The Herxheim Speedway in southwestern Germany is so close to the French border that the locals here say "merci" more often than they do "danke." It's about 1:30 p.m., and an official stands on the freshly-grated, russet-colored track setting things up. He's dressed in a white jumpsuit and, from where I'm standing with two friends, at the end of the 963-meter oval track's first straightaway, the suit looks pristine, like something you'd find in a computer processor plant.

The man is getting the five motorcycles properly placed in the starting area, which is not an easy task. The starting line is delineated by a a pair of white cables pulled across the track, and the riders back up and realign a number of times. Once they're set, and the official clears their rear wheels, he covers his ears and runs off. A second later, the cables, which are attached to a pulley system, spring straight up in the air, and the Long Track World Championship begins.

The bikers gun it, accelerating toward the curve with such purpose that some of them fishtail, others pop inadvertent wheelies. They face us, drive right at us, but rather than lean into the curve, the drivers stand high on their pegs. I'm ready to turn and run for it when, one by one, they pop their hips to the right, swinging their rear wheels out to the side. At the same time, they plant their left feet in the dirt. In this position, with the front wheel the only part of the bike actually pointed in the direction of travel, they execute a long, 180 degree slide. At no point do they let off their accelerators.

As they straighten out and shoot down the far straightaway, one of my friends, Jens, who's 28 and grew up in the area, turns and looks at me. He's got a light, brown beard and wears a green plaid shirt, rolled to his elbows. On his head, he has a New Orleans Pelicans cap, which he wears proudly, having purchased it on a trip to the Big Easy. His eyes are wide and, sounding surprised, as though he'd forgotten, he says, "It's so. Fucking. Fast."

Today is Ascension Day, a national holiday in Germany commemorating Jesus Christ's ascension to heaven. In Herxheim, a village of about 10,000 just north of France's easternmost point, the day is celebrated with a trip to the track. According to track officials, about 16,500 spectators have turned up today. Some of the participating race teams are from as far away as Sweden and the UK. The Long Track World Championship circuit has stopped in Herxheim since 1984, but motorcycle racing has been part of the scene here since the late 1920s. For many, coming here on Ascension Day is almost a religious pilgrimage. You just don't miss it.

This seems especially true for the older people. A potbellied man in a red shirt, for instance, told us before the race, over a plate of bratwurst and fries, that he'd been coming here, year after year, for 52 years. The only two times he'd missed it, he explained through a gap in his teeth once occupied by an incisor, he chose to go on a different pilgrimage instead: to the Monaco Grand Prix, the holiest of motorsports holy sites.

On the ride in, Jens had found it necessary to warn me about the people. "It's a lot like NASCAR," he'd said, hopefully, searching for a cultural touchstone. "The people…" he paused, a pained look on his face. "They're… um… They're." I cut him off, told him I understood.

Long Track racing and its kin (Long Track is not to be confused with Speedway, which features a shorter track, also made of sandy dirt; or Grass Track, which takes place on, well, grass) are the kind of obscure forms of racing attractive to rural folk the world over. It makes sense, if you think about it. If you grow up in the countryside, maybe working a farm, riding a dirt bike isn't just a fun thing to do for a kid, it's a practical way to get around. Chances are the farm work has taught you a thing or two about getting machines to run again, and keeping them running once they're started. So you tinker with your bike, too. This here might be a "World Championship," but the barrier to entry is incredibly low. It's not Formula One or MotoGP. At its core, it's extreme tinkering. It's DIY and the feel for riding so basic, so deeply ingrained, that sliding around at high speed on a dirt surface—insane-seeming to some—is normal: You've been doing it your whole life.

The drivers' camp embodies this DIY spirit. The camp is situated in a lightly forested space near the track's first curve. RVs of various size and make are parked in neat rows among the trees. Beside each camper are folding canopies, used by the teams as makeshift, traveling garages, and beside each canopy is a charcoal grill. The mechanics, for whatever reason, all seem to be wearing suspenders over tucked in t-shirts. Nobody has clean hands. A thin layer of dust covers everything: the tents, the RVs, the people. The drivers walk around in various stages of undress, many having unzipped their full-body leather jumpsuits to the waist and removed their arms, so the jumpsuit's torso hangs limp behind their legs, like a second set of skin. The drivers' left boots have metal soles, so they can better slide through the curves.

Most of the teams function as family operations, dads build the bikes, sons ride them, and the rest of the gang hangs out for moral support. Even among the top racing teams, there's a kind of dynastic element. The reigning World Champion, Erik Riss, is nineteen years old. Before Erik came along, his dad Gerd dominated Long Track, winning eight World Championships between 1991 and 2008. Now Gerd is the lead mechanic for Erik.

Back during Gerd's racing days, his biggest rival was Robert Barth, who won four World Championships between 2002 and 2006. The two are rumored to hate each other. Today, Barth is the lead mechanic for Michael Härtel, a 17 year old who qualified as a wildcard but is now one of Erik Riss's main competitors. If that isn't enough back story to convince you that these guys go for it, consider this: the two teenagers, Härtel and Riss, are up against a Swede named Joonas Kylmäkorpi, who won all four World Championships between Gerd Riss's last title and Eric Riss's first.

The World Championship unfolds on a cloud of dust throughout the afternoon. The three favorites trade heats. Riders bump and slide into one another. Engine problems abound. After winning his first two heats, Riss blows the engine on his fastest bike and struggles to stay competitive on his reserve. In a later heat, while fighting for position back in the pack, he skids in front of another rider, Stefan Katt, who goes down trying to get out of the way. As motorcycle crashes go, this one seems almost gentle. Katt slides, wheels first, and as he goes down, he lets go of the bike, coming to rest in the grass on his belly. He doesn't move. The crowd falls silent. A young woman—his girlfriend? His daughter?—runs onto the track and down toward the curve. But after lying limply for a moment, Katt stands up, brushes himself off, and walks away. He and the woman embrace. The crowd breaths again, applauds.

Härtel has engine trouble too. Before the final lap of one heat, he pulls off onto the infield grass, rolling to a stop near the beginning of the turn. At first, it doesn't look bad, but far down the straightaway, a man begins running. He appears to be holding a red toolbox, but as he gets closer, I realize it's a fire extinguisher. Suddenly, flames begin lapping out of the bike's tailpipe. The track official fumbles with the extinguisher as Härtel frantically waves for his crew to come help. His mechanics arrive just as the official blasts the bike with a cloud of white retardant.

The bikes average speeds of more than 75 miles per hour, and the spectacle is death defying enough that it's hard to watch a run without taking shallow breaths and dousing the butterflies with gulps of beer (or wine). But as intense a spectacle as it is, I find myself distracted.

Down by the gate that leads from the oval to the riders' camp, there's a guy in a green and black riding suit. Through years of apparent wear, the black parts have become a faded gray. He stands about 5'8". He has shaggy silver hair down over his ears and a close-cropped beard of the same color. While he watches, he absently puffs on a long, wooden pipe.

His name, I learn, is Karl Keil, and he's as close to a legend as anybody here today. At 61, he's easily 30 years older than the average age of his competitors. He doesn't race in the World Championships but rather in a sidecar event. The sidecar event is less prestigious than the World Championship, and there are fewer participants. It's almost a sideshow. But sideshow or not, it's astounding. After every three or four World Championship heats, Keil puts on a helmet and he and his copilot take to the track to participate in the most reckless-seeming thing I've ever witnessed in the flesh.

The sidecar bikes are shaped differently than standard bikes. The driver sits low to the ground and doesn't put his foot down to slide but hangs his ass off the bike, counterbalancing the weight of his passenger (not unlike the "hiking maneuver" used in sailboat races.) His companion in the sidecar, meanwhile, kneels on a thin, metal platform and holds on to handrails on the wheel housings. In the curve, the passenger throws herself over the bikes rear fender, so as to keep the weight on the inside. Imagine a fireman carrying a person, slung over the shoulder. It's the same position, slung over the fender, with the passenger's face less than a foot from the ground. ("How do they decide who drives?" Jack, my other friend, wonders on seeing his first sidecar in action. "Do they just stone, paper, scissor before each race?")

Up close, despite his hair color, Keil looks a much younger man. His face is youthful and his eyes wide and expressive. It's in his hands that his age is most visible. The skin between the thumb and forefinger is discolored and leathery, from a lifetime of holding on tight. His nails are scratched and deformed and blackened with grease. "Oh, good God, boys," he says when we ask him when he started racing. He looks at me, a faint smile forming. "You hadn't yet come into this world. 1971!"

For years, Keil's co-pilot was his daughter-in-law, but they stopped competing together last year when she divorced his son. Now he's got a new co-pilot, a man about Keil's age, who's an experienced sidecar man, having raced for years for a different driver. (How often do they practice? "Not at all. Today is only our second race!")

Keil has, in his own words, achieved everything there is to achieve in the sport. He's won the European Championship twice (1988 and 1993) and an additional German Championship, in 2001. He tells me he's been on a podium 800 times and recalls with ease the days when dirt track racing was a serious draw. In the 1950s, he says, races here would bring 60,000 people from all across Europe. Some Americans have even come to race over the years.

It's hard to say why dirt track racing has lost its popularity. Keil blames the growing number of other festivals in the area, suggesting they've stolen some of today's traditional uniqueness. But there's more to it. For the last 20 years, just as young people have moved to cities, racing clubs around Germany have closed and their tracks have folded. Keil is a holdover from another era, just like the Herxheim track itself. But while the sport's popularity has waned, the racing itself hasn't changed much. It's still a sport that favors youth. Just look at Riss and Härtel.

When the sidecar event begins, the consensus in the stands is that Keil won't do much. As though to confirm this, he takes third in his first heat. On his second run, he finishes fifth. But on his third run, he surprises everyone, moving into the lead following a great start. At one point, he looks like he'll win with seconds to spare, only for the next bike to slowly reel him in, overtaking Keil right at the finish line. In his final run, with the crowd behind him now, he leads from start to finish. It's not even close. The win moves him into second place on points. The "old fox," as the announcer calls him, has still got it.

After the race, Keil lights up his pipe and chats trackside for a few minutes. He's still smoking, 10 minutes later, when the announcer calls him and his co-pilot to the podium to accept their silver trophies. (Joonas Kylmäkorpi takes first in the World Championship category with Härtel picking up bronze. Riss doesn't make the podium.)

A track official, a middle-aged blond woman, approaches the medalists. She congratulates the third placed finishers first, giving them each a kiss, first on the right then the left cheek, as is customary when greeting someone in Germany. Then she moves to Keil. She kisses him once, twice, his hands on her hips. As she pulls away, he leans in again, slowly, and with a twinkle in his eye, pecks her a third time. It's a young man's sport, but it's an old man's game.

Special thanks to photographer Johannes Brock.