And Yet... by Christopher Hitchens Page B

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    Anyway, by the time you hit Richmond the argument is over, and the South has begun. Here was the capital of the Confederacy, and its sylvan streets and squares, enclosing Monument Avenue and the massive statues of Lee and Davis and Jackson, are as firmly genteel and traditional as the heart could wish. (The recent addition of a silly statue of Arthur Ashe, waving a tennis racket while the others flourish their swords and banners and cannons, is exactly the sort of gesture that has allowed Southern courtesy to survive.) I have come here to bypass the chivalry and head straight to the NASCAR event. All right—NASCAR has its chivalry, too. Its heroes are known as “gladiators with radiators.”
    You often notice, in the South, that people don’t at all mind if they live up to their own clichés and stereotypes. In the environs of the Richmond International Raceway, stretching to the horizon, are great tracts of pickups and trailers, fuming with barbecue and hot dogs and surmounted by flags. Old Glory predominates, but quite often the Stars and Bars is flown as well (though always underneath) or separately. I got close-up to one freestanding Confederate flag, to find that it had the face of Hank Williams Jr. on it, and the refrain of his song “If the South Woulda Won (We’d a Had It Made).” I liked the tone of self-parody. The black flag of the POW/MIA movement is frequent. The tailgates groan with huge coolers, and groan even more when proud, gigantic rear ends are added. People wear shorts who shouldn’t even wear jeans. Tattoos—often belligerent—are not uncommon. T-shirts featuring the late Dale Earnhardt, the Galahad of NASCAR chivalry, who went into a wall at 160 mph in 2001, are everywhere. Should you desire to remove the right to bear arms from these people, you might well have to pry away a number of cold, dead, chubby fingers. Bailey’s cigarettes (“Smooth Start! Smokin’ Finish!”) are advertised and endorsed by NASCAR celebrities. The whole NASCAR tradition actually began with the drivers of souped-up cars who raced on dirt roads through the night, outrunning the authorities in the scramble to bring moonshine liquor to all who desired it. The showstopping sideshow at this event is provided by one Doug Bradley, who has converted a gas-powered lawn trimmer into a blender that can generate fifty frozen margaritas per tank at something close to warp speed. Agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms—the only Washington job I ever wanted—must find NASCAR weekends their busiest time.
    Indulgence ceases for a moment as the drivers finish their lap of recognition and the loudspeakers call for prayer. Baseball caps come off. Then all hands smite the breastbone as “The Star-Spangled Banner” is sung, and at the wavering climactic high note there comes a heart-thudding wham as four F-16 jets, in diamond formation, streak low over the racetrack and, to thunderous applause, head back toSandston. The air force had a recruiting stand to justify this huge expense, and the army, navy, National Guard, Coast Guard, and Marine Corps each had a driver and a car in the weekend’s races, competing with Twizzlers, M&M’s, Advil, Home Depot, and Viagra. A beer stand just off the track advertised itself as being run by volunteers from the Marine Corps Weapons Training Battalion at Quantico (“Just raising funds for our annual ball,” the smart young man in charge told me).
    You could certainly get the impression, from hanging out here, that god was a Republican, with a good chance of being white. The GOP has been registering voters at NASCAR events since February 2004—there were 180,000 people at this event alone—and Senator George Allen, the former governor of the state who has been making both godly and presidential noises, took care to be present. But so did the current governor, Mark Warner, who is