Life is a drag at the strip, and the people love it

~ An OFF writer ventures into the Bootheel to connect with the people of the land at the Sikeston Drag Strip

In the farmland north of Sikeston on I-55, where what we think of as "Southeast Missouri" suddenly turns into the Bootheel and the residents start developing thick Southern drawls seemingly out of nowhere, excitement can be hard to come by. It's a simple land, populated by men and women content to live and work in peace and quiet.

But once a week, Southeast Missouri residents congregate here, just off the interstate, under the sign "WELCOME RACE FANS," amid the deafening roar of engines and the cheers of the crowd, and for one night, a few of these men and women race for money and glory. They race their own cars, or cars they've bought and souped up in their spare time. Their friends and family, fans and neighbors, come to watch and cheer. But most of them aren't cheering for anyone in particular; here at the Sikeston Drag Strip, it's all about having a good time, middle-America-style.

The drag strip has been here since 1969. For the past nine years, Ray Poirer and his small but dedicated crew (of about 12 people) have overseen the action from his tower above the race track, and today, like every other Saturday afternoon, he's preparing for a evening's worth of drag-racing excitement.

Before the sun goes down, before the first races begin, some of the fans have already begun loitering near the bleachers. Two guys in bushy white beards, sunglasses and bandanas sip beer, looking out at nothing in particular. Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Steve Miller Band, AC/DC and (curiously) the Talking Heads blast through the PA -- if you can hear it over the roar of the engines. In the gravel parking lot, racers tune up, practice running their engines at deafening full speed or just relax in trailers with their wives and families, enjoying the day.

The racers themselves are soft-spoken and humble, the kind of guys who would rather talk about the weather or the game last night than their previous accolades on the track. Racer Ron Simmons is the control room operator for Buzzi-Unicem, a Cape Girardeau cement plant, by day, but here he's turned his Chevy Monza into a lucrative project. A few years back, Simmons won the Super Pro Track Championship at the drag strip, but he can't remember what year it was. He's just happy to have found a pastime with a profit.

"It's a hobby that can pay you back," he says as he readies his car for tonight's competition. "I don't know too many golfers who get paid in their off-time."

Mark Murakami is another racer with a full-time day job. He owns Murakami Auto Service in Cape Girardeau. Murakami, last year's Track Champion, has been surrounded by cars his entire life.

"My dad used to race," he says. "And when I was a kid, when I started driving, I would be street racing out late at night somewhere. And he came to me and said, 'If you really want to race, just go on the track. I won't have a problem with it.'"

Another generation of racers are already being prepped for the spotlight. Gabby "Grass Man" Castro, who runs a sod farm in Sikeston, is here to root for his 12-year-old son Brett, who drives a miniature dragster powered by a juiced-up lawnmower engine and emblazoned with the words "Little Grass Man." Brett is competing in the Junior Dragster Division, a special category that gives kids a chance to race, and he's been at it since he was ten.

The fans tend to be a close-knit group. There's a kind of "one for all" atmosphere of community in the parking lot and on the bleachers.

Sikeston resident Emmett W.T. Bool isn't only a fan -- he's also the official vendor for the drag strip. Along with his wife Melody, he sets up camp, like the racers, in a little trailer in the parking lot, and sells shirts, decals and earplugs -- especially earplugs -- from a table out front.

"We do really big business in earplugs," he says, raising his voice as a dragster shaped like a fighter jet booms past.

Emmett and Melody have been coming here for twenty years.

"I love it, I love it, I love it," says Melody. "Love the people. Fantastic."

"We're all just one big family," says Emmett. "Everyone's as friendly as can be."

The time trials start at 5 p.m. The vehicles aren't the stock cars of NASCAR -- many of them are just everyday cars, not much flashier than what the average college student drives -- real college students, not the rich kids. Sometimes they're pickup trucks, and old, rusty pickups at that. They're driven by kids in cut-off T-shirts and backwards baseball caps, or unassuming middle-aged men, balding, wearing glasses. But still, they make noises like jet engines and clear 1/8 of a mile in seven or eight seconds.

The Sikeston Drag Strip specializes in bracket racing -- meaning that, while racers may drive vastly different types of cars, start times are adjusted to give each competitor an equal chance at winning. It's a place where a $2,000 car can race -- and maybe win -- against a $60,000 car; the track is specifically designed so that no one has an unfair advantage. It contributes to the sense that everything here has been designed for, and by, the common man.

Meanwhile, in the tower, Poirer and his crew look out over the track as the sun sets and the races commence. "I can't believe it's been nine years," he says.

"You been here nine years already?" chuckles announcer Roger Smith. Peering outside the window overlooking the track, he adds, "This is my twentieth season." Like most of the regular staff, Smith has a full-time, blue-collar job: he's the waste water manager for the city of Bernie. "This is just my Harley payment," he laughs.

But Smith's payment plan has become a multi-generational affair. His son Jared, a Southeast student known to many as "Smitty" and the guitarist for the Cape Girardeau band Minds Above, has helped make much of the Sikeston Drag Strip a computerized affair. The two Smiths work side-by-side in the tower, Roger calling the action, Jared pushing buttons and typing numbers.

The sense you get from all this is that the drag strip is more than just a hobby; it's a way of life, passed down from generation to generation, a tradition that will still be going strong when the children of today's racers bring their own children out to show them the ropes amid the blaring of classic rock and the roar of the engines.