You come home, crack a Bud -- it might be your third or forth...or more -- and start up a fire. Your face, at least the left side, is caked in dust. Every time you breathe it smells like mud, and racing fuel. Your arteries are thanking you for that cheeseburger and fries. You're a veteran of hovering in the ladies' room. The adrenaline is still rushing through your veins and there's a constant ringing in your ears, as you hold on to those fading memories of engines vying for victory. Nothing can make you feel alive like those bold numbers flying through the dirt on the weekend. Hometown boys sure know how to put on a show, so let's go racing.