Mears doesn’t pit until lap 56 of the 367-lap race. Those who go over the wall number seven: a front-tire changer, rear-tire changer, front-tire carrier, rear-tire carrier, jack man, gas man, and catch-can man. An eighth man, solely in charge of peeling away the layered plastic sheets that reveal a new crystal-clear windshield underneath, is occasionally deployed.

The crew stands ready to pounce as Elledge begins the familiar countdown and Mears comes barreling down Pit Road. I keep what I think is a relatively safe distance. Still, I nearly trip over the air-wrench cable as the crew hops over the wall. The whole thing is beautiful chaos — tires are changed, fuel is replenished — and it’s over in a blink. The waft of gasoline — which tends to spew everywhere — and charred rubber overcomes the surrounding area.

The crew saunters back over the wall like wounded soldiers. Sweat-dripping and out of breath, they appear as if they just returned from the front lines. The tire guys grab their wares and immediately begin torching away layers of the smoldering rubber to check temperature and wear and tear. Everyone else gathers around a TV/VCR that provides an aerial view of what went down (each pit is replayed and scrutinized for time-costing mistakes). Within minutes, gas cans are refilled and tires are repositioned. The crew regroups along the wall and awaits its next call to duty.

I stand shell-shocked, as if I’ve just seen a ghost. This must be the rush that car junkies are always raving about. I’m hooked.

Now, if I could just find that doggone long weight.

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