CHARLOTTE -- I've been on Speed here at Lowe's Motor Speedway for over 10 days now -- and still, by far my favorite moment, the one snapshot I will take from this extended rush, came on pole night for the Coke 600.

There I was, up in the swanky, smoky, wood-paneled Speedway Club high above the track, listening intently as one race expert after another, including LMS president Humpy Wheeler, pontificated about the incredible influx of affluent, upper-crust NASCAR fans -- while at the same time, directly behind them, two beered-up boneheads were leaning over the centerpiece of an extravagant buffet spread trying to lick the ice sculpture.

	Rubbin' is racin'.

Even after an amazing 10 days at LMS I'm still decidedly on the fence when it comes to NASCAR -- and in a weird way, so too is the sport itself; teetering between old and new, its dirt track and moonshine roots and its corporatized, squeaky clean, family-fun future. Almost exactly like the startling contrast between the day and night phases of the Coke 600, for every moment that took my breath away, another made me gag.

At Turn 1 here there are condos (don't laugh) that I'm told are now going for half a mil. But right across the track is something called Redneck Hill, where folks have been sleeping in their pickup trucks (when they can find them) for the past fortnight. In the infield media center (just barely discernable from the aforementioned "hill") they give out free cigs to anyone with a credential. Now, you tell me, what kind of a sweet coincidence is it that I was covering a NASCAR race with free smokes the same week as my wedding anniversary?

On and on it went -- whenever I seemed close to getting hooked on racin' something always seemed to block my way. Like this, for example. While I was impressed by how it seems every safety precaution is taken to protect the guys who tote the gas back and forth to the pits, in fact the tanks are sealed by the impenetrable protection of … plastic soda cups.

"I had my fork dug into the cake and I was about to take a big ole bite … and then it fell right off onto the floor," said Jimmie Johnson after leading for most of the race. But for every great sound bite like that there seemed to be 1,000 whorish "Well, my guys on the (INSERT CORPORATE SPONSOR HERE) team did a great job tonight."

I was stunned by how accesible the drivers were, and amazed that some unknowing fan hadn't been speed-bumped by one of these 4-wheel billboards while wandering around in the garage area. Yet how have fans responded to all this access? By becoming belligerent SOB's with the worst sense of entitlement on the sports planet, as far as I can tell. Hey, I'm all for fan access, but does the NBA allow fans to pester players during timeouts?

Before the start of the race I stood on the track, in front of a stunning, massive back-lit crowd and just a few feet away from the cars, and watched the poignant processional of teammates and family members who leaned into the cars to say good luck and Godspeed -- code in this death-defying world for, well, goodbye. I was struck by the thought, 'Who could boo these guys having seen what I just witnessed?' when a race official leaned into my ear and screamed, "YOU NEED TO LEAVE THE TRACK NOW! AND YOU NEED TO RUN!"

I won't enter the endless debate about whether or not these guys are athletes. Let me just say this: as his pre-race prep, one driver ate Krispy Kreme donuts and watched Mortal Combat on the DVD system in his hauler.

Now I know why Charlotte is the second-fastest growing town in America. Because 200,000 people come to this race each May, get stuck in the horrific, inexcusable traffic and just figure it's easier and faster to abandon their vehicles, buy a house and stay in town.

You cannot deny the excitement of these races. It is an absolute, kaleidoscopic assault on the senses. However, parts of this race were so bland folks in the media center were nodding off or rewinding their TV cables out of sheer boredom. NASCAR attendance and TV numbers continue to go through the roof. That's great, but this will never be a "major" sport in my mind until minority involvement in the garage, on the track and in the stands rises above the 0.000001% I saw this past week.

In his lakefront home Tony Stewart has an elevator, three satellite dishes, some stunning metal goddess sculptures and shelves of books with their library tags still on them. But my favorite relic was the Chianti bottle on his bar that had been sculpted to look like Dale Earnhardt.

And what's not to love about Mark Martin's ferocious, gutty late charge through lapped traffic while fighting off his younger teammate Matt Kenseth to win the 600? Or his over-the-top self-deprecating humor (the guy makes Lou Holtz seem cocky) after the win? "I'm not real sure I will ever win another race," he said after his first win in 73 starts.

Well, maybe the fact that his car didn't actually pass post-race inspection and by NASCAR rules (which I'm beginning to think is an oxymoron) the guy didn't technically win the race. Instead, he'll pay a small fine and keep his checkered flag and from this day forward be a shining example for children everywhere that cheaters do in fact prosper. (Unless, of course, you're Kurt Busch.)

Just for kicks let's apply this NASCAR logic to the Little League World Series. "Yes, well, the winning pee-wee team from Pittsburgh that beat Taiwan 97-0 was indeed found to have nothing but 32-year-old men on the roster. But instead of taking away their trophy we're just going to fine them $5 and let bygones be bygones."

At least one person is happy with NASCAR's ambiguous and arbitrary rules interpretation. Janet Hogan, a 46-year-old sergeant in the U.S. Capitol police force from Sterling, Va., was paired with Martin in a winner-take-all million dollar fan contest. (Now, if only I could somehow remember the brand of cigarettes that sponsors this contest I could help peddle this poison like I'm supposed to … hmm … no … darnit … wait … it'll come to me.)

When it looked like she might become a millionaire, Janet, who works the graveyard shift, phoned her teenage son, Stephen, and said, "I think we're gonna win this!"

"Yeah," he replied, "How much do I get?"

This was Janet's first trip to the race track, and like everything else I came across this week she too was torn between the good and bad, the gas and the brake if you will. She had a blast at the track. "But I won't ever have this much fun at a race again," she said.

Me neither.

David Fleming is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at flemfile@aol.com.