Make it a Daytona weekend

Last weekend, I got a suntan: OK, maybe a little burned. But it didn’t come from a booth or a… Last weekend, I got a suntan: OK, maybe a little burned. But it didn’t come from a booth or a can; it came from the actual sun. “How, when it was so damn cold in Pittsburgh?” you ask. “Is global warming really getting that bad?” Well, the answer to that might be “yes,” but that’s a whole other tree-hugging column. For now, I’ll just tell the story:

Just before midnight on Feb. 11 was one of the most important moments of my life. It was when my roommate convinced us that we would be “so lame” if we didn’t drive down to the Daytona 500 that upcoming weekend, a journey that we had previously joked about but never really looked into. The thing was, we couldn’t really argue with him. We had wanted to become NASCAR fans to give us something to do on the Sundays during the NFL off-season and decided that there was no better way to get our feet wet than by jumping right in to the biggest event of the year.

By Thursday night, just before we were about to leave, our party had dwindled to two people, my buddy Tiny and me (or Snake Eyes, as I was referred to on the trip). Even the guy who had suggested the trip had dropped out. We were about to get in the car when we stopped to tell Tiny’s roommate, also known as the Worm, to have a good weekend at home. When he told us that his trip had been cancelled due to an Eastern Pennsylvanian plague, we informed him that there was no reason not to come with us to Florida. Unable to prove us wrong, he packed his bag, and five minutes later we hit the road due south.

Fourteen hours later, we pitched our tent at the beautiful Cackleberry Campground. Located a few miles from Daytona International Speedway, the field had all the accommodations of a five-star hotel – kinda. If it weren’t for that heavenly place, I would have never eaten a cheeseburger egg roll or met Earl, our new friend and spiritual leader, who inspired us with his stories of motorcycles and expensive strip clubs.

Cackleberry’s best feature was its on-site tavern. Named the Cabbage Patch because of its world famous coleslaw-wrestling tournaments, this place was straight out of a movie. Have you seen the one where some college kids walk into a biker bar and the entire place freezes and stares at them? Well, this was it. It was terrifying at first, but a few well-placed shots, a moving rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues” and a couple jokes later, we were able to fit in like Dr. Pepper in the candy aisle. Well, maybe not that well, but at least we made it out alive. Talking to the owner, who only claimed to speak English, Tiny and I even volunteered to chop up the cabbage for the next wrestling match, but only if we got front row seats.

The next day, we went to the beach – that thing with sand and bikinis that you hear about in the news sometimes. It was 75 degrees outside, and we got to swim in the ocean. We also had the opportunity to cruise the beach in our rented Jimmy Johnson-inspired golf cart, waving like we were on a parade float and honking a horn that more resembled a dog’s chew toy. We stayed at the beach for hours, getting enough Vitamin D therapy to restore our livers. But hey, I heard Pittsburgh was really fun this weekend, too.

The downtown Daytona nightlife was a sight to be seen. A combination of Mardi Gras, spring break and the movie “Deliverance,” the Budweiser flowed like wine and stained T-shirts outnumbered polo shirts about 1,000 to one. I’d like to share some of the stories from this night, but I’d also like to keep my job at The Pitt News. And, more importantly, my parents read my columns, and I still need them to respect me for at least a couple more years.

The race itself was madness. There were so many people, so many mullets. You could cut the excitement in the air with the end of a shotgun. We cheered in the crowd of NASCAR’s equivalent of College GameDay and watched tire-changing competitions. There were tons of tents and trailers from various sponsors, we got a picture of us in front of Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s car, and I even won a game at the Crown Royal booth, which was my greatest athletic feat to date until I found out that my prize was an empty purple bag.

Though we didn’t make it inside the race – the cheapest tickets we found were $200 – we watched it in a real NASCAR bar with real NASCAR fans. And, while standing up and yelling for my favorite driver, Kurt Busch of the No. 2 Miller Lite car, during the last lap of an incredible race, something suddenly hit me – I officially love NASCAR. And I couldn’t be happier.

So, why did I take the time to tell you all about my ridiculous weekend, one that also involved belligerent Marines and a man running from the cops with no shoes on? Because there was no reason that any of you couldn’t have had just as good of an experience. It didn’t cost much more than a normal weekend in Oakland, and was about 12 billion times more fun. Life is short, so why not drive to Florida for one of the best weekends of your life? This all started when Tiny, Worm and I couldn’t think of a reason not to go.

So, what’s your excuse?

Tony Stewart blew it, which is awesome. E-mail Snake Eyes at seg23@pitt.edu.