Nothing says love like “Gentlemen, start your engines!”
We can practically read the Hallmark cards now: “You rev my engine harder than Dale Earnhardt Jr. Happy Valentine’s Day, honey. Now hold my beer!”
Call us strange or even outdated. But we at the Editorial Board enjoyed our boxes of chocolates and flowers our significant others showered us with on Valentine’s Day.
We’re sentimental. We’re sappy. And, most importantly, we’re normal. Some of us ruined special breakfasts we planned for our sweethearts. Some of us spent the day with family. But none of us took our honeys to the NASCAR event of the season to watch a 500-mile race in a certain sandy town to the south called Daytona Beach.
And we can’t seem to understand how others did.
Don’t get us wrong, some of us are very in tune with our Southern roots. One of us spent part of Valentine’s Day at the Bass Pro Shop in Orlando. (We’re judging, too.)
But for the most part, we can’t seem to understand the concept of spending the holiday of love watching a set of cars take 200 laps around one big circle with thousands of other NASCAR-jacket and camoflauge-hat wearing, die-hard fans hoping for a fiery crash over a photo finish.
And does anyone else think that whole pothole thing delaying the Great American Race is just a little bit funny?
We usually aren’t particularly fond of potholes, but this one was like a special delivery from Cupid himself — a Valentine’s Day gift for all.
