse in a steeplechase. My friend Kenny and I walked across fields, over mountains, through barbed wire fences and over gates. There was a creek, too, but we didn’t have to jump it … at least not this time.

The whole way the track is on the horizon, but never gets any closer, no matter how far you walk. Tickets to the event should be printed with the following admonishment: Warning, track is further than it appears.

Perhaps appropriately, considering you’re trekking to a half-mile bullring, it’s a circuitous route. I sometimes thought I should drop a trail of breadcrumbs (or Fritos), just in case I got lost and couldn’t find my way back.

Of course, if you enjoy short track racing like I do, then Bristol is the place to be … even if you have to move mountains to get there.