I hadn't expected this. I had figured Saturday-night amateur street racing wouldn't draw much of a crowd. I was wrong. It's too dark to be sure, but I'd guess there are 500, maybe 600 people over here in the viewing area. Maybe more. And more coming in all the time. The cell-phone grapevine has been spreading the word here, too. Out on the track, a plume of vapor shows somebody's match has literally gone up in smoke. A Mitsubishi has boiled over its coolant, stopping the action. The crowd doesn't get restless. Everyone seems content, relaxed.
And that's in spite of the fact that the spectator amenities - if you can call them that - consist of a makeshift concession stand, a cluster of yellow porta-potties, and whatever you brought to sit on.	The actual scene is dark, much darker than it looks in the pictures - so dark that you can barely see who's standing next to you. People sit in lawn chairs and pickup beds, chatting and watching the action.	It's not at all like most spectator sports. And after a few minutes, that starts to grow on me. The friendly darkness makes it comfortable: private yet social, anonymous but intimate.
But now the track has cleared again, and the cars, lining up two by two, are again roaring down the strip. The PA system blares: "The winner, in the right lane, the red Camaro." I'm tired of being an observer - I want a race, dammit! So, it's back to the pits.