Loving the smell of NASCAR in Las Vegas

One of the best things about writing a column for Page One on race day at Las Vegas Motor Speedway is that you can go outside to watch it all unfold.

I felt like a bigger Lucky Dog than Dale Earnhardt Jr.

This was a rare hall pass to leave the sterile environment of the media center in my rearview mirror and smell some exhaust fumes, for a change, instead of what the NASCAR press corps had for lunch.

Would I take advantage? Hoo-boy, would I. These cats from Raleigh and Winston-Salem, as the great Richard Petty might refer to them, really like their onions.

But it's not much fun watching a race by yourself, unless you happen to be the guy leading it.

There were more than 140,000 exhaust-smellers on the premises Sunday at the Kobalt Tools 400, turning Las Vegas Motor Speedway into Nevada's fifth-largest city. There were plenty of drafting partners from which to choose.

Or so I thought.

■ 9:15 a.m.: I arrive at the track via the tried-and-true Nellis/Las Vegas Boulevard route without so much as tapping the brakes, and the first person I run into -- almost literally -- is Mr. Boogity, Boogity, Boogity himself.

Racer-turned-broadcaster Darrell Waltrip is riding in a golf cart and either A) doesn't see me or B) has inherited Roger Miller's title as "King of the Road" and believes he owns it.

I tap the brakes for the first time and think, what the heck, I'll just ask ol' D.W. if I can watch the race with him.

But because I am a man of means by no means -- and because he's King of the Road -- he just keeps right on going.

■ 9:28 a.m.: Las Vegas Motor Speedway president Chris Powell is smiling like the guy who sells Danica Patrick T-shirts after he is commended for the brisk morning commute and for using the word "prescient" in a news conference on Friday. One can tell Powell was a sports writer in a previous life, using words like that.

But in his current life, he is wearing a tailored sports jacket. There is a rule that prohibits one from watching a NASCAR race with a guy wearing a tailored jacket.

■ 10:04 a.m.: People are lining up in Neon Garage to have their pictures taken with waxen facsimiles of the late Dale Earnhardt and some country singer who might be the son of former relief pitcher Tug McGraw, but don't hold me to it.

The curator from Madame Tussauds tells one fan to take it easy with the fingernails, because these waxen likenesses "cost $300,000 apiece."

Can't watch the race with him, either. Too wooden.

■ 10:18 a.m.: There's a woman wearing too-tight jeans and a too-tight top that -- how do I say this? -- accentuates her sidepods (although I think that's mostly an Indy car term). And she's standing under a sign that says "World's Largest Trophy."

Alas, the large trophy turns out to be a 2011 Dodge Challenger with all the options that is presented to Brad Keselowski for driving like a bat out of hell or something during last year's racing season.

I'm thinking Keselowski and I could be cousins. But I won't be watching the race with him, because there's no passenger seat in the No. 2 Miller Lite Dodge.

■ 10:29 a.m.: Why is it that every time I cross the track via the underground tunnel I think of that Bee Gees' song "New York Mining Disaster 1941"?

Have you seen my wife, Mr. Jones? I have. She's climbing the 121 steps from the bottom of the mine shaft to the concourse where it smells like a giant turkey leg.

I know exactly how many stairs there are, because on Friday when the escalator was broken, I counted each and every one walking up while this beefy guy stubbornly refused to budge until the wrenches arrived. 

If only I could find Mr. Jones' wife among all these people, I'd consider watching the race with her.

■ 10:38 a.m.: A bunch of kids beating on barstools and a plastic Clark County School District refuse can with drumsticks have attracted a huge crowd on the midway under the stands in the frontstretch.

Boom boom boomity boom boom. Boom boom boomity boom boom. Boom boom boomity boom boom.

I briefly think about asking the Rancho High drumline if it wants to watch the race in the company of a concert cowbellist.

But then I figure the incessant drumming, combined with the incessant roar of the engines, would simply be too much incessance for someone who has never raised children.

■ 10:44 a.m.: A woman who could have been the sister of Trophy Girl in Neon Garage is standing alone, proud of her too-tight T-shirt that says "Genuine Chevrolet Parts" and, apparently, even more proud of what is under the hood. 

If I wasn't married and didn't drive a Ford, perhaps I might have watched the race with her.

■ 11:18 a.m.: This has nothing to do with finding a drafting partner. But I am getting hungry. As I stroll down the "101 Fried Foods That Will Kill You in a Heartbeat Midway," my first thought is this is what it must feel like to be Charlie Sheen at the Playboy Grotto.

■ 11:41 a.m.: A guy wearing a Jeff Gordon racing jacket and another guy are climbing out the back seat of a Metro police car. Uh-oh. It appears they are being detained before they are released. Then I noticed they are smiling.

"Only in Las Vegas," the guy in the Jeff Gordon jacket calls out to a quizzical crowd as he and his pal load up their can cozies.

They don't let on, but they are cops, too.

The possibility of a police escort back to the media center seems enticing, but I won't be watching the race with these two. Reason: They may be nice cops, but they are much too devious.

■ 12:01 p.m.: It is almost time for the gentlemen and Tony Stewart to start their engines, and I am running out of options.

The Richard Petty and Dale Earnhardt Terraces are scratched for being too terrace-y and too mustache-y; the suites for being too pretentious, the main grandstand for being too full.

An usher or a guy from Kentucky suggests I try the grandstand in Section 4X. So I high-tail it for the Jenna Jameson seats.

■ 12:13 p.m.: Section 4X, Row 49, Seat 25 is the last seat in the house at Las Vegas Motor Speedway. The view from there is stupendous; if one turns and faces north, he can almost see Jimmer Fredette shooting baskets on the Brigham Young University campus.

Seat 25 in Row 49 in the Jenna Jameson section is vacant. Hah! Let the Speedway announce a sellout. I know better.

A guy who has an Elvis/Johnny Cash thing going on and his girlfriend, who has a Madonna thing going on, are occupying seats 22 and 23 in Row 48.

Joe Spray of LeGrande, Ore., came to Las Vegas to impersonate Elvis Presley and sing in a Johnny Cash tribute band, which he does.

Lauren Egan, a Floridian, came to Las Vegas to be a showgirl, which she was, sort of, at the Ra nightclub at New York-New York. Now she deals blackjack in the Party Pit at Binion's in downtown Las Vegas.

There are matches made in heaven, but I like matches made on Fremont Street better.

The highlight of my day is watching the start of the race with these two. They seem to be totally in love: With Las Vegas, with life, with each other.

They stand at the drop of the green flag and hug; when Robby Gordon spun in Turn 4 and brought out the first yellow flag, they are still standing and hugging. That's how I leave them.

Of all the images that have raced through my consciousness and out again since nearly running over Darrell Waltrip on his golf cart at 9:15 a.m., this is the one I will remember most.

Not even encountering my first 275-pound shirtless guy of the day on my way back to the media center could spoil it.

Las Vegas Review-Journal sports columnist Ron Kantowski can be reached at rkantowski@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0352. Follow him on Twitter: @ronkantowski.