I always assumed Steve Miller was paying tribute to drag racing when he admonished us to “Stand Back, Stand Back” over five decades ago. The song begins with an overdub of drag-strip sounds, and ends with the announcer calling the race’s finish—in between Miller sings about freedom, tells his girlfriend that “We’re gonna make it, baby", and longs for a cheeseburger. And many of Miller’s other songs feature references to speed, cars, and rockets.

Given Miller’s biography, that reading of the lyrics makes sense. He was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin; attended the University of Wisconsin in the early ‘60s; and moved from Madison to Chicago in 1965. Given that geographic triangle, Miller may well have spent time at the Great Lakes Dragaway in Union Grove, Wisconsin, where I spent eight glorious hours today totally in the flow.

Ah, but Miller was living in San Francisco when Living in the U.S.A. was written, meaning psychedelia and the Vietnam War were on his mind. Miller has since revealed that he wrote the song with the hope of playing it at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, where later what the National Commission on the Causes and Prevention of Violence described as a “police riot” erupted in front of the Hilton Hotel on South Michigan Avenue across from Grant Park. The white gas wafting in the air was tear gas, as opposed to the billows of white smoke that arose today from the “water boxes” during the pre-race burnout that begins each new two-to-three-minute cycle as cars, motorcycles, and snowmobiles jerk into position. Listen closely to the lyrics: The song is highly political, with the drag race sounds and the reference to cheeseburgers serving as a comment on the sprawling consumerism and pop culture that served as a counterpoint to aerial carpet bombing north of the DMZ at the 17th Parallel.

Looking at the racers today, I suspect more than a few caught the racing bug sometime between the release of Miller’s Sailor (1968) and Fly Like an Eagle (1976). Many showed the telltale signs that come with age: weathered skin that comes from years in the hot summer sun; thinning silvery white hair (if they sported hair at all); and the heft that overtakes sinewy teenage bodies. What some lacked on top they made up for with “ZZ Top” beards.

Whether these car jocks supported or opposed the Vietnam War is anybody’s guess. Today the afternoon time trials began with the singing of the National Anthem, an American Flag flying above the start line, and everyone in the stands rising with hats in hand. No “taking a knee” on the asphalt. The track announcer replaced his often humorous and always informative patter with a reverent paean to America, “The Greatest Country in the World.”

What a contrast today from my experience a week ago at the same track. Rather than overcast skies with a mid-afternoon downpour, deep-blue skies broken up by cumulous clouds hung above Ceres’ blanket of green stalks protecting ripening sweet corn. No humidity in the air, but Apollo’s rays provided enveloping warmth.

Change makes weather superficial — rain can close the track one day, and Autumn’s increasing chilly darkness brings the race season to an end — but the never-ending cycle will bring another day next week and another season next June. The divide between last week and this week was money. While the cars I saw race last Saturday obviously cost some coin to spec out and maintain, the cars I saw this week were in an entirely different class. The paint jobs, crew sizes, and modes of transport screamed money-pit. Many of the cars arrived in enclosures that resembled semi-trucks. I asked one racer’s wife whether trailer was rented. “Nope, we own it,” was her response. She then volunteered unbegrudingly that this is “a really expensive hobby,” repeating that sentiment twice more.

While walking around the lot where the trailers and cars were parked, I kept an eye out for the dozens of golf carts tooling around—sometimes pulling or guiding a car, and other times carrying the driver’s family between the start and finish lines. Clearly their kids had already caught the bug—more than a few of those carts’ drivers appeared learning-permit eligible. I asked one driver whether the track supplies the carts. Nope, each crew brings its own cart, which explains the length of the some of the trailers. Some of those trailers also contained red tool chests that held a variety of drills, wrenches, and lubricants for on-the-spot repairs and adjustments.

The colors popped—deep blues that transitioned into the color of royalty, candy-apple greens, egg-yolk yellows, and toenail reds. Several cars had rusted matte surfaces that affected a patina, be it maroon, copper-green, or tiara gray. Undoubtedly those aged coverings were achieved with skilled craftsmanship rather through the happenstance passage of time.

The Chicago Wiseguys were the featured attraction today. They drive the nitro-fueled cars, reaching speeds exceeding 200 mile-per-hour on the quarter-mile straight-away. The club’s website indicates that some drivers are supported by three- and four-person crews. Even if these are friends of the drivers or family members, they must be fed. Add up all the cars, trailers, carts, tools, storage costs, and labor: Yes, this is a expensive hobby. Today’s entrance fee for drivers was $75 rather than the usual $40. Apparently the fee applied even for $300 season-pass holders. One driver who showed up refrained from racing today because he refused to pay the $75 on principle.

If I were concoct a possible narrative: I might write that this week I saw the folks who own the dealerships and repair shops, whereas last week’s drivers work in those same establishments. During one exchange over the PA system, the track announcer pointed out that one of the drivers owns two or three car dealerships, or to paraphrase, “Why not buy your car from the guy who knows how to drive a car?” On the other hand, the announcer bantered, in discussing the snowmobiles coming to the start line, “If you are going to make payments on it for 12 months of the year, you might as well drive it for 12 months of the year.” And he identified another driver as a bricklayer. So who knows whether the stereotype is true.

If there’s a division delineated by wealth, I can assure you that both last week’s and this one’s drivers have more in common than differences. First, and foremost, they love cars and other vehicles. Second, every driver undoubtedly spends hundreds of hours a year preparing to excel on the track. Third, their families are ever present. Kids and significant others are everywhere—manning the grills; climbing on, through, and over portable playhouses off to the side on the grass; and riding in the car with dad as it is towed from the finish line back to the parking lot.

When one participant saw my cameras and asked for advice about getting into photography, our exchange reminded me that people with passions have much in common. I told him that he could go crazy buying cameras like mine, but that for a beginner it was unnecessary. “Skip the Sonys, the menu system will drive you crazy until you know what you are doing. Stick with an entry-level Canon or Fuji.” I could have spent an hour talking his ear off about photography, but he presumably had car stuff to do: maybe repairing one, driving it, or talking with other enthusiasts about the pros and cons of different engine blocks. In one sense, he already is a photographer, and I am already a gasser. Passions are interchangeable. People find different outlets for testing their limits, exploring the world, and making lifelong friends, but no matter the activity, they go all in.

Speaking of photography, I obtained media credentials for the second-half of the day. Those entitled me to stand down-track from the start line. Just before I arrived, as a car rocketed past the “Christmas tree” countdown lights, something caused the car’s left-rear wheel to shear off. The track announcer complimented the driver on his skill in maintaining control over the disabled vehicle. Nobody was hurt. As I looked at the car and assessed where the photographers stood, I realized why the track had me sign a liability waiver. For the first time in my career, I was nervous. There would not be time to duck if a tire or other projectile came flew over the cement barrier separating me from the track. Ah, but the opportunity was just too tempting. What was even more worrisome was the decibel level. My earplugs worked fine for the cars that topped out at somewhere around 100 miles per hour, but were pretty much worthless when the 200 mile-per-hour cars went by. I retreated after three of those races, but returned several times more for the slower cars — let’s face it, it’s hard to tell from a still image how fast a car is moving.

I had thought the nighttime might produce some interesting images, but then I noticed that no photographers were in position once the night’s blackness overtook Golden Hour. Like a jazz club, the track had lights, but they were insufficient for photography, at least to mind. It is one thing to photograph a stationary sax player at 1/200th of a second, but you need stop down an additional four stops to freeze a car barreling down a track. It wasn’t going to happen, so I called it a day. It didn’t matter: I was happily tired, and I knew I had captured some decent images while exploring a culture that was both foreign and familiar.

The track announcer was the unsung hero of the day. He did at least 10 hours of shtick. Periodically, he reminded us that popcorn and cheeseburgers were for sale. At times, we heard tales of misfortune: In one, a driver lost an engine last week, replaced it, and ran into a different problem today. We also heard about a $500 bet—one driver challenged another, apparently to settle some old grudge. And we learned about the driver who found a classic car at a used car lot; apparently the dealer didn’t realize how the car could be converted from junker to a sleek racing machine.

I sensed that the drivers knew each other well, and that the day’s lineup was somewhat impromptu. The announcer was both surprised and pleased that Richard Hutchins, who is a legendary exhibition wheelstander driver, was in the house. I was impressed, but the announcer let on that the 83-year old Hutchins would not be happy with the performance he turned in. Of course, the announcer also peppered the conversation with jokes and humor.

If you have never been to a drag race, give Great Lakes a try on a hot summer day. The races and the surrounding activity are entertaining. People are friendly and welcoming. Everyone I spoke with was happy to answer questions. Nobody said, “Stop photographing my car.” Most seemed happy to accommodate my efforts.

Bring earplugs.

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