Although my residence in a state east of the Mississippi may hint otherwise, I’ve never had anything against NASCAR. In fact, since listening to Robert Duvall proudly proclaim, “There’s nothing ‘stock’ about stock-car racing,” to Tom Cruise in “Days of Thunder,” I’ve actually had a degree of respect for the sport Bill Maher eloquently describes as “rednecks drinking beer and watching other rednecks turn left.” (He he also describes watching baseball as “getting drunk on overpriced beer and yelling obscenities at millionaires on steroids.”) 

Despite my acceptance of competitive automobile racing, the sight of an entire aisle devoted to official NASCAR merchandise at Target was enough to stop me and my cart of socks and DVDs as I passed by it Sunday afternoon. And while I know it’s a bit ignorant to associate an individual’s taste in sports with where he or she lives, I feel compelled to point out that this particular Target was in Brooklyn, NY—not exactly the Daytona of the East Coast.

The sight of shelf after blaze-orange shelf of Richard Petty commemorative thermal mugs exposed a perennial truth I often forget, but am usually reminded of on random Saturday afternoons while channel surfing and landing on footage of 200 thousand of my fellow Americans going nuts over high-powered Fords covered in Home Depot decals: NASCAR is fucking huge.

I’m sure this is apparent to many people. It is, after all, the number one spectator sport in the country, and according to a New York Times report, more viewers would rather watch a rained-out race (or lack thereof) than an actual N.B.A. match.

Why? There must be entire books devoted to the U.S.A.’s enduring need for speed, but I imagine it’s some combination of loving to watch shit get built, watch shit go fast, and occasionally watch shit blow up. That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with that. Tuning-in to every Sprint Cup rally of the season is essentially no different than me renting “Die Hard” a dozen times (which I have). But then again, there’s no “Die Hard” aisle at Target. 

In the end, I’m actually glad I rolled through the NASCAR aisle. Sure, I’m kind of jealous my own passions don’t have 30 feet of retail space for me to browse, but the encounter served as an enlightening experience on my country. It wasn’t quite an epic Westward journey, but it did teach me something that a Westward journey may have: America is also fucking huge, and most of it likes watching rednecks turn left. Even if I don’t.