The NASCAR boys packed up their mittens and galoshes last weekend and held their twice-a-year smash-’em-up in New Hampshire (or, as we say up here in Maine, down to Loudon).

According to people I know, the event was a raging success. The beer was cold. The days were hot. And you know what? (Here’s the part that surprised me) At the end of the weekend, they even held a Winston Cup race.

I know what you’re saying: “Hey, chubby. In case you didn’t notice, an integral part of a Winston Cup weekend has always been a Winston Cup race. You musta been too busy begging fried turkey off the bubbas in the RV parking lot to notice.”

And here’s what I’ve got to say to you: I don’t care for turkey … and you’re wrong.

NASCAR’s yearly forays to Loudon have always been about the experience. They have never, ever been about the race. Why? Because up until this year, nobody got the chance to race.

Ricky and Ward and the boys used to show up, line up, and stage what amounted to a 300-mile parade. No passing. No fun. Nothing.

Not this year. Nope. This time, the boys raced. They swapped paint (I’ve got to say, I’m a big proponent of paint-swapping). They spun and crashed and made general spectacles of themselves.

And whether it was on TV or in person, we loved it.

Then the drivers hopped out of their cockpits, looked for microphones, and began telling us how miserable they’d been. How the track was greasier than a bear in lard slippers. How they’d had no idea where their cars were going. How the shenanigans we’d just witnessed showed exactly why Loudon is a poor excuse for a Winston Cup track.

To which I said, in my best New England NASCAR drawl: Wha-chew-tokkin-aboot?

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I am several credits shy of my gear-head degree. The presence of a hometown boy in the field has gotten me interested in the sport.

I’ll also admit that every time the announcers start talking about Ricky Craven’s pit crew putting in another round of wedge, I half expect them to reach in through the window, grab him by the back of his underwear, and take turns hanging him on a coat hook.

For me and my ilk, racing is pretty simple. We don’t really understand why the car goes fast or slow. We understand “loose.” We understand “tight.”

And we understand crashes. Man, do we understand ’em. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, mind you. But when we’re out in the backyard, frying up a turkey, or fetching a few cans of the beer that made No. 8 famous, and someone yells, “Caution!” we squeal like schoolgirls, run back into the living room, and say something like this: “Did someone finally run over that punk Stewart?”

I’m sorry, drivers. Your skill is amazing. Your ability to avoid mayhem and disaster is impressive. But when you don’t avoid the mayhem, and you end up turning Jeff Gordon’s car into a rainbow-colored pretzel?

How do I explain this. … Some of us really like that stuff.

Sure, things were tough in Loudon the other day. Sure, you fellas ended up smacking into each other quite a bit.

I’ve just got one question for you.

When you come back in September, can you do it all over again?

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.