There can be no reining in this temple of destruction

These days, the crassness knows no bounds. Officials at Lowe's Motor Speedway, stepping way over the line between witty and tasteless, offer some race tickets for the dollar amount equivalent to the number of cars involved in the biggest wreck this past Sunday at Talladega Superspeedway. The folks at the FOX television network, never one to let a golden marketing moment slip away, use footage of the calamitous final-lap accident in a prime-time commercial promoting their telecast of Saturday night's race at Richmond. One moment, there's Jack Bauer, chasing the bad guys. Next moment, there's Carl Edwards, hurtling into the fence.

Danger sign

Joe Menzer says Carl Edwards' crash should be a wake-up call that Talladega is not safe.

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No matter that seven spectators were injured in the accident, or that Edwards' first thought after extricating himself from his crumpled race car was to let his wife and mother know he was alive. When it comes to Talladega Superspeedway, the Roman Colosseum of modern sports facilities, any hint of sensitivity gets tossed into the air like so many pieces of shredded sheet metal.

No wonder NASCAR is saying that a reconfiguration of the race track is unnecessary. No wonder too many fans are busy arguing yellow lines and blocking instead of debating the track itself. This is the culture you create when you build a speedway that caters to the lowest common denominator, a temple to chaos and destruction, a place that by its very existence seems to run counter to all the laudable safety initiatives implemented in the past decade.

It's as if once you step inside those high banks, the normal rules no longer apply. Drivers are filled with a sense of dread, and slide behind the wheel not necessarily hoping to win, but to emerge in one piece. Despite restrictor plates and roof flaps, cars pinballing off one another still go airborne with frightening regularity.

All too often something horrifically spectacular occurs, like a car flipping end-over-end or barrel-rolling down the frontstretch or slamming into the restraining fence. Every now and then you hear the beat of helicopter rotors, carrying a driver -- or in Sunday's case, a spectator -- to a hospital over in Birmingham for observation or treatment.

Talladega has been that way since it first opened in 1969, when the day's top drivers saw those high banks, felt those tremendous speeds, noticed those tires getting chewed up and made their one and only stand against NASCAR management. No race track is without hazards; despite all modern safeguards, disaster can unfold on speedways of any length, given the ever-present ingredients of speed, race cars in close proximity, and grandstand seats often right on top of the action. (Continued)