Back when King Richard was smash-banging his way to NASCAR immortality, us “Nawtherners” could afford to wag our heads at the leisure-time appetites of those crazy good ol’ boys.

Sure, Maine life was rural. But redneck? Nosiree. Wouldn’t catch us sharing a sport with the chicken-fried-steak gang, by the Billybob. Nope.

Now things are a bit different. We are NASCAR Nation. About 90,000 fans will watch the Jiffy Lube 300 in Loudon, N.H., on Sunday.

Heck, I can’t tell a spark plug from a lugnut and even I’ve been to Loudon. Had a ball.

If you’re heading south for the race, here’s some things you’ve gotta know:

Expect traffic.

For every 10 miles you’ve got to travel, give yourself about an hour to drive it. If you’re early, don’t blame me. Relax. Have a beer with Bo and Luke.

Helpful hint No. 2: Avoid people with signs.

The scrungy-looking dude you see on Saturday, frantically waving a placard that reads “I NEED TICKETS,” is lying. His son’s not Ricky Craven’s top fan, and doesn’t have cancer.

On Sunday, as you endure your third straight day of bumper-to-bumper mayhem, and as every other race fan either tries to swap paint with you or screw up your draft, you’ll see the message has changed. “I HAVE TICKETS,” it will say. The ones you gave him for his sick son.

At the track, it will be tempting to rush into the bleachers and stake your claim. Don’t.

The first order of business is to befriend (bribe) the first person you see driving a golf cart. Beer is the official currency of NASCAR. Use it.

Why? Picture 90,000 people. Picture the cars that brought them here. Picture parking in Veazie and waddling to Old Town.

At Loudon, golf carts are the only way to get around. All the serious motorheads have them. Be nice to a few and you’ve got a staff of weekend chauffeurs.

Once you get to the parking lot, the thing you don’t want to do is fraternize with the enemy. And the enemy is everywhere.

You may think your vehicle is just a set of wheels. Wrong. Here, your car is a statement, and your social ticket. It explains who you are, and where you belong.

For instance, don’t park your Ford Aerostar on the front lawn of a Winnebago sporting a “Welcome Chevy Race Fans” flag. Even beer won’t help you here.

And another thing. It’s a good idea to stop by U-Haul and rent yourself one of those rigs they use for moving refrigerators. Grab a few extra bungee cords.

Now, you’re ready for NASCAR. Real race fans – Ford or Chevy – know that in order to sit in the hot sun for six or eight hours, you’ve got to stock up. The official NASCAR rule is one cooler per person.

Pile ’em up on the dolly, bungee ’em together, and even without a chauffeur, you can waddle ’em all the way to Old Town without much problem.

Now, drop off all your coolers and go rent a scanner. Put on the snazzy blue earmuffs and listen to your favorite driver.

Then, when everyone keeps talking about why they hate Jeff Gordon, you’ll understand.

Then enjoy the race. And afterward, heed one last tip.

When you leave, don’t waddle back to your parking lot with full coolers. They’re heavy. It’s all that melted ice.

Before you leave the bleachers, just dump it all out. Sure, it’ll fall all over the people rushing for the exits below. And sure, they’ll be mad. Forget it.

It’s the official NASCAR way to dispose of ice. Honest.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter.