Days of Thunder

We came to life the next morning with blazing hangovers! We couldn’t care less - it was RACE DAY! NASCAR!!! We strapped into Spot and gunned towards the Texas Motor Speedway. Once we'd penetrated the tailbacks around the stadium we set about some quick reconnaissance to find the best camping spot, looking to avoid the steep $75 charge. At the entrance to one of the huge camp sites, we got chatting to a toothless Southerner named Kenny who was guarding his vast RV kingdom against people seeking out an unofficial camping patch. Appreciating the fact that we had travelled quite some distance to come and experience American culture in its purest form, or maybe eyeing two naive young victims, he gave us an 80% discount on our parking space and sent us off towards the stadium, beers in hand!

After absorbing the pre race-culture for an hour or two, which equated to staring at extremely colourful, overpriced merchandise we headed back to a restless Spot. He was psyched to hit the racetrack and break all the track records. We let him down lightly, explaining that although we loved him dearly, and personally thought he was great, his performance left quite a lot to be desired. He sulked while we took a quick nap, trying to remedy our hangovers before what was sure to be a loud and intense night of racing.

Within minutes of drifting off, we were woken by Spot throwing a tantrum. He was in a heated debate with something or someone just outside. We slid open the door, and we could see what was happening. Herbie, the squeaky little VW beetle made infamous by his extensive film career had parked up next to us. Him and his film crew had arrived to make the next instalment in the franchise: “Herbie goes to Texas to race in the NASCAR 500 Sprint cup and win” (working title)

In the old films, Herbie always struck us as a charming friendly little car, albeit a little camp. Seeing him on the set without the cameras rolling though, we could see he was a nasty little shit. Spot informed us that Herbie had come across and started mocking his paint job and “stupid little wheels”. His film crew had also been making derogatory comments about the Traverses film we released when we left NY. This was not on.

We relocated across the field, and kept our distance from the venom spewing out of the little German sod. Imagine our surprise to get out and find ourselves parked next to ‘Kitt’ from the classic TV series: Knightrider. Kitt was Spot’s biggest idle! Spot squealed with enthusiasm, and unleashed all the questions he could think of about Kitt’s experiences on the set of the 80’s show. No one understood because Spot can’t actually speak. Kitt kindly indulged Spots’ pure enthusiasm for a few minutes, until David Hasselhoff returned from the hot dog stand, hopped in the drivers seat and sped off.

With race time approaching we headed over to the enormous stadium. Our seats were track-side, 2 rows in and directly opposite the pit lane exit! After some all-American military parades in honour of veteran's day, there was a prayer session followed by the National Anthem climaxing with a brilliantly timed B-52 fly-over. These Yanks certainly know how to put on a show.

Then, the words we had been waiting for! "Gentlemen Start Your Engines"! (They actually say that!) As the cars set off on their practice lap, we scoffed at how much we had overestimated the noise we were expecting to hear. As the cars hit lap 2 however, our world was turned upside down. As the 40 cars hit the line on the rolling start, they open up their engines and blazed towards us at full speed. The noise and vibrations were terrifying.

"We're going to die" was our genuine first thought.

Our breath was taken away as the cars screamed past, followed shortly by a shock-wave of wind that sent empty beer cans rolling down the bench and fragments of scorched rubber floating down around us. Emotionally drained and frightened, we were wondering how we were going to survive another 334 laps of this, when the leaders suddenly emerged from the far curve and came at us again.

The shrill buzz of the cars zipping past had us cupping our ears with our hands every 30 seconds to save ourselves from hearing damage. We resigned ourselves to inevitable death caused by some catastrophic car crash happening right in front of us and waited for the worst to happen. After a few laps however, everybody seemed to have survived and we started getting into it. Afternoon turned to evening, our pile of empty cans steadily grew, and some cars occasionally overtook some other cars.

As the 335th lap came to an end under the floodlights, everyone went wild, sending a cloud of cowboy hats into the air in celebration - someone had won. We staggered back to Spot shouting in each other's ears about how amazing the race was. With no signs of the wild campsite parties we were expecting (despite being parked next to a bus with a pole dancing area in it!) we cut our losses, climbed into Spot made a sandwich and crashed out. It had been an exhausting day.

a sandwich

No Country (dancing) for Young Men

Driving in shifts to help cover the distance, we continued our long drive to Fort Worth, near Dallas.

Having returned to breathable altitudes after our Grand Canyon chapter, we decided we would replace a lack of air with an overload of petrol fumes in the form of the world’s second most popular spectator “sport”: NASCAR!

Not only were we going to see the most American creation since the Stars and Stripes, we were going to see THE race of the season: the Nascar 500 Sprint Cup (made famous by the film Talladega Nights) at the Texas Motor Speedway!! God Bless America!

We approached the Speedway, which, even two days before the main event was boasting a festival atmosphere of gargantuan proportions: There were team trailers, people camping, RVs bigger than houses and a lot of dudes wearing camouflage and hunting caps, which seemed strange at a race track. We purchased our tickets from a bemused Texan sales rep, who somehow could tell that we weren’t regulars to the race scene; she guaranteed us it was the best sport ever on the basis it was “loud”. We were satisfied.

Tickets held proudly in hand, we set off towards the nearest Walmart to get all the essential supplies for the race: A crate of beer.

Supplies gathered, we shot out of town with the intention of a blog update in a quiet bar and a good night’s sleep. We checked into yet another generic hotel in the form of America’s Best Value Inn. We checked out our room, which offered no increase in quality, and no reduction in price from a normal hotel. We suggested to the receptionist that they rename the place America’s Average Value Inn. The request fell on deaf ears, so we set off to find a bar to do some bloggage. We were wandering for a mere moment, when, over the horizon, a glorious deep flourescent glow  emerged from the horizon: Hooters. The blog would have to wait.

We marched in, and instantly unleashed a torrent of English banter with a host of new friends we made at the bar. The single goal of every guy at the bar was to simply marvel at god's finest creations (in hot pants), which resulted in an atmosphere closer to a Sunday Mass than a bar. 

perverts

We explained our travels which became the stuff of legend within minutes; most of our new drinking companions had never even crossed state lines, so a journey with mileage approaching 5 figures seemed like a revelation. Naturally, all the Hooters girls were blown away. With the bar on the verge of closing time, we were asked to sign some employee cleavage and have our pictures taken.

Pimps

We shifted down the road to a nearby late bar, where we met some truly awesome Texan girls! We never learnt their names, strangely, so we will refer to them as “the girls”. Naturally, being in Texas, it wasn’t long before we were discussing line-dancing. The girls promptly learnt we had never done it, and in a role reversal to the normal evenings, we were bundled into a car. Confused, but slightly excited, we found ourselves a few minutes later in a hardcore country line-dancing club. We had a splendid time, got really drunk and tried to dance (failed).

Advanced Moves

Adhesive beard tactic is a success

Somewhat hammered, we got a lift back to the hotel from the leader of the girls. We gave her a kiss on the cheek as way of goodbye, and stumbled back to our room where we realised that Tom had left his laptop bag in the girl's car. We sat, head in hands for some minutes, devastated by the loss of much photo and video data from the trip. With no idea what their names were and no way of making contact, we knew the future of the blog was buggered. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Tom tentatively pushed the door open, blotchy eyed and sniffling; There stood “the girl”, bag in hand! She had spent the previous 10 minutes with the receptionist describing our persons in order to locate our room!

We were gobsmacked, and touched. She disappeared into the night, content that we had our bag back. We reminisced on some of the friendliest company we had enjoyed since our arrival: Texas was proving to be the most hospitable state so far, which was quite an achievement considering the competition offered by such a warm, welcoming nation!

Invasion of Astro(Van)-Monster (1965)

A brief glance at the map the following day showed us that the town of Roswell lay (in)directly in our path to Dallas. Having been reared on the myths and legends of the Roswell alien crash site, this was too good an an opportunity to miss. We used the remainder of our tin foil to fashion anti-alien mind control helmets, plugged in the vector co-ordinates (GPS destination), locked in auxiliary power (mountain dew), and set off at light-speed (55 mph) down the highway.

On the way we came across an eerily deserted town. Naturally, we stopped and got some sick photos, speculating as to whether the town's inhabitants had been abducted en-masse. We hit the road again, conscious of getting to our destination by our planned 'E.T' (A) (1982). 

 With our eyes constantly scanning the skies for an inevitable 'U.F.O' (1970-71) sighting, we exited hyperspace in sector 4 and entered Roswell. The same generic strip malls we'd seen a million times greeted us, but this time the 'Signs' (2002) all featured an 'Alien' (1979) theme (including a flying saucer shaped McDonalds). The truth is that Roswell is just like any other small anonymous town in the US, but the world-renowned 1940's incident has sustained a faltering economy based around 'Little Green Men' (In production 2011). We set Spot down at a suitable landing location and set out on foot to boldly explore the town's (Space, the...) final frontier.

Being drawn in like a tractor beam, towards a big fluffy dog, we ended having 'Close Encounters' (1977) with a couple who were on  similar voyage to us - joined by companions of another 'Species' (1995) (their two huskies) they had embarked on a journey into the unknown (from Atlanta to New Mexico). Before they left to complete their (Star) Trek, they imparted on us the Yoda-like wisdom: "The journey is the destination". These were like-minded travelers.

After a stroll down the high street, marveling at the home-made alien themed window displays, we came across the epicentre of the town: The Roswell UFO Museum and "Research Center" (punctuation author's own).

We were welcomed by a member of staff who we suspected had been a victim of one too many alien abductions, and wandered past a Blue-Peter style papier-mache UFO crash site into the exhibition. The museum unfortunately summed up the sad state of the town; a 'Communion' (1989) of enthusiasts had assembled a sorry display of "evidence" from the alien crash incident (including bits of tin foil) which left two former eager alien believers (us) dismissing the idea outright. Tom was outraged that the graphic design of the museum had undermined such an exciting topic, but Mike calmed him, reassuring him that it was nothing Major, Tom. (pun) The gift shop however did give us the opportunity to top up our dwindling supply with some genuine alien incense. It smelled awful.

Mike attempts to explain to the CIA that its just Tom with a hangover.

Before this, Mike believed.

fine art

We cut our losses and headed out to the town's 'Outer Limits' (1995-2002) in search of accommodation. Unbeknownst to us, we were about to stumble across a real gem. With military precision, we launched into the well drilled routine of motel hunting, and our senses lead us like a 'Predator' (1987) to its prey to the local Motel 6. We were greeted by a blast of welcoming enthusiasm by the entire dark-uniformed staff behind the desk, who were visibly delighted by the presence of some outsiders. One of the 'Men in Black' (1997), Paul was so excited that he abandoned his reception post to give us a guided tour of his hog. Despite the late hour and OAP staying in the adjacent room, he fired up the retro Harley's behemoth engine and gunned the throttle, letting out a gut-busting roar of power. 

With 'First Contact' (1996) established, we attempted the same feat with Spot but the effect wasn't quite as impressive. We returned to our quarters reflecting on some of the friendliest beings we'd encountered along the way, and flicked on the TV for a rare moment of down time. Unbelievably the screen was instantly filled with a documentary on alien encounters - we nervously eyed the dark Roswell 'Skyline' (2010) through half-open window and drifted off into a disturbing dream filled sleep. 

Paul and Hog

We awoke the next morning having survived the night un-probed, and left the town on a 'Roswell High' (1999-2002).