66 SPORTS ILLUSTRATED | SI.COM
His 2,350-pound race car is almost like an extension of
his body. Maneuvering around tracks, Sprouse possesses
a preternatural sense for when to press and when to hang
back. There is a poise and a patience to Sprouse’s driving,
apparent even to the novice dirt racing observer. “You can’t
win the race in the first lap,” is a line he’s fond of issuing.
Out of the sport for more than a decade, he returned
to dirt track racing this April. Car technology—and, by
extension, the entire sport—had evolved considerably in
his absence. But Sprouse made a seamless reentry. “It’s
like riding a bike,” he says, smiling, as ever, “a bike with
four wheels.”
In a culture—and often in pockets of America—that
ca n proud ly, w i l lf u l ly, resist cu lt ura l cha nge a nd socia l
progress, Sprouse had to strategize about revealing his
sexuality at the track, much as he must assess risk behind
the wheel. He landed here: “I don’t flaunt it in people’s
faces. When I’m at the racetrack, I’m just another guy
there competing, racing. I’m just one of the guys. What I
do behind closed doors is my business, not theirs. But if
you ask me, I will tell you, ‘Yeah, I’m gay.’ ”D
USTIN SPROUSE HAS loved racing as long as he
can remember. He, in fact, barely had a choice. Before
their two sons were born, Frank and Nancy—Dustin’s par-
ents—raced cars and Jeeps. Frank spent a decade racing
modifieds on dirt tracks. When Frank’s driving mentor,
Keith Boston, died of a heart attack on his way to the garage,
Frank lost interest. But by then, his sons were already
hooked. Dustin’s brother, Mike, seven years his senior,
has been a competitive driver for the last quarter century.
Just as families in Texas ritually go to high school foot-
ball games on Friday nights, the Sprouses spent most
weekends at one of the 20 dirt tracks within a three-hour
drive of their base of Parkersburg, W.Va. At the family
home, Dustin spent innumerable hours handling wrenches
and learning about engines, chassis and carburetors. He
entered his first race at 13 and won his first one at 15, a
year before he got his actual license to drive. “I was born
to race, pretty much as simple as that,” he says. “Once it’s
in your blood, you can’t get it out.”
At the same time, Sprouse was reckoning with another
part of his identity. He resisted at first. When he didn’t
attend his prom at Parkersburg South High and headed
to the racetrack instead, he attributed it to nothing other
than overriding fondness for racing. He not only dated
girls but also got engaged to his high school girlfriend
by the time he was 18. “I just tried to make everybody
happy by doing the American dream and stuff,” he says.
Within a few years, though, he called off the engagement
to, as he says, be who he is.
W hen he came out, he was in his early 20s. Around the
same time, he stepped away from racing, he says because
he simply ran out of money to compete. His family was
accepting, if worried. Frank has a gay brother and recalls
the bullying he received growing up in West Virginia. “Lifeback then was different,” says Dustin. “You had to run
down the streets to make sure you didn’t get beat up and
stuff like that. And my dad didn’t want me to go through
that. I had to explain to him, the world is different.”
In fact, when word spread through Parkersburg, Sprouse
found he was generally accepted. In part because of that
warm reception, Sprouse decided to rejoin racing in 2021.
His team, Straybullet Motorsports, includes his older
brother and another Parkersburg driver, Biff Brookover.
The conventional wisdom might, of course, go like this:
Both red-state America and a fossil-fuel-burning sport
would be something less than hospitable to an openlyCAUTION FLAGS
Sprouse (in stands and with cigarette) says
that his relationship with Barber remains
uncomplicated; the crew member (in helmet)
says he regrets his actions on Jan. 6.DUSTINSP
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