As Daytona's front stretch gets more dangerous, the fans just keep coming back.
My nomination for the bravest motor racing fans has officially changed. For years it belonged to the grappa-fueled he-men who couldn't help but turn WRC stages into their own mechanical Pamplona—a rite of passage where standing in the middle of the road and dodging rally cars was seen as the ultimate life-risking rush.
That baton of insanity has been passed, and now belongs to those who willingly sit along the lower seating options on the front straight at Daytona International Speedway. As Sunday night's Coke Zero 400 proved yet again, Daytona offers the best chance—and greatest risk—of having a 3500-pound stock car hurled into the grandstands. And amazingly enough, folks actually pay for the privilege to sit in the blast zone. Everything from body panels to suspension components to an actual engine have breached the barrier, but the barrage of flying objects has yet to drive fans away from NASCAR's ultimate game of chicken.
It's the closest thing in sports to sitting next to the fence at Jurassic Park and waiting for something big, fast, and heavy to come charging through, but there's no CGI involved here. It's real, and frightening, and carries significant odds that more than a few spectators will be treated for injuries after a race on February's Daytona 500 schedule or July's Your Name Here 400.
And that's where Daytona differs from almost every other track where professional auto races are held.
The Indy 500 always features a few wrecks, and open-wheel cars have gotten into the fences more often than they should, but you can't pinpoint a specific corner or seating section where those crashes take place. IMS lacks Daytona's "these people must have a death wish" section, and the same is true for the other superspeedways where heavy crashes take place. If you're a thrill seeker, Daytona holds the key to a type of danger other tracks simply cannot offer.
Thanks to a significant rain delay, Austin Dillon's crash happened when most people were asleep—almost 3 a.m. on the East Coast, and by chance, I happened to catch it live before turning in for the night in California. While NBC's commentators were fixed on Dillon's condition in the moments following the pileup, the footage of the tattered fencing and bent poles was far more alarming to behold. The sheer violence of Dillon's crash was told by the fencing, and with a massive gaping hole ripped open, fears immediately turned to the spectators.
Unlike the Nationwide series crash in 2013 at the same general seating section--where more than two dozen fans required medical attention, only five were tended to Monday morning, and all but one were sent home afterward. The lone fan dispatched to the hospital was discharged by 5 a.m. Despite what the shocking visuals suggested, everyone survived.
A giant, fiery crash closed the event on the final lap—all while the cars crossed the finish line, the steel cables and poles held Dillon and the vast majority of his car inside the track, and everyone involved on both sides of the fence went home with nothing more than bumps and scrapes.
Knowing there's buy-in from the fans in Daytona's Death Wish section, and those who put on the stock car races, I have no issue with the gladiatorial aspect that's developed at NASCAR's most hallowed coliseum. DIS continues to strengthen its fences, drivers continue to race like those fences are impervious, and fans flock to the stock-car-in-my-lap seats.
The situation speaks to an expected outcome and the managed risks that fans, the series, and track officials accept. There's no point in sending scathing e-mails to DIS or NASCAR about making changes to the cars or the track to prevent it happening next year; big crashes at Daytona have become an expected part of the show, and in that regard, the Coke Zero 400 more than delivered for the bravest fans in motor racing.
Source: Road and Track
