SONOMA — The hook always has been here, even when traffic was locked up, it seemed, all the way to Sacramento, when some fans would arrive 50 minutes after the race started. The hook kept NASCAR here even when fans were sitting on hillsides, portable toilets created something that didn't smell like springtime in the Rockies and splinters popped up at the most inappropriate of places — on the backsides of people sitting in rickety, rotten bleachers.
The hook compelled NASCAR to be patient, even when the mechanics worked on cars in the sun, at the back of their haulers. NASCAR took a deep breath when it heard that a small but vocal local activist group called The Yellow Flag Coalition kept screaming that if stock car racing came here, the air would turn brown, the wine grapes would go to seed and pastoral Sonoma County would turn into an Alabama truck stop and oh how that would kill land values.
And NASCAR sighed. The hook — got to keep remembering the hook, they told themselves — was what made Shantytown worth it: because this place is just 30 miles from San Francisco. As odd as this may read, San Francisco saved this racetrack, saved NASCAR in this area. Because if this racetrack was located somewhere else, in the middle of nowhere, and I mean no vilification of Turlock...
"It would have died a quiet death," said Ken Clapp, a motorsports veteran of 62 years, once in charge of NASCAR's Western operations, now a NASCAR consultant who was here when the first shovelful of dirt was turned in 1967.
Location, location, location does not apply just to real estate. As NASCAR's Cup series celebrates its 25th year at Sears Point, Infineon, Raceway at Sonoma, Sonoma Raceway, that history cannot be told without first describing what happened around this undulating strip of asphalt all these years. Because the compelling moments of Sonoma Raceway's history, truthfully, are not Robby Gordon acting like an idiot in the 2001 race or Ricky Rudd winning the first one or even the familiar and constant drone saying that no one can pass here.
"What do you think we should do?" Rob Lopez, then-director of media relations, asked me in 1990.
"Start with a bulldozer there," I pointed to the southernmost end of the property, "and don't stop until you get there."
That would be the north end.
It almost happened. Only the track and three buildings remain, three buildings with no aesthetic value, three buildings with their modest architecture. It would be easy to forget the past, given these leftovers. But as the historians will tell you, those who don't learn from the past are condemned to repeat it, and no one wants a repeat of this.
It cost owner O. Bruton Smith, for example, $1.5 million to protect the red-legged tree frog found on the property.