Tucked in a pocket of country darkness, a speedway punches the night with bright lights and booming engines. From fists and booze to fumes and orange tinted air, there’s a buzz between the pit and the fence along the track. Generations of friends and families huddle around the hoods of race cars that look more like junk yard jalopies. I love the random moments when people appear alone, somehow quiet amidst the noise. From the rush of winning to the dismay of getting dropped, the isolated glow of this dusty bowl revolves around racing like a distant swirl in space.