A NASCAR Nighthawk

Philosophy at Martinsville

Vol. 146, April 1st, 2025 Published a day early online

The Speed and the Fury

I noticed the smoke. First, the blue that blackened the underside of the bleachers, perfuming the dim air with the delicate scent of racetrack hotdogs. At the end of the night, vaporized tires billowed over the fence, the smell of victory. And all throughout, a magical aroma of racing fuel and warm rubber rose to greet my beaming face.

I’d never seen NASCAR in person. It was philosophy in motion. Five years after COVID, I still say “be safe.” On the surface, it makes sense, and is well-meaning. But what’s the cost of that way of thinking? Is there another way? Apparently so.

38 chariots growled behind the rule keeping pace car, the “track schoolmarm”, who finally yielded. The green flag sliced the breeze at Martinsville, and 38 engines shrieked–a transfusion of courage to all watching. 38 cars hurtled down the short track in pure insanity. (Picture driving 90 mph three wide through a Wal-Mart parking lot on Black Friday. They wrecked plenty, but nobody got hurt.)

I loved it. I exist plenty, but it made me want to live. The race ended, and the night closed in. The air, still smoky, hummed with a feeling: summer ‘25 is around the corner.

Can’t you smell it?

A special thanks to Dennis K., who’s generous gift of the tickets is appreciated for both the entertainment value of a great spring evening, and the wider philosophical ripples of mashing the accelerator when that green flag drops.

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

Foundered (overdoing eating): “I am plumb foundered from 3 helpings of beans and cornbread!”

Green Flag at Martinsville

The cars roar under the green on the short track in the NASCAR Xfinity series, while an exuberant fan sends ‘em on their way. Austin Hill won in a chaotic finish.

Fair Warning

April Fool’s Day is upon us! Watch out for those outlandish statements. Don’t forget to try a prank.

Quote of the Week

Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.”

–Heber

Write to Us!

The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or Joshurban@protonmail.com

Movie of the Week

Blink of an Eye (2019) The true story of friends, speed, Dale Earnhardt’s last race, Michael Waltrip’s saga, and life in the Fast lane.

Letters from Josh

(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #227)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Spring Chicken

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! 400 miles flew by yesterday, with open countryside, and the deepening shade of early springtime. Then came the bridges and big rivers, the choking traffic, and finally, winding down a dark mountain pass. It was all worth it. I got to do the Chicken Dance.

For years, I’ve tried the part of the Serious Artist. For years, the crowd has pointed out the obvious. Silly is good. There was a time when I lived and died by my guitar sound. Oh, I’d study and practice and chase elusive tones. Then one day a guitar student said “Hey man, you should play that heavy metal version of ‘Three Little Pigs’”.

So I did. People’s eyes would bug out, then they’d laugh (especially when I’d hit the high-pitched “not by the hair of my chinny chin chin”). A third grade music class revolted to the soundtrack. Apologies to my real teacher friend. The same told me one of her students, having learned the song from me, brought it to church one quiet Sunday.

“Josh, this little girl started beating the back of my pew in a fit of boredom, singing ‘LITTLE PIG, LITTLE PIG, LET ME IN.’”. Talk about a career highlight, leaving a positive mark on the world, etc. (Check out Green Jelly singing it on YouTube.)

But that was then, back in simpler times. Now things are tricky. I’ve almost forgotten the words. I feel we’ve got bright days ahead–if we’re careful. It’ll take focus and work, and we might forget our sense of humor along the way.

Linda Smith, a friend and colleague of mine, wrote that she’s working on bringing the laughter back. I’m in. Enter Mom’s chickens. Have you noticed their knees go the “wrong” way? When a hen snags a grub, she takes off, and the rest chase, kicking up those backwards legs in the most absurd way. I watched, and learned. They hatched a new idea in the ol’ brain, a merging of art and comedy.

Now there’s a new song in my DJ set. Oh sure, I bring a crate of serious tunes, a curated collection of Elvis, Sinatra, Merle Haggard’s early work, and a killer Dolly Parton cover of “Great Balls of Fire.” But there’s something else.

“Note my funky socks” I told the senior audience yesterday. “They say ‘Funky Socks’ on them.” The little ladies peered over their glasses. I danced to James Brown. They laughed. “Now here’s one for all of us to get down to.”

The sounds of that stupid Chicken Dance filled the room. We all did the beak motion, the flapping arms, the laying of the egg. Then, in the interlude, my studies came to life. I put hands behind my back for tail-feathers, running around the room like a chicken. Sure, my knees go the right way, but the effect was close. A jerk of the head, peering up with a fierce eye, and another dart at an unsuspecting bystander. A great artist must study his subject, and then bring it to life for the masses. The executive director picked that exact moment to stop by.

“Hey, you need a chicken hat.”

I see why she’s the boss. That’s brilliant. I just ordered one. So, as the forsythia blooms like a preview of the July sun and we move forward into a new season, let’s take Linda’s advice. Let’s bring the laughter back. Are you in?

–Josh