My daughter was ecstatic, telling practically anyone she saw, from family members to strangers, that she was going to a “real racetrack” to see “real race cars.” For two weeks Chloe kept asking how many days it would be until we went to the race, stoking her excitement. Seeing and hearing her eagerness only furthered my anticipation. Here was my little daughter, so thrilled about the opportunity to experience something I love, and we were going to enjoy it together.

She was also looking forward to getting her own new diecast. She already has several Racing Champions diecasts from the mid-1990s, the same 1/24s I beat and bashed as a kid her age. She was inspired to play with some new ones after I had unboxed two new diecasts for my collection a few weeks prior. I told her, in the gentlest terms I could manage, that yes, she could roll them along the kitchen table where they had been unboxed, but these cars weren’t like hers. They were to be looked at, not raced down the hall, banging together, like hers. I promised her when we went to the “real race,” I would buy her a new diecast for her to play with however she pleased.

She woke up Saturday morning for the Fr8 208 and Bennett Transportation 250 doubleheader at Atlanta with an added pep in her step, which I didn’t think was possible given she stomps so heavily around the house I’m convinced my sub-floors are in danger of collapsing. It was Chloe’s first NASCAR race and my first in a non-press capacity since I attended the 1997 NAPA 500 at Atlanta with my dad when I was just a few years older than my daughter.

With snacks and other necessities packed, we buzzed with expectancy as we ventured an hour south to Atlanta Motor Speedway.

And we both left slightly disappointed.

Chloe was disheartened by the racing. I knew it might be difficult for a two-plus hour race to command her attention, but if nothing else I figured she would be enthralled by the sensory onslaught of a NASCAR race. The aural attack of thousands of horsepower. The rumbling felt throughout your chest as the pack passes. The sights of the expansive track, colorful cars, and because this was a NASCAR race, the colorful characters in the grandstands. The smell of burning rubber and race fuel, mixed with cheap beer, campfire smoke and grilled meats.

She wasn’t.

I took out my phone and started recording as the green flag flew, hoping to catch that magical moment when the roar of the race begins and the cars storm past at full tilt for the first time. Instead of seeing her face light up at this novel experience, she looked, well, positively underwhelmed. She remained that way for the entirety of the truck race. Maybe she had talked it up so much, the real thing was a letdown. Or just not as exciting as running along the empty row of seats or mowing through all the snacks I had brought in an hour, then chowing down on the popcorn she requested afterward.

If I were to describe how I perceived her first race experience, it would be something along the lines of, “Didn’t give two shits.”

Her favorite part of the race was not seeing the weaving of the trucks through the field, Kyle Busch’s mastery or the incredibly close finish. It was seeing the seals that were, inexplicably, in the fan zone and the post-race fireworks.

I already knew the answer, but I felt compelled to ask.

“Chloe, there’s another race later. It will start in about an hour. Do you want to stay for the next race or go home?”

“I’m ready to go home,” she said.

So I did what all dads must do — often — and made the sacrifice to put her wants ahead of my own. We left as Busch’s No. 7 truck was still making its way to Victory Lane. As we walked back to the car, I asked if she liked or did not like her first race.

“I…did not like it,” she said. I told her that was fine, and I appreciated her being honest. But what about it did you not like, I asked.

“The race trucks were too loud.”

She wore ear protection throughout the race and gave no indication the noise was overwhelming. By “too loud,” I think she meant that her 5-year-old ramblings couldn’t be heard for several hours, so it was too noisy for her liking. Further evidence of this was shown when, for the entire 1.5-hour trip back home, she talked with such fervor I’m surprised she didn’t pass out from a lack of oxygen.

As Chloe continued rambling nonsensically, and I caught a 12^th-straight red light on Tara Boulevard leaving the Speedway (anyone who has been to AMS can relate, I’m sure), a horrible realization struck me. I had completely forgotten about getting my daughter a diecast like I promised, and I was immediately overcome with guilt.

That’s not to say I didn’t remember when we arrived. I was scanning for some “gypsy tents,” some place where I could buy something a bit older (and cheaper) for Chloe to play with, but none were to be found. I remembered again when we went into the fan zone. However, I couldn’t stomach spending $80 or so on a new diecast knowing my daughter would smash it to bits in mere minutes of play — even if I’m not exactly frugal when it comes to the dough I spend on my own collection.

Now, if Chloe had remembered she should be playing with a diecast instead of having a spirited conversation with the headrest, I would have jumped online and searched for a cheap diecast she liked just as soon as we arrived home. She said not a word about it though. She was too busy saying other, nonsensical words.

I’m going to stick to my promise, though.

Maybe we’ll make a trek to Diecast Depot, and I’ll let her pick out whatever she likes (and hope it’s relatively cheap and “destroyable”). We’ll go somewhere for lunch and maybe visit a park or some other kid-friendly location while out and about. We’ll make another daddy/daughter day out of it.

All indications suggest she would enjoy that more than going to an “real race.” We will get another fun day to spend together, and to me, that is more important than sharing all the same interests.