Day of Thunder

Day 24

About four evenings ago, the Pirate and I were casually hanging out in our camp when he stiffened, sat bolt upright and titled his head the way a dog will when it hears something. He sat very still, his eyes bright and focused, sniffing the air just slightly, and finally said “You hear that? That's a race track! We gotta find it!”

Yesterday, we found it. It's the Oyster Bed Speedway, and last night they had a race. We got there an hour late (had we known we could get hotdogs and fries there we would have never cooked dinner), but we still managed to get a good seat and catch some of the rounds of only 15 laps before the big 50 laps and 100 laps races. The races tonight are Street Stock, Outlaws and Enduros. It is thrilling.

The track is surrounded by bleachers, a huge fence, concession stand, and restrooms (“washrooms” in Canada). To me, it felt fondly reminiscent of a high school football game. There are families with little kids, high school couples stealing kisses, tribes of children who rule beneath the bleachers like trolls, groups of middle aged men in camouflage, high school aged boys acting tough, motorcycle couples in leather, gaggles of teenage girls giggling and trying for attention from the boys, and etc. If you didn't know where you were, and didn't hear anyone's accent, you'd think you were in the south. Speaking of accents, this was the place to be to get a big hit of the island lilt. It's almost Irish the way it goes up and down like a song. You should hear it when the speedway announcer does it.

We've had a lot focus on the local food of this place, but not of the local folk. They are not foodies, they do not sea kayak, they could give a shit about Anne-of-Green-Gables. Some of these islanders are Acadien, descended from people who survived by eating these prized PEI mussels because there was nothing else. Others are descended from the folks who would push a boat over the many miles of ice from the island to the “mainland” in the winter for supplies. These are people who may have had great grand parents who knew this bit of land as a country and not a province; maybe loosing that independence is still in their cells. These are people who you would never meet of you let a guide book dictate your PEI experience. I admit that was a bit if a rant.

After about an hour of watching the races, the sun went down. The very second this happened, the entire crowd of spectators pulled out their hoodies, jackets, polyester comforters and kitten imprinted blankets. But not us. We're southern, we still think that when the sun goes down is when it gets comfortable. So we sit there with goosebumps until I decide to fetch our leather off the Girl. While I'm walking toward her, I can see the tall, bright lights of the racetrack. These lights make obvious that we are sitting in a straight up dust cloud; a constant tornado of red dust that rises at least 40 feet in the air.

This is my fist race. People warned me that I would need earplugs. “Ppshhh” I say, this is nothing compared to being on the Girl at top speed. Nothing. Anyway, the race is really fun. The cars looks wrecked up and tough before the race even starts. We choose our favorite car, and root for it. There are wrecks, and grudges and triumphs, and drivers who's cars die before the green flag is even waved. Most of the drivers are local, though some are from Nova Scotia.

At the end of the night, we hook up the Girl's headlight and ride the few miles “home”. We are covered in red dust. I can hardly get through our chapter of Snow Falling on Cedars without coughing. It's OK, we fall asleep instead to a chorus of coyotes hunting in the neighbor's potato field.