Is there anything more satisfying than a rowdy down-and-out novel about racing drivers, their phenomenal feats in bed and bar and road (driving backwards, for chrissake! dead drunk at midnight), their tough personae and possibly bleeding hearts, all the way from Daytona to Indianapolis, with stops along the way for the dirt tracks that made one famous long ago? Apparently not, if the author is Stroker Ace, a sardonically funny hellbuster who wins two NASCAR championships for the South's Mr. Chicken King, Goodyear, and other assorted makers of carburetors, spark plugs -- all the way drivers get the money to fix up their two ""stock"" cars each week trying to be champ of the sport that makes tennis look like chickenshit. What the novel is also about is U.S. road life, from motel room to identical motel room, endless parties, groupies, the fulfillment of machismo on and off the track until one finally has the balls or fatigue to say goodbye to all that. A superduper book about one American dream and the people who dream it.