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Unformatted text preview: oval structure, shiny and brand-new. For an instant, I couldn’t figure out what it was. It looked
like a structure created by some alien civilization and plopped in the middle of nowhere. “Stock car racing,” Hank said matter-of-factly. The
grandstands around the track were enormous, and so was the parking lot. Acres of black asphalt and white lines now spread across the
prairie, thousands of empty spaces waiting for cars.
The speedway was new, and races were being held there every weekend in the summer. You could hear the engines and the crowd from
Hank’s house. The races weren’t the main problem, though. It was the practice runs that bothered Hank and Susan most. In the middle of the
day, in one of America’s most beautiful landscapes, they would suddenly hear the drone of stock cars going round and round. For a moment,
we sat quietly on top of the hill, staring at the speedway bathed in twilight, at this oval strip of pavement, this unsettling omen. Hank
stopped there long enough for me to ponder what it meant, the threat now coming his way, then drove back down the hill. The speedway
was gone a...
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- Spring '08