Southside Speedway was nearing the end.

Like an old man, the race track, located in South Richmond, Va., was gray. The walls surrounding the track had once been white. But too much dirt and car fumes had washed against it.

The aluminum bleachers, glint lost, were gray. The concession stands were gray.

The race track was scheduled to be torn down at the end of the summer. Condominums and a shopping mall were slated to replace it.

Never having been to a race--never, even, having watched the Indianapolis 500 on television--I didn't know what to expect. A bunch of cars whizzing around a giant track, I guessed.

My vision of the race was correct. But Southside was more than a race.

Saturday afternoon, the speedway was a gathering site, a place where shirtless men and bronzed women, crazy kids and old people who congregated in the top row of seats and wore big hats to keep the sun from their eyes, came to watch and cheer.

Before the race, the public address announcer, a man with leathery skin and bushy eyebrows who spoke with a Southern accent, said racing was the equivalent of war. If there were a war, he announced to the crowd of 10,000, the racers who were about to race would be at that war. But because there was no war, they were here, to race, giving their courage a test drive.

War on wheels, I thought.

He mentioned World War II. "Twenty-three Virginians won the Congressional Medal of Honor during World War II. You know how many men from New York City won it? Only three. And one of those men had just moved from Virginia." The crowd roared.

He launched into the "Racer's Prayer." Heads fell.

"Lord I pray

As I race today

Keep me safe

Along the way