Irony Becomes Her

Redneck Weekend

On Saturday I went to the weekly races at the Louisiana Lawnmower Speedway. That's right.

I asked if the racing lawnmowers still had blades to cut grass. No. What makes a lawnmower different from a go-kart? A bit of sheet metal on the front and a certain kind of tire. My ignorant, out-of-town questions were starting to annoy the expert. I had quite a bit of nerve, asking why they were called lawnmowers when they were created never to touch a blade of grass.

But before the green flag came down, I still had time to look around the place a little. One actual sign read, "Please do not spit in trash can. Thank you." The drivers' meeting, an informal congregation of good ol' boys and gals, dwelt chiefly on good sportsmanship. "Never come onto the track from the stands," said the man in charge, a tall man with a three-foot ponytail. "The flagman's judgment is final, so if he doesn't see it, it didn't happen."

This was not a passing reference. The ins and outs of what forms of expression were acceptable for anger had to be dwelt on a while longer. I looked at my fellow outsiders; is this enough of an issue to spend this much time on every week? The mother of the contestant we knew leaned over and whispered, "There was a fight last week. Some of the guys came onto the track swinging."

"Oh, I see," I said reassuredly.

If you want to see fast lawnmowers and some pretty spectacular lawnmower crashes, head to Wheeling some summer Saturday. If I lose a couple teeth and get myself that super-modified two-cylinder, maybe I'll see you there.

posted by Lynn @ 6:26 AM