Did y'all hear there was a race at Talladega this weekend? Some greenhorn – Kelly Kapowski or something like that – won, and got-dayumn, it was insane.

As a race I won't soon forget, I'd even go so far as to call it legendary. I defend my characterization thusly: you know a race was crazy when it gets equal billing to a pandemic influenza outbreak. Improbably, the outcry over both happens to be safety, one justifiably, the other preposterously.

I'm not even remotely qualified to comment on science, plus I dig on swine (well, bacon), so I'm going to leave this solemn influenza topic alone. But I have to add my nickel to the 'Dega conversation. I feel obligated to defend it, particularly in the face of flippant commentary, crafted only to incite controversy.

Of particular note (and I hate to even point a finger in his direction and, in any infinitesimal manner, increase his market value) is Jay Marrioti's (another Jay!) drivel over at Fanhouse, which was equal parts traveling salesman and Hollywood-hypeman stereotype. Of course, he was not alone, as some of my favorite NASCAR journalists and voices joined in the chorus.

To sum up their collective point: Talladega will kill somebody someday and NASCAR is the devil reincarnate because of that.

Or paraphrased, NASCAR is wrong for something that hasn't happened.

Yes, it would be bad, very bad, if someone died at a NASCAR race. I understand this and empathize with the notion. Sadly, deaths have occurred at auto races and motor sport events to drivers, staff, crew and fans alike. There is precedent, and there was precedent before Carl played catch with the Talladega fence. Automobiles, in fact, are wildly deadly, the cause of some 50,000 deaths annually in the U.S. (placing it just behind seasonal influenza).

To sum up my point, and this should be rather obvious to anyone who has actually watched Talladega: Driving a 3,400 pound, 750 horsepower NASCAR stock car around a 2.66 mile tri-oval track at 197 mph without ever touching the brakes, inches from 42 other cars who happen to have no brake lights, turn signals, or patience, all with glory, fame, possibly a supermodel, and fortune on the line is deadly. It can kill you - you the driver, you the pit crew bloke chasing the tire into the infield and you the fan standing behind the wire catch fence (if the 23 beers you've consumed starting at 8:30 that day doesn't first).

Inherently, I know this. And I think most, if not all, NASCAR fans do, too. I do not delude myself. I do not think that such a thing is rational. I do not think that such a thing is safe. I have stood in the stands at Talladega, sweating buckets in that got-awful humidity, legally deaf and carbon monoxide buzzed, and there wasn't a single lap where I didn't question the lunacy of it all. These aren't radio flyers chasing gravity. They are combustion rockets, designed to laugh at the limits of physics. This is blatantly obvious to all of your senses when in attendance.

I damn near killed myself in high school racing a 1973 Volkswagen Thing to swim practice, and it can't sniff 60 downhill with a tailwind. Outcome: one front end and three moving violations, even though I was "stopped" at the time. Strap me into a CoT and I'm pretty sure I might just kill myself.

Partly, ah hell, mostly, this is my attraction to the sport. It's dangerous; I watch NASCAR because it isn't trading baskets, smacking ground-rule doubles or running out the clock, and I'm pretty sure that NASCAR knows this about me. (And this doesn't stop them from taking safety precautions with me in mind, such as those that actually saved lives on Sunday.) I like NASCAR because there is an inherent insanity and risk to it, even as a fan. Not to mention that it is cool as all hell.

Look, risk has a life-long love affair with reward, and that isn't NASCAR's doing. It's part of its allure. If you don't like it, you don't have to watch it, and better yet, don't comment on it.