I am approaching the gate of the Kansas Speedway on my first foray into the strange new world of NASCAR.

My husband has scored free tickets to the Banquet 400 event (what does the winner get, chicken pot pies?), and the seats are supposed to be primo.

We’ve never been to NASCAR, and he’s always wanted to see what the fuss is about. (Seventy-five million fans can’t be wrong, right?) And though the temperature is predicted to reach 94 degrees, I agreed to accompany him. I haven’t been the easiest person to live with lately, what with the Jekyll and Hyde mood swings, memory lapses and all. I owe him. (Score one for menopausal guilt.)

Besides, since hitting 50, I’ve been in try-all-new-adventures-before-it’s-too-late mode. And NASCAR seems more doable, at the moment, than Machu Picchu or the Running of the Bulls at Pamplona.

As we snake through the parking lot, there are cars, trucks and RVs as far as the eye can see. Thousands of tall poles bearing flags of all kinds flap in the wind: American flags, state flags, checkered flags, beer and whiskey flags, flags with numerals. (The same numerals everyone seems to be wearing on their T-shirts, hats and beer Koozies.) It’s a spectacle unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Though my purse is packed with sunscreen, ChapStick, camera and cash, I realize we are ill-equipped for a day at NASCAR. We have no pole, no flags, no favorite driver, no Koozies. We stick out like nuns on a nude beach.

I wonder what else we forgot to bring.

Slightly daunted, we traipse toward the track and the Land of Logos.

There are Coors and Budweiser, Target and Cingular. Nextel, Yellow Freight, Pepsi and Tide. The Army, FedEx, Home Depot, Jack Daniels. Reese’s (as in peanut butter cups) and Napa (Auto Parts, not Valley). Every inch of vertical space is covered by a sign. Semi-trailers converted into giant kiosks provide endless opportunities for fans to purchase licensed goods at inflated prices. I swear there’s less merchandise at the Mall of America.

Clean-cut young men with “Team Tylenol” emblazoned on their shirts hand out free samples of Extra Strength Rapid Release gel caps. I accept my complimentary two-pack and think: That’s an odd thing to be giving away at NASCAR.

(Or is it?)

Inside the gate, thousands of fans vie for $7.50 beers before the race begins. The line to the ladies room is 100 yards long but moves like a well-oiled machine. As women pour out of the restroom, I scrutinize their T-shirts. 48 : 24 : 17 : 31 :

I feel naked without a numeral.

Our seats are primo, as advertised. We have seatbacks and a canopy for shade. Waiters stand by in the aisles, ready to fetch anything our hearts desire from the concession stand. I look down smugly at the folks baking in the sun on the bleachers and think: NASCAR is great! I must choose a number to wear to the next event! Which driver is the cutest?

Voices come over the PA system, commanding in unison: “Drivers, start : your … engines!!” The crowd whoops and hollers. My pulse races in anticipation.

Suddenly, everyone in sight is wearing large, heavily padded headphones, some with microphones or radios attached. I think to myself: Uh-oh.

The cars take a few warm-up laps behind the pace car. As the pack passes in front of us, the noise is deafening. What will happen when they get up to speed?

The green flag flies, and drivers put their pedals to the metal, causing the most horrific, ear-splitting roar you can fathom. I grab my ears and bend over in “duck and cover” position. It feels like we’re being bombed.

I scream to my husband, who is clutching his own ears in pain: “EARPLUGS!!”

“WE NEED EARPLUGS! PLEASE! GO NOW!!”

He takes off down the steps and returns minutes later with two pairs of lime green foam plugs. Frantically, we insert them into our aural cavities. It helps, but the damage is done. My ears are ringing, my head is pounding, and the plugs are causing a nauseating underwater vertigo sensation.

With 212 laps to go in the race, we head for the exit. As we trudge toward the car, I retrieve the free sample of Rapid Release gel caps from my purse and swallow them dry. I forget all about buying that souvenir NASCAR T-shirt with the number on the front.

Instead, I’m rooting for Team Tylenol.