On the hill, they call Dennis George the mayor.

In a gray New Hampshire race hoodie, George — nearing his sixties, a Busch Light in hand, prescription glasses on his forehead — holds court behind the track, on the other side of the wire fence that separates Ford stock cars from Jayco campers. His hill has a rainbow view of race cars, peppered with brand logos in every color. The soundtrack at his slice of the camping area at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway mixes the roar of engines with chords from “Free Bird.”

The hill smells like hot dogs and cigarette smoke on a dewy summer evening. A road encircles the campsite like a miniature race track, though the wheels on this side of the fence don’t move: Hill residents would be happy to stay here forever, flipping chicken and sausages and vegetables on the portable grills that stand by nearly every trailer in sight.

Heather Price wearing a bright-turquoise hoodie and a faded red Jeff Gordon cap, switches off her grill and piles hot dogs onto a paper plate: Dinner for the whole group.

The “mayor” brings his real family to the Loudon speedway every summer — his three cousins, their children and spouses — but for 20 years, he’s been building one, too. George, who dives up from Methuen, met Price four years ago on the hill, where they had both been regulars for decades. Their friendship formed in a shared love for Gordon and the Magic Mile. Since then, they’ve parked their RVs next to each other and integrated friends and relatives into one “NASCAR family” that spends its days watching the races and its nights telling stories over games of 45.

“It’s a vacation from reality,” says Price, who hails from Tyngsborough, Mass. “Who doesn’t want that, nowadays?”

Over at the card table, George’s cousin Amanda deals four hands. She lets her sunglasses fall over her face so nobody can see her eyes during the game. When she lays down an ace of hearts, her aunt Donna sighs. She and her sister Heidi, Amanda’s mother, are losing this round. When it’s over, they walk over to Price for hot dogs. “Everybody helps everybody out,” Heidi says.

Price knows most people don’t quite understand this, her yearly pilgrimage to a New Hampshire stock car race, her annual desire to spend a week sleeping on wheels, next to wheels, surrounded by people obsessed with wheels and engines.

“People think I’m crazy,” she says. “It’s the Great American Race … it’s hard to explain to people who have never been here.”

‘Goosebumps’

The closer you get to the track, the harder it gets to keep your eyes in time with the cars, and the more it feels like one of them might run you over.

The hill and the pit are different worlds. Camping chairs, picnic blankets and flip-flops decorate the grass up on the hill. Have a drink, take it slow.

Down there, take it as fast as you can. 

If you can call a race-car driver a queen bee, his team is his hive. They move between garages and car parts and gawkers with stride and purpose; eyes up, haircuts clean, matching to the point of uniformity. These young men do not spit tobacco in the street or knock back beers before noon. They are poised. They have engines to roar.

Many things about the pit have changed in the last few decades. Racers aren’t often the blue-collar guys who won the hearts of Americans with grit and speed, anymore. They come from suburbs and private schools. They’re busier now, too, their schedules packed with media engagements and promotion campaigns between races. But David Davis, a truck driver for Rick Ware Racing, says things have changed for the better. For him, at least, truck driving has become easier and more convenient. There is also more money to be found in the sport, meaning racers and their crews can build sustainable careers in NASCAR.

The special part of it all, according to Davis, hasn’t changed. This remains “the kind of sport people can relate to,” he says. Racers welcome fans into their garages, take photos with kids and sign autographs. Drivers don’t surround themselves with security guards and public relations teams the way most professional athletes do nowadays.

“They’re not quite as guarded,” Davis says.

Ethan Steventon, 18, and Skyler Dagley, 21, road-tripped down from Nova Scotia, Canada, to meet their favorite drivers. They walked around the pit like kids at Disney World, wide-eyed for the in-person version of drivers they watch every weekend with a religious persistence.

“It gives me goosebumps hearing these cars rev,” Steventon says.

NASCAR deserves more credit for constancy than skeptics allow. Or maybe, the world surrounding NASCAR deserves the credit. Kammy Dussault says hardcore NASCAR fans are fading, replaced by casual onlookers who enjoy a day at the track. 

And she says this standing in a time machine.

The Smoke Shack gets the noise from car engines but blocks out the smell of gasoline. The restaurant is a vital organ in the body of the speedway. Responsible for the kind of fuel that doesn’t go in a car, it keeps team ops, race control, security guards, media and cleanup crews running. Generous brisket sandwiches, chicken tenders, french fries and carefully measured Arnold Palmers keep this sport running as fast as it can.

The fake flowers are bright against faded red pleather booths, and the Heinz sweet relish containers are full. Pixelated photos of race cars have hung on these chipped white walls longer than The Smoke Shack has inhabited the building. Lettuce, tomato, pickles and banana peppers are all serve-yourself.

Forget the live broadcast on the flat-screen TV, and this is a racing diner from 1975.

‘He’s the mayor’

Mark Drescher has the best seat in the house. He and his N.E.R.D. (NASCAR emergency response device) stand on pit road next to racing teams and officials, in the avenue overwhelmed by tires. His flame-retardant red and white suit helps him — almost — blend in with the drivers.

Drescher, a 911 dispatcher from Rensselaer County in New York, realized about a decade ago that serving as a volunteer firefighter nearly his whole life had a perk: He could work at a speedway. Every year since then, Drescher has been at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway for the Magic Mile, dressed in his G-FORCE racing gear, a helmet and shaded eyeglasses.

 Drescher likes the mechanics of NASCAR. The way engineers put their heads together to shave off a tenth of a second of time. How teams change all four tires in 14 seconds, mid-race.

“Being in here, you get to see more of it,” he says, facing a row of open garage doors.

Inside, Cup Series stock cars are lined up for inspection. An official stands with his arms crossed tight over a white NASCAR polo shirt. With his headset, rod-like posture and striped decal, his eyes narrow on the shoulders of a Rick Ware Racing crew member whose head has been swallowed by the chamber of his team’s No. 15 MEAT N’ BONE Ford. The shoulders and their crewmates move fast, swapping drills for wrenches, staying silent as they work under the official’s hawk-like glare. This is routine: a tire change, preparation for a qualifying race.

It smells — no, it reeks — of gasoline and asphalt. Nobody wrinkles their nose. People here embrace the atmosphere.

“Everybody gets along, even if our drivers are rivals,” Drescher says. “You still share a beer together.”

That’s certainly true on the hill. The Xfinity Series race has ended, and George, who just won $100 on Christopher Bell’s victory, is shouting at Heidi’s son, Justin, “Why am I drinking a Miller Lite? Who brought this?”

“You know he’s the mayor, right?” Donna asks the campsite. From behind an RV, a man calls out: “Nobody remembers voting for him, but he’s still in charge.”

George laughs, and disappears into his own camper. Amanda looks down at her cards. “You’re kibitzing,” she says to Donna. “No, I’m not!” she protests. 

Over by her grill, Price mixes rum with pineapple juice and triple sec and pours the concoction into red Solo cups. She brings them over to the card table, hands them out to her friends. The sky drizzles gently, so the group gathers under its tent.

Here, they’ll talk about race cars for as long as they can.