Backstory: Blue-ribbon America

My mother is appalled. "You're driving where?" she asks, and I imagine the phone lines from here to California snapping to attention. I am on my way from Ann Arbor, Mich., to the Iowa State Fair – heading down 560 miles of interstate that take me south of Chicago, north of Peoria, and past more semis and cornfields than I've seen in my life. My mother's confusion makes sense: I'm a liberal vegetarian raised in a California suburb, tooling along in my Volvo as I listen to my iPod, munch bell peppers like apples, and scoop up black bean dip with baby carrots. I was raised in a family averse to crowds and noise, with a precocious sense of trans fat's risks. All I know of fairs comes from "Charlotte's Web" – and Templeton could never be trusted.

Now I'm driving nine hours to see big-wheel races, cow-chip hurling, 4-H displays (what are those four H's for, anyway?), and all manner of fried foods on sticks. I get to the fair at 8 a.m. Vendors are already hawking "pickle dawgs" and pork tips. I opt for a Red Bull smoothie and settle in to watch the kids' pie-eating contest.

The emcee bounces around the stage, a mix of late-night comedian and genial neighbor. "Breathe and swallow," he coaches, and reminds contestants of the rules: no snorting, no hands. The kids are allowed just one piece each of chocolate pie, and in the younger age groups, they're astonishingly slow – to the consternation of siblings. A teenager coaches his little brother to smear pie across his face, leaving less to swallow; a pair of boys screams at their cousin to "Suck it up!"

There are elated victors and would-be gluttons who sigh as they settle for second place. But some of the fair's greatest ardor and grief takes place in the Variety Theater and the Gemini Rooms. Here, Iowans battle over everything from meatloaf to mayonnaise salads. There are 13,000 entries in the food competitions this year – though the "How's My Wienerschnitzel?" contest draws only one.

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My first stop is the Great American Spam Championship, where people crowd a small theater, all eyes on the handful of tasters below. Before we get down to business, there's a trivia contest, with questions like "How many cans of Spam does it take to equal the weight of the Statue of Liberty?" (7.2 million), and Iowans – the first to choose a presidential candidate every four years – actually know the answers. Between questions, blue and yellow Spam T-shirts and Spam Tupperware are tossed to the victors.

The woman next to me leans over and quips, "I think they should call this the Spampionship." Alma Witzenburg raised her children on Spam, and her daughter Lisa has placed second in the contest, twice. Today Lisa's entry is a Spamberry coffeecake, an underdog in a lineup of Spam wontons (Spamtons), a Spam tart, and, in the kids' division, curried Spam salad with diced apples. Lisa's coffeecake gets plaudits for originality, but the winner is a Spam turkey torte. As Alma and Lisa file out, they hand me the Spam T-shirt. "You take it," Lisa says gently. "I have one at home."

Inspired by the culinary showcase, I wander over to a kiosk selling Oreos, Snickers bars, and Twinkies – batter-dipped and freshly fried by a man with bared biceps and three visible tattoos – then drift toward the rides in this 400-acre fairground. I am in the twilight of my 20s, and I realize, a few seconds into a $5 ferris-wheel ride, that centripetal motion doesn't agree with me anymore, nor do great heights.

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