By Ryan McGee

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Somewhere between Asbury Park and Atlantic City, between Springsteen and Trump, lies the real Jersey Shore, where men and women churn their way out through Little Egg Inlet in search of Atlantic fish, shrimp and clams; where they chase the morning's first coffee and the evening's last beer with swigs of salt air. On Saturday nights, they fill the grandstands of the Jersey short tracks, from the half-mile clay ring of New Egypt to the asphalt high banks of Wall Township Speedway. And between fe ...

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