It’s Sunday and you’re taking a leisurely drive down Highway 121 south from the city of Sonoma toward San Francisco. You pass through the lower part of the Sonoma Valley that includes upscale wineries, vineyards and rolling hills with deep green trees clumped together, dotting large expanses of sun-bleached grass waving in the breezes. This is an idyllic place that appeals to one’s senses and sensibilities.

Just before you reach Highway 37, Infineon Raceway appears on the right. Directly across the track sits an open field surrounded by fences and covered with straw. This unremarkable plot of ground sits idle in the winter. During racing season, it serves as overflow parking, especially during the NHRA FRAM Nationals but during the Toyota/Save Mart 350 each June this bit of terra firma is morphed into a small town, known officially and to some infamously as the “Fifty Acres”.

Most of the large oval NASCAR facilities across the country have sufficient space in the center of the track for campers and overnighters. Infineon Raceway, due to its road race configuration, has several camping grounds located on the periphery of the track. But none equal the magnitude, color and provenance of the “Fifty Acres”. Each June this open field is transformed from bare acreage into an entity that definitely equals more than the sum of its parts.

This campground is a special place where hundreds of RVs, high-end motor homes and low buck campers spend the entire weekend flying the flag of their favorite car or driver, experiencing the excitement of communal living and “debating” (sometimes arguing and fighting) over who is going to win on Sunday. The uninitiated cannot imagine the scope of dedication the fans have for a particular driver or auto manufacturer and they are more than willing to tell you about it, if you are willing to stop and listen to what they have to say. We all know that baseball and football have their followers but pound for pound, NASCAR fans are unequaled in their zeal for this All American sport. This fact is most evident at the “Fifty Acres” where, regardless of social strata or position in life, die-hard racing fans literally come together in a way deemed impossible under any other set of circumstances. People who would never say a word to one another find themselves becoming friendly through shared interests and easily find that they have much more in common than they ever imagined.

These fans are not only composed of young or middle aged men just looking to get away; we’re talking about the participation of entire families here with wives, girlfriends, grandparents, kids, dogs, cats, exotic birds and even goldfish ready to jump into the fray. Along with these families come assorted toys like ATVs, motorcycles, wet bars, remote controlled cars, airplanes and scooters. Mix all of this up with a touch of Bud, a shot of JD and sprinkle of barbecued tri-tip and you’ve got a non-stop show that lasts like the memory of your first kiss.

For those who can afford it, some campers bring their own large screen TVs and charge others to watch films like “Vanishing Point”, “Cars”, “Talladega Nights”, “Gone in Sixty Seconds” or “Days of Thunder”, some host parties that extend well into the early morning hours, and still others seem content to just bask in the down-home countrified atmosphere that seems to permeate every aspect of race weekend. One thing is certain, if you venture on to the grounds, be prepared to experience racing in a way unimagined, and join with those kindred spirits that make up the backbone of what NASCAR will always be about. If this controlled rowdiness, along with the confusion, dust, noise and heat doesn’t appeal to you, stay on the sidelines but remember you’re always welcome back should you decide to change your mind. Race fans are like that.

Within a week following the conclusion of the race, it’s hard to imagine that anything of significance ever occurred on this now vacant plot of land. There are still several pieces of paper blowing in the wind, a wrinkled program or two and a few empty beer bottles along the fences, but gone are the people that made this open field into something special. I walked over to the line of hay bales that a few days earlier had served as improvised seats for the residents of the “Fifty Acres”. Not too long ago, I sat with them there on “Main Street” during that warm clear Saturday night before the race, watching the endless parade of cars, motorcycles, ATVs and humanity pass before me in the dust that turned orange, then red as the evening wore on. I realized then that I should have appreciated this very special experience more, knowing full well that within a day or two there would be little left of this temporary city to remind the casual driver on Highway 121 that it ever existed. I suppose it’s true that whatever happens at the Fifty Acres stays at the Fifty Acres.

50 Acres - Uncovered Gallery