Brian Wheeler and I arrived at Kansas Speedway a little short of 7:30 a.m. Short on sleep and fueled by Red Bull left over from the night before, we passed innumerable rows of RVs with various flags erected to salute Jimmie Johnson, Clint Bowyer and the rest of the field.

A few wrong turns and the friendly assistance of the grounds crew lead us to a parking spot in the infield … a few hundred yards from where cars would be eclipsing speeds of 180 mph.

A Crown Royal vendor poured what looks to be his first drink of the day as we made our way through the infield. The media center was spacious, clean and quiet early — all descriptions that would be insufficient soon enough.

The first look at the beasts on display came at 9 a.m. when, with garage passes in hand, Wheeler and I inhaled our fair share of fumes while their engines revved maddeningly.

The garage is a site to behold. Each driver was set up with a bevy of endorsed products on display — a potentially lethal environment should the Red Bull team and Little Debbie boys engage in some trading. I couldn’t help imagine a death race in which cranked out drivers flip and crash their way into oblivion.

Yet easily the best setup of the day belonged to the Bass Pro team. Propped up against a stack of tires were two huge mounted elk for all to see and touch.

When we reconvened in the media room, it was thick with racing scribes. I wasn’t sure if they had been briefed on the day’s events at that point as talk centered on whether one fellow should start Carson Palmer or Kerry Collins in his fantasy football league.

One dubious duo then sauntered in wearing a sleeveless shirt that did a sweeping job accentuating each others’ farmers’ tans.

A diverse bunch indeed, but one that can be taken only in moderation. Luckily a NASCAR staff member swept these two lowly college sportswriters out of that environment and into one absolutely surreal place: the pre-race meeting between the higher-ups, the drivers and their crews.

It was the first meeting I’ve attended that I could say I was joined by Dale, Jr. sitting a few feet away from me. As the speaking began, we dipped and dodged around various garage fare and ended up standing directly behind a group that included the CEO of Sprint and the president and vice president of NASCAR, among others. A strange and wild moment indeed, topped moments later when we were yet again granted impossible access — this time on the track for the pre-race introductions.

Absolutely surreal. Deafening boos and cheers greeted each driver in a scene comparable to a United Nations summit in front of 81,000 diverse crazies.

The Busch family earned the majority of Kansas City’s disdain. Kyle and Kurt aren’t welcomed around these parts.

The crowd has become thick and is further whipped into a frenzy via pyrotechnics as we head back to the media room.

Fantasy football and baseball talk still permeated the newsroom — no sign of anticipation of what was about to occur.

At approximately 1:09 p.m., “Gentleman, start your engines,” booms over the loudspeakers, followed in succession by Metallica’s “Fuel.”

The air was crisp and clean while the sun beared down on the track and a light breeze delivered the pungent odor of fuel.

The air was cut in half as the race began. Standing in the infield we were truly in the eye of the Hurricane. Even earplugs could not prevent the inevitable piercing of my eardrums.

Ye Old Media Hut is saturated at this point, most still poured over the happenings of other sporting events despite the race’s sounds entering the room.

“The Jets scored 31 points in the second quarter?!”

One writer had a baseball game feed taking up his entire computer. Another researched real estate. It’s easy to forget there was a race going on. So it was back outside where the action is.

Few moments in sports are as intense as the resuming of a race after a caution lap. Each driver propels forward round the corner with jet-like intensity — emitting those familiar senses: the smell of fuel and the sound of madness. And no, NASCAR is nothing on television compared to the experience of being there.

This was complete sporting access … a literal drop into the center of the event.

After awhile it was back to the bleak media room — someone behind me convulsed in a seizure-like manner, infuriated that his computer wouldn’t load a baseball score fast enough.

The final trip outside during the race was one of pure immersion. I was on the track … literally up against the wall. Within reach of the motorized beasts.

Visions of bystanders being crushed by errant wrecked cars entered my mind several times during the brief stay. A few kind words with NASCAR officials found us headed back to the media room with a dozen laps to go — time for the press to awaken.

On my way back into the media center, I ran into and had a brief exchange with 98.9 The Rock’s Johnny Dare.

Dare — looking as gleefully burnt out as us — was a true member of the working press Sunday…out in the field where you go to the story, it doesn’t come to you.

“It was something else,” said Dare regarding the day. “What did you think?”

Brother, there aren’t enough superlatives in my vocabulary.

— —Edited by Ramsey Cox