by Jim Williams The Stars and Stripes stands stiffly against a black sky. Harsh lights on tall poles cast sharp shadows across curving flanks of metal. Between the glares, the gloom is so deep that all color drains away. It could be a scene from Kubrick's 2001, and I feel as if I'm on another planet. In fact, I'm at Mid-America Motorplex, a sanctioned sports-car racecourse near Pacific Junction, Iowa. On select summer nights, its 2,200-foot main straightaway hosts wide-open, fully legal "street drags" for hundreds of do-it-yourself racers. Run what you brung; find your own opponent; first car to the finish line wins; then go back around, line up and do it again, as many times as you want, from 7 pm until 2 am. No cops, no pedestrians, no trees, no prizes except bragging rights. It IS a different world. Tonight, this is Planet Dragstrip.   Click any picture to see a larger version
	Sign a waiver, pay ten bucks, and you're good to go. All you need are a street-legal car, a seat belt, and a motorcycle helmet.	In the pitlane, competitors size up potential opponents, then make their matchups. All very cool, very informal. Then it's into the long line of cars waiting for their turn at the start line.
	It's a young crowd, mostly teens and twentysomethings. 72 MOPAR (note license plate) is older than most of the drivers... although still quick. It could be a scene from a Springsteen song, or even the Beach Boys... except for all the cell phones. They're everywhere: Apparently, if you're a twentysomething, you aren't really sure you're having a good time unless you're on your cell to your buddy, telling him what a good time you're having. The cell phones crackle and the cars keep rolling in: "Dude, you've GOT to get down here!"
		Not everyone's evening starts smoothly: last-minute underhood thrashes are all part of the game.
I feel as though I've brought a knife to a gunfight. I'm driving an old-fashioned lightweight sports car - a 1974 Saab Sonett III - while practically everyone else seems to be packing serious drag hardware.The pitlane rumbles with traditional big-engine 'pony cars' (Mustangs, Firebirds, and their siblings) and 'rice rockets' (new-wave, tricked-out Hondas and Mitsubishis.) They're packing everything from reprogrammed engine computers to nitrous-oxide bottles (which give an instant power burst when triggered.)	I didn't come here expecting to win races - but I'd feel ludicrous merely approaching most of these street warriors, even for a just-for-fun matchup. I'm sure that they'd feel that either I'm an idiot, or think they're idiots. Neither is a good thing in the warily respectful culture that pervades street racing - where the motto might be, "Trust everyone, but look under the hood."	Cars are still pouring in - so I decide to wait and see if any more-plausibly-approachable competitors appear. Meanwhile, I wander into the darkness toward the spectator area at the base of the timing tower, to see how the scene looks from the other side of the guardrail.
Photos and text are copyright Jim Williams 2002 and may not be reproduced without permission.