sunday X 3
When my friends started living in Boardman a few years ago, they were completely unaware of the Hot Rod Super Nationals. I don't blame them, as they were used to living the dorm life and usually returned home to Michigan every summer, a state that is decidedly Hot Rod Super National-free, as far as I know. When Memorial Day weekend loomed closer during their first summer in Boardman, I had to warn them of the impending doom of the Hot Rod Super Nationals. "What the heck is that?" they asked in a conversation that I don't completely remember. I could only answer them in a series of screams.

Being the auto-ignoramus that I am, I couldn't really give them a good explanation. "People take folding chairs out of their garage and ... well, they sit next to the street and look at cars." They couldn't believe what I was saying, and I could tell because I am a master at reading incredulity. "Seriously, guys, this goes on all weekend." Just as they were about to have me carried away by caring mental heath professionals, I pointed out of the window (in my version of the story their window overlooks State Route 224) at the havoc that was beginning to develop in the streets.

Yes, this is what happens every year around Memorial Day on 224. I'll admit, the first time I went to the "event" - wait; you can hardly call it an event; it's more of an occurrence - the first time I went to the occurrence I was with a friend whose dad was very much into cars. He was Hank Hill before Hank Hill even existed. He seemed to have a good time, but my childhood friend and I feigned interest until we could escape to the nearby arcade (oh Fun and Pizza, how I miss thee) and spend countless quarters on racing digitized vehicles that also had machine guns. I have the same feelings about the Super Nats (which is what the cool people call it) now as I did when I was a kid: disinterest and confusion.

This disinterest and confusion is often met with anger, though, because every trip on 224 during this event turns into an impromptu parade in which one is given no baton to twirl. Some of us are lucky to avoid this road, but for others, it's a necessity. Having to travel down this route a few years ago on a Memorial Day weekend night was a nightmare I won't soon forget. It was less of a parade and more of a museum of wasted life. All around me were doughy, sunburned guys with mullets, swilling beer and shouting out things in a strange unintelligible language. I'm sure there are kind, honest people that enjoy the event, but at night it seems they're scared away by the rednecks and trust-fund teenagers who spend so much money on their cars you would expect their vehicles to turn into murderous robots. I do feel a brief bit of consolation in the fact that while driving down 224 during this event, people had to look at my car, which is neither hot nor rod. That's fine mid-90s Chevrolet craftsmanship, jerks!

Now, I actually decided to do research on the Super Nats, because I wanted my rant to have at least some basis in reality. At first I thought it started in the 1950s, since its headquarters seems to be A&W, a restaurant so deeply entrenched in the 50s that you almost expect to see a "colored" section. But no, the Super Nats actually moved to Canfield in the late 1980s, a time far past the age of people hitting jukeboxes and saying, "Aaay!" Really, people should have stopped being fascinated by cars after, let's say, the 1940s. It just doesn't make sense to me. The only car show I'd be interested in seeing would involve cars that could fly, have computer brains that wouldn't turn on the human race, and not use gasoline for fuel. But that's just a pipe dream. Not using gasoline? Get out of town!

All in all, it's a very all-American event, and like many things that are all-American, I just don't understand it. Maybe someday in the future people will do something more constructive and less traffic-clogging during Memorial Day weekend, like lay in the street and look at clouds.