Talladega

There are thrills ... and then there's driving at Talladega.

Mere words cannot begin to describe what it's like to pull out onto the backstretch in a race car prepared by the Dale Jarrett Racing Adventure. They can't fully encompass the all-out rush of getting a clear race track and putting your foot full to the floor.

To say it was awesome is an insult. Cool? Yeah, but it was more than that. Way more.

To turn under somebody and pass them at speed ... nope ... there's no way to put it into words. What's even more incomprehensible is that my best lap speed -- two of my 20 laps were at just a tick over 165 mph -- was nearly 25 mph slower than the pole speed for the last Cup race at Talladega.

So ... no. Jeff Gordon has nothing to worry about. Not from me, at least. Not at Talladega.

Sam Ard

This post is dedicated to my friend and hero, Sam Ard.

Sam, the division now known as the Nationwide Series was founded on your back. And Jack's. And Tommy Houston's. And DJ's. Lord, how I wish I could've seen you race. I missed it, but all I know is that when I look at the record book, you ruled.

From the moment you and I talked for the very first time on that afternoon in Darlington, it became my mission to produce a book that would make you and Jack and Tommy proud. I don't know if I actually accomplished what I sat out to do, but one of the proudest moments in my life was handing you your copy and seeing the look on your face as you thumbed through its pages.

If through my book just one more person recognized you for everything that you accomplished, I'm happy. Regardless, you are a legend.

Thank you so much for what you mean to me personally, and for what you've meant to the sport.

Take care of yourself,

Rick

Dale Earnhardt Jr.

There was a time and a place in his career when Dale Earnhardt Jr. could relax and be himself at a race track.

Believe it or not.

I first met Junior at Watkins Glen in 1996. He wore a plain white uniform. He had no sponsors to speak of, at least not anything like today. I had no trouble in setting up an interview that weekend, and if I didn't exactly waltz into the lounge of his transporter and start talking, it was something very close to it.

My memories of Junior's time in the Busch Series are many. There was the flip at Daytona in the first race of his first full-time year. There was the night he dominated a race at South Boston, only to be penalized for rough driving after he thumped Joe Bessey. Something he said that night has always stuck with me.

He said he was nothing you couldn't find at any Saturday night bullring. It wasn't a false humility. It was deeply felt. You could tell he was thankful for the opportunity he'd been given.

Oh, there's more. I was there the weekend he broke his shoulder blade during practice at Milwaukee, then came back to finish third in the next day's race. I can still remember the look on a fellow reporter's face as Junior ushered me -- and me alone -- into the lounge of his transporter to talk about the accident.

There was the night my son, Richard, and I were sitting in the media center at Gateway when Junior walked in, looking for a copy of the paper for which I worked.

"Where's that piece of crap you write for, Houston?" Junior barked.

"Why? You can't read," I shot back.

After Junior finally found his paper and left, Richard looked at me and said, "Dad ... Dale Earnhardt Jr. reads YOUR newspaper."

The thing that stands out most is this ... my wife, Jeanie, had a miscarriage in November 1998. It was the darkest week of our marriage. The hurt was incredible, and I missed the next weekend's race at Homestead, the season finale in which Junior would clinch his first Busch Series championship.

We'd left home for a brief time on Saturday, and Jeanie called to check our messages. We had one.

It was Junior.

"Don't worry about anything, Rick," Junior said. "I'll work around your schedule. You take care of what you need to take care of, and we'll talk when you get the chance. And ... I'm sorry to hear about what happened."

After that, there was no debate with Jeanie. She WOULD be going to the interview, so a week or so later, Jeanie, Junior and I had dinner at this little place in Mooresville strip mall. Junior and I talked "on the record" for about 45 minutes, and though I fully expected him to bolt as soon as I clicked my tape recorder off, he sat there for nearly an hour afterward, just shooting the breeze.

I honestly don't believe that he would've left then, but he was headed to Matt Kenseth's house to meet a girl he hoped to take to the banquet.

"If I don't have a date," he said, "I'm gonna look like an idiot."

Weeks later, Jeanie and I happened to be at a Japanese restaurant when Junior, Hank Parker Jr. and Lyndon Amick walked in. They saw us, and Junior immediately came over to say hi ... a regular guy saying hello to regular people. He kissed Jeanie on the cheek, then turned to leave. The back of his T-shirt ... the back of his T-shirt read, "Kiss my ass."

Junior being Junior.

He'd said something at dinner that night in Mooresville. I kidded him about being a future superstar, that there would come a time when he wouldn't have time for the "little people".

"Awwwww ... Rick. If you EVER have any trouble talking to me, you can kick my ass," he said emphatically.

There's only one problem these days. I can't get close enough to Junior to kick his ass. Thing is, I completely understand. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be Dale Earnhardt Jr. these days. He inherited a fanbase that placed its expectations squarely on his shoulders, rightly or wrongly. He was forced to grieve in front of millions of people. He has had huge sponsorships and been pulled and tugged and hustled from one place to the next. He has had private family squabbles become very public.

One of these days Junior and I will sit down, if for no other reason than to catch up ... and remember the good ol' days in the Busch Series.

And don't worry, Junior. I won't, in fact, kick your ass.

Why Care?

Why should anyone care about the history of stock car racing in general?

That's a good question.

Why care? Because, like it or not, where we've been as a sport is a very large part of where we're headed. Lee Petty built a foundation upon which Richard Petty raced, and Richard Petty added to the foundation upon which Kyle Petty races today. It's a heritage that has been -- or should have been, at any rate -- passed down from generation to generation.

Why are Green Bay Packers fans Green Bay Packers fans? It's not because the team happens to be doing well this season. No ... it's because of the mystique of Bart Starr, Vince Lombardi, Paul Horning, Jerry Kramer and Willie Davis. It's because Grandpa was a Packers fan, and so are Dad and most likely Mom. They're fans because it's in their blood.

Why care about the New York Yankees? Because of Babe Ruth ... and Lou Gehrig ... and Mickey Mantle ... and Yogi ... and Don Larsen ... and ... well ... the list has to end there. Go Sox!!!

Still, the point is there. To build an honest to goodness fanbase, the sport has to have a solid background and history. Building on anything other than the sport's history is a critical mistake. What happens to tree without firm roots? It gets blown over at the first sign of a windstorm.

NASCAR says it has 75 million fans. Of those 75 million, however, how many are truly passionate about the sport? How many could identify Bobby, Donnie and Davey Allison in a photograph? Or David Pearson? Or Maurice Petty? How many simply see the sport as the latest cool thing to do, where they sit in an air-conditioned suite, paying little to no attention to the race unfolding on the track?

In the end, it's all about the foundation upon which this sport is built. Are we on solid ground? We'll see. In future posts, we'll take a look at those who have come before and remember. We'll honor the past, and hope for the future.