As I start writing this, it is 10:25 p.m. August 20, 2010. I have just finished watching the NASCAR Nationwide Race from Bristol. I have, once again, seen a driver make a mistake and slip (Busch), then wreck the guy (Kesolowki) who was perceived by the "slipper" to be the reason for the mishap. Then I hear Mr. Busch brag in victory lane that "I dumped him". So much for another cocky statement from a cocky punk who just happens to know how to drive a race car, or race truck. I don't care for him, but I don't have to. I don't spend my money on his die cast, caps, or whatever and neither do I spend my money on Brad's souveniers. In fact, the money I spend on anything NASCAR is zero as in NO dollars and NO cents.
But the point of this little note is about a different time, a different place, and different people. When the sun comes up tomorrow, it will be August 21st. Forty-one years ago on that date, a 23 year old dude from Columbia, South Carolina strapped himself into a white Plymouth, number 83, and proceeded to race his first ever race at the half-mile dirt track in Cayce, South Carolina now known as The Historic Columbia Speedway. Every year on this date I remember that feeling, looking through that windshield on the pace laps and looking over at the crowd of folks in the infield in turn four who had come to witness the actual on track experience of the kid who had been talking about driving race cars since he was 5 year old.
I have related the story of that first race many times, more than once on this site, in fact, but I may not have mentioned how Marty Stephens used his Daddy's work pickup truck to tow my car to the track with a pipe and a chain. I may not have mentioned how we didn't have enough money to get pit passes for my two man pit crew, Eddie Boltin and Tommy Cross, both gone now, into the pits so they spent a lot of time doing imaginary work on the car when NASCAR official Dan Scott would walk through the pits. I may not have mentioned how legendary car owner Herbert Corley came to me after the race with words of encouagement and the loan (for the rest of the season) of a trailer on which to tow my car. I may not have mentioned how my uncle Bobby, who took me to that first race when I was five at that same speedway, the man who rarely, if ever, showed emotion, reached through the fence after I finished third in that first feature race to shake my hand and say "you did it, man" and I noticed a tear in his eye. My uncle Bobby was a mechanic of the first rate. He was the man who taught me to drive, who taught me to drive fast, and with whom I rode my first time above 100 mph and who's car was the first car I drove over 100 miles per hour.
Just a few minutes ago, I held in my hand, the NASCAR license that was issued to me in 1969. I held in my hand the NASCAR lapel pin which came with the license in 1969. Those are tangible objects to support the memories inside my head, and my heart, of what I was all those many years ago. And, you know what? I watched the entire pre-race program tonight, although I find it difficult sometimes to discern what certain of the talking heads are trying to say, and I noticed there were several young drivers with that sparkle and desire in their eyes. Many of the crew personnel are youngsters wanting to make their place in the racing world. Wanting to be a part of the sport, any part of the sport. Just like a kid so long ago that followed that dream which didn't turn out as he planned, but which has now allowed him to be a part of something even bigger.
Through all of this, the thought came to me that NASCAR is not the men in the coats and ties, nor the staff inside the hallowed hallson Volusia Avenue in Daytona Beach. NASCAR is not Bruton Smith and all the tracks he owns. NASCAR is not the huge corporations throwing money into teams who can find more ways to spend it that to make it. In reality, NASCAR is Jimmy Lewallen, Johnny Allen, Tiger Tom Pistone, Jabe Thomas, Ned Jarrett, Rex White, Bobby Allison and a host of others who raced all over the Southeast. NASCAR is Fred Lorenzen, Fireball Roberts, Lee Petty, Joe Weatherly, Curtis Turner, and so many more names that drove the cars without power steering, without the coolsuits. NASCAR is, or was at one time, we fans who would drive hundreds of miles every weekend, living on sandwiches, to see their favorites race. NASCAR is an acronym for The National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing. Granted, there is nothing stock about today's cars. As for "National Association" it seems to me with races in Canada, Mexico and even a venture or two into Japan, it would more appropriately be designated as "International Association". As for the "R" designating racing, tonight's show WAS racing, although it got rough near the end. It was good side-by-side, nose-to-tail racing.
I guess the "bottom line" is that NASCAR is really those guys in the pits who work their butts off, most times with little recognition or glory, with whatever their dreams may be. NASCAR is those drivers who know their only chance of victory is if every other car in the race encounters problems but, yet, they are still there doing the best they can with what they have. Oh, and one final thing; I saw a grandfather, father and son in a camera shot sitting there in the grandstands. Grandfather about 50, son about 25, and the son maybe five. All three pair of eyes were on the action. All three pairs of eyes were open wide. And, in the eyes of the five year old, was the sparkle and glitter that indicated inside his little head the thought was taking shape that he was going to be a race driver one day.
Maybe that was just my old tired mind thinking back to that night some 59 years ago when my grandfather and my uncle Bobby took me to that first race. Maybe I was thinking about that night 41 years ago when my dream of driving a race car was actually coming true.
NASCAR is an acronym. NASCAR is more than that though. NASCAR is people, real people who care. We must never overlook the fact that as much as we have problems with the way we perceive the sport is being handled by NASCAR brass these days, NASCAR was built by dreamers and doers, by sacrafice, sometimes the ultimate sacrifice, and most of us here on Racers Reunion helped build it as the fans we were.
We may not like what our sport as become. We may not like the way the decisions are made in Daytona Beach, but, once upon a time our hearts were in the sport. I have to admit that when I was watching the parade laps tonight, I remembered how the excitement of hearing those engines and seeing those cars made my heart race every time I attended a race through all those many years. Most of all, I remember how I felt on August 21, 1969. I was a NASCAR driver!!!!!
Tim
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What a change! It's been awhile since I've checked in and I'm quite surprised. It may take me awhile to figure it our but first look it's really great.
updated by @tim-leeming: 12/05/16 04:04:08PM
