Ralph was complaining that Walt Pickard's method of trash removal was environmentally unfriendly. Using big, metal 55-gallon drums as trash cans in front of the grandstands, Walt would simply pour gas on the collection of beer cans, popcorn boxes and other debris following the races at Beacon Hill Speedway and toss in a cigarette. All that smoke, Ralph muttered, the air quality we're leaving for our children….
"See that guy over there," I said, pointing to the burly man supervising some kids who were sweeping up the trash in the grandstands. "He hangs iron for a living when he's not running a race track. He could snap both of our necks like pencils simultaneously. Do you want to go over there and start lecturing him about EPA standards?"
I had known this was a mistake. In 2000, I had agreed to hook Nader up with my buddies with the carnival so he had a means of transportation around the country to campaign on the cheap. Now, four years later, I was standing on a deserted stock car track about to get beat to death because he was squeamish about burning trash. When I was growing up, I told him, every house had an ash pit in the backyard.
Maybe I was feeling a little defensive. George Bush had beaten us to the punch, showing up at the Daytona 500 to court "the NASCAR dads." All that left was the Saturday night short track circuit. Still, wasn't it him who was always yammering about grassroots politics?
"Today…I join with all Americans who wish to declare their independence from corporate rule and its expanding domination." Nader had wandered off and was talking to some kid who was trying to scrape a Dale Earnhardt Jr.



