TMC Racing Stories: Charlotte 1

As a native North Carolinian, Schaefer Hall of Fame co-founder Philly grew up going to races at tracks such as Rockingham, Wilkesboro, Martinsville, and Charlotte. He and I met when both of us were living in Chattanooga. In May 1994, he suggested we go to the 1994 Coca-Cola 600. Done, I'm in.

The two of us, our wives, and their eight-month old young'un loaded up in Philly's recently acquired green Pontiac Trans Port mini-van that looked like this one.

Our Friday destination was Matthews, NC to stay with Philly's in-laws. The weekend plans were for Philly and me to go racing and the ladies to shop, tour the area, or whatever people do to waste time when they aren't at a race.

Philly and I set our Saturday sights on the original Petty Museum in Level Cross. We then planned to return to Matthews to load up on tailgating food and beer supply. What we had not anticipated, however, was having a third wheel. Philly's better half said matter-of-factly "We'll have him on Sunday, so y'all get him on Saturday." With our marching orders in hand, we loaded up Woodhead and headed out for the day. After all, I've learned many racing weekends involve living in Plan B.

Woodhead had already been introduced to racing...sort of. The night he was born in The Nooga, I took him his first NASCAR t-shirt - a Dale Jarrett Interstate Batteries yute size. He traveled fine to Level Cross and tolerated us as we soaked in the Petty history displayed in the wood paneled, low ceiling museum.

When we made it back to Matthews, Woodhead was getting a bit fidgety. He'd ridden the better part of four hours strapped in his car seat after having ridden in it for several hours the day before. Yet, Philly and I were on a mission. We still had beer shopping to do.

Food Lion was our destination. They were still heavily involved as a sponsor in NASCAR, had supported Richard Petty's Fan Appreciation Tour in 1992, and was the last grocery store chain in North Carolina that sold Schaefer. We squeezed Woodhead into the kid's seat of the buggy and set sail.

• Chips ✔ 
• Loaf bread ✔ 
• Pack of ham ✔ 
• Private label cheese ... product ✔ 
• Little Debbie's ✔ 

Up next, a careful examination of Food Lion's beer offerings. As we stood there pondering our options, each of the brands in the chiller seemed to holler Pick Me.

We were so engrossed in the process that we took our focus off the buggy behind us. Suddenly, we heard a muffled whoomp followed by crying. We wheeled around to find Woodhead laying atop our smashed loaf of bread and bags of crushed chips.

One thing was certain about Woodhead. That boy loved to eat. He was sizable enough at eight months that we were unable to buckle him into the buggy! Up until that moment, we'd done a yeoman's job of keeping our eye on him. Being distracted by beer, however, nearly cost us dearly. He could have just as easily flipped the other way and landed on the floor.

As Philly picked him to see that all was OK, we noticed a woman across the aisle giving us the stink eye and a tsk, tsk head shake. Choosing to make her opinion  known, she stated directly "you put a mark on that boy, and y'all may as well not go home."

I'm pleased to say Woodhead survived his free fall into the grocery mosh pit. I'm also pleased to have seen him grow as a racing fan as well as one who appreciates Schaefer. And he's so smart Jenny. He was inducted into the Schaefer Ring of Honor in Daytona before the 2015 Coke Zero 400.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Daytona 3

The 1980 Daytona 500 was my first to attend. A few months earlier at the wedding of my uncle Earl, my uncle Ronald who had introduced me to racing about five years earlier committed to taking me to Daytona. With King Richard having won the 1979 500 and his seventh title, I was on a high knowing he'd likely return strong in the 1980 race.

Ronald was always somewhat of a free spirit. As race week arrived, my travel plans suddenly changed. Rather than have me ride with him to Jacksonville to stay with Earl and his new bride, Ronald called my mother to say he was already in Jacksonville! Today, I'd be frustrated as hell if he pulled that stunt - but then it was simply no big deal. I kept my eye on the prize and really wasn't worried about the details - even if my parents were.

On a Friday night, my mother put me on a Greyhound bus for an all-night ride to Jacksonville. I naively slept pretty much the whole way. Fortunately, my uncle was there to pick me up at the station - well at least Earl was. Ronald, who'd promised the trip and the ride, was a no-show.

Earl surprised me with an unexpected outing Saturday night. He took me to NWA wrasslin' at Jacksonville's Memorial Coliseum. He was very intellectual, college educated, informed of current events, opinionated, and a sports junkie. Professional wrestling, however, was kind of his soap opera or trashy novel vice. Unlike many who immersed themselves in it, he knew what was real vs. staged. Yet he still enjoyed and laughed heartily at the story lines. We got to see The American Dream Dusty Rhodes, Harley Race, and the largest man I've ever seen in my life - Andre The Giant.

Earl, my new aunt, Ronald, his girlfriend, and I left on a cold Sunday morning in the mid-size motorhome belonging to my aunt's father. I went to Florida thinking the weather was always warm. My long sleeve shirt, denim jacket and orange/blue Petty cap were about to be tested.

We were in front of Lake Lloyd without a really clear view of anything - not of the pits or of turns 3 and 4. I could barely see the start-finish line through the myriad of folks on top of their motorhomes. But we had a pretty good view of turns 1 and 2 before they thundered down the backstretch.

With the 43 starting 4th, that day-glo red and Petty blue Olds 442 popped from the starting grid whereas the gray pole-winning car of Buddy Baker was hard to spot anywhere on the track from where we were.

The King was competitive, and I remember shaking as he made lap after lap in the draft. Part of it was adrenaline - but I'm sure a lot of it was because the temps were dropping as a stiff wind intensified. But I simply could not believe it when Petty disappeared from the track.

I used a Winston AM radio headset back in the late 1980s and early 90s and have used a scanner since. Looking back, I find it funny I didn't have any sort of radio with me. I had no idea what happened to the 43. By the time the car disappeared, Ronald had already climbed down and disappeared into the motorhome. One reason was to warm himself from the weather. Another was to warm himself with a few nips from a bottle of Old No. 7! He had MRN on the radio, and that's where I learned 43 was done for the day after climbing down myself.

Yet the race continued, so I went back on top. After another dozen laps or so, the cold got the best of the rest of 'em. One by one - my aunt, Ronald's girlfriend, and then Earl - all retreated to the motorhome leaving me alone. I shivered with hands thrust in my pockets and collar upturned as a hedge against the wind. I know Buddy won, but I simply could not see that gray Olds cross the line.

The race is one of a few where I don't have a ticket stub. I think we just paid a flat fee or maybe a per head fee to get into the infield. But I did return home with a couple of collectibles:

• a Daytona t-shirt that I wore until it was thread bare - well, actually until I piled on the freshman fifteen (and then some) in college. I'd hate to think what I'd look like if I tried to sport a shirt that small today.

• a patch with the old DIS logo that I bought at Stuckey's on the way back to Jax. My mother stitched it plus multiple other racing patches to the back of that jean jacket I wore to the race.

• a Richard Petty 'jersey' shirt. I happened to be wearing it later that spring when a few photos were taken for our high school yearbook.

I got to observe plenty of adult things from heavy drinking, hootin and hollerin, a portable hot tub even in the cold air, etc. (I wish it'd been much warmer to have my eyes opened by the bikinis that were certainly sported under heavy jackets.) But I remember thinking one of the neatest things I saw was this little custom roadster made to look like a Busch beer can.

Only recently did I learn the 1980 500 was likely the debut of the roadster. A couple of New Smyrna entrepreneurial designers built it. Later they contracted with Stroh's Brewing to build several as promotional cars.

Source: Daytona Beach Morning Journal

The arrangement between Ronald and my parents - written in sand I suppose - was for Ronald to drive me back to Tennessee on Monday. Schools may have been closed because of President's Day, or maybe I simply missed the day. Either way, I needed to be back in school on Tuesday.

But again, Ronald's plans were always fluid. Instead of driving me home, he decided he'd stay in Jax a few more days. So he bought me a one-way ticket on Eastern Airlines. At least he did park and wait with me at the gate until flight time. While waiting at our gate, he nudged me and said "Recognize those two?". I wasn't sure who he was referring to as I scanned around. Finally he pointed "Right there. It's Junior Johnson and Cale."

Suddenly it was an oh yeah! moment - yet I just sat there. I had the opportunity the meet Cale at my first Cup race at Nashville in 1978. But because he dominated for the win and because I'd drawn a bead on getting to the 43, I passed up my shot. In February 1980, I passed on the opportunity again. I still was no big fan of that 3x champion. I recall Ronald laughing as he said I may be taking my Petty loyalism a little too far.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: The Horseshoe Lounge 2.0

The first visit to Johnson City, TN's Horseshoe Lounge in 1992 by Schaefer co-founder Philly and me was random. Our return visit in 1994 was planned. As we hit the county line to ready for the Food City 500, we knew our destiny was to once again order the best burger in Johnson City along with a cold Busch or two to wash it down.

As we pulled into the parking lot, we were confused a bit by a new sign. Instead of Casey's Horseshoe Lounge, the sign now read McCreary's Horseshoe Lounge. Yet we walked into the place like we were old timers and found a seat at an empty table.

Our waitress came over and politely let us know the table was reserved. (I don't remember her name, but I'll refer to her going forward as Shirley because the name fit the place.) "Reserved? Y'all take reservations??" Surprisingly, they did take call-ahead seating requests - especially for regulars which we were not. But Shirley said they weren't expected for another hour, so we could stay until then.

We had to ask - McCreary's? What happened to Casey? "Aww, that changed a couple of months ago hon. Hey y'all! When did we change the name?" [from behind the bar: "Wasn't it the week after the Super Bowl?"] DOH! OK, that answered that question.

Hot, fresh, tasty burgers and fries arrived along with a cold brew - and then began the afternoon entertainment: karaoke. Some sad sack named Johnny took the mic - black toboggan on his head, scraggly beard, a pack of smokes in his pocket, and a beer in hand. Johnny commenced to singing (or attempted to sing) some sort of sad, country ballad. Something along the lines of Merle, Hank or Cash - though I've long forgotten the barely recognizable tune. But rather than just sing, his drunken state led him to keep the microphone almost in his mouth. His singing came off more like a Bill Cosby bit or a low-octave version of Miss Othmar, Charlie Brown's teacher.

After Johnny finished and earned some tepid applause, another couple of brave souls took the mic to sing redneck karaoke. Johnny soon returned, however, and was ready for more. Our burgers had fortunately vanished by then; otherwise, we could not have eaten them because of our laughter.

Having lost track of time, we were a bit surprised when Shirley returned, apologized, and said she needed our reserved table. We understood and were prepared to make our break. But this sweetheart had more. "Y'all ain't gotta leave. Nina and Larry said y'all could sit with them."

Who? Sure enough, we turned around and spotted a random couple at another booth waving at us. Shirley had done some recon for us, explained we were race fans from out of town, and were facing "no room in the inn." We laughed, politely declined the kind offer from Nina and Larry, but chose to stick around for a bit more of Johnny's hillbilly lounge act.

Shirley continued to be an excellent waitress. She kept an eye on us and made sure we had a cold replacement. As we stood against the wall, a table of beastly females started grinning and asked if we wanted to sing with them. Before I could suggest we tab out, Philly said "Sure! Sign us up!"

Shirley returned and asked "another'n?". Though I wanted no part of road pig karaoke, I did make a final request.

Shirley, we want two Miller High Lifes. But - I  want you to peel the labels off of the bottles. Miller sponsored Bobby Allison. Did you know when he got hurt at Pocono in '88, they dropped him like a bad date? So we ain't about to publicly support the brand. Got it?

She walked away confused - and rightfully so considering my embellishment. Meanwhile, we got a countdown update. "Y'all 'bout ready? We're number 6! What y'all wanna sing?" Lawd almighty, get me out of here.

Philly then nudged me, pointed and said "Look at that." Sure 'nuff, Shirley was at the bar with with two High Lifes and a butter knife.

We're number 3 y'all!

She brought two nekkid bottles to us, and I gave her a hug and asked for the tab. With a clink and a laugh, I told Philly "Bury it so we can go."

We're up next y'all! Chug man.

When Shirley returned, we palmed her plenty of cash to cover our tab plus a generous tip. We tossed our empties, turned for the door, and thankfully escaped the grand stage of McCreary's Horseshoe Lounge.

A few years ago, I stumbled over Horseshoe Lounge written by songwriter Slaid Cleaves. Though I understand the song is based on a real bar by that name as well as plenty of general bar adventures, the song isn't about our Horseshoe. Nonetheless, Slaid included enough close-to-the-pin references that I can relate it to our two visits.


TMC

TMC Racing Stories: My Significant Other

A fitting post for Valentine's Day I think...

Aside from the racing, time with friends, and enjoyment of Schaefer, one of the most enjoyable parts for me of attending a NASCAR weekend is meeting new folks. We've had some of the best times meeting couples from Loudon to Vegas and from Phoenix to Charlotte. It's fun to see their tailgating styles, menu options, which driver they pull for, their pets, whatever. Having said that, I travel as the sole representative of my own household on racing trips for three specific reasons.

Strike 1

Not long after a co-worker and I started dating, I regularly mentioned my passion for racing. She agreed to give it a try, and we went to Talladega in May 1989 for the Winston 500.

I'd been to Talladega once before. For the 1987 Winston 500, I sat on the frontstretch just a couple of sections to the right of Harold Kinder - not far from where Bobby Allison horrifically ripped the fence. The tickets were comp'd, and I really didn't explore the track much or have a strategy for parking.

Because our plan to go in '89 was last minute, I didn't buy reserved seats. Instead, we opted for general admission backstretch tickets. My girlfriend's first impression of the scene was not a favorable one.

• The morning air was pretty chilly. 
• The wooden bleachers were full of splinters. 
• The smell of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. 
• And the hootin' and hollerin' from the rowdies was already at volume level 8.

As race time drew near, the sun jumped the temps pretty quickly. A good ol' boy lounging on the grassy bank below our bleachers decided it was time to get in the zone. He was wearing a pair of sweat pants, and he stumbled a bit as he tried to shed them in favor of his shorts. But in the process of doing so, he managed to hook his thumbs in the waistband of this sweats, shorts, and tighty-whities. He mooned the whole bleacher section - including my girlfriend. Don't look Ethel!

When the green flag dropped and the restricted engines of the bunched pack muscled up to speed, I focused more on the race than I did her. Hey, we were at a race. Right? It wasn't as if we were on a date date.

The bleacher bums amp'd their lusty cheers to 11 as their heroes screamed down the backstretch - the Earnhardt's Goodwrench Chevy, Rusty's Kodiak Pontiac, Neil Bonnett in the Wood Brothers' Ford, and Alabama's newest favorite son Davey Allison in the Havoline Ford. WHOOOOOO! But my girlfriend just sat there stoically and wasn't buying it.

About halfway through the race, one of the fellas behind us needed a break. Rather than cross over his brethren, he decided he'd step down a few rows of empty pine. After navigating a couple of them successfully, he misstepped one and pitched forward. Fortunately for him - but not so much for us - my girlfriend was his brake. He caught her in the upper back and bent her over as he stopped. To his credit, he pulled up and slobbered out a meek sorry ma'am.

To my credit, I was chivalrous, defended my lady friend, dog cussed the guy, and tossed him to the aisle. Actually, that's a bald-faced lie. I laughed heartily at the whole scene and earned a death glare from her when it wasn't directed at Gomer.

The bad situation (for her - still funny to me) got worse as the race hit the 3/4 mark and the dicing intensified. The intensity was too much for another one of our new-found buddies behind us to stomach. Or maybe it was the prodigious amount of booze he'd consumed that weekend. Either way, we heard the unmistakable sound of wretching as the Puke Monster unloaded on the empty bleacher row in front of him. That's it, enough. She was ready to bolt for the car, but fortunately I talked her into moving a couple of sections away so I could be there for the finish.

Amazingly, we made it to the end. Even more surprising is she later agreed to marry me, and we got hitched about 18 months later. I'm glad we stayed. As it turned out, I was there to see Davey take the win as I was his other two times in 1987 and 1992.

Embed from Getty Images

Strike 2

Two years after Talladega, she agreed to give racing a second chance. Being a bit wiser myself, I opted for going to Atlanta instead of coaxing her into a return trip to Talladega. Our target: the 1991 Motorcraft 500. To help things a bit, a friend of mine and his wife went with us.

We were prepared for a great day of racing fun. Alan Kulwicki qualified fastest in his debut race with Hooters as his sponsor, and Ken Schrader had a fast car which made my friend happy.

The race began, but then a persistent rain followed. We sat in the stands with our meager ponchos as we hoped for relief. The track's PA announcer and MRN reassured the fans that we'd soon be racing again because a weather window was opening. I bet we heard weather window a hundred times that afternoon.

The window never opened, and the remainder of the race was postponed until Monday. On our way back to Chattanooga, my buddy and I made the decision to take a vacation day and return for the conclusion. But not my wife. She'd had enough.

Strike 3

When Richard Petty announced his plans to retire after the end of the 1992 season, Schaefer co-founder Philly and I made plans to hit as many races as we could that year. Of critical importance to us was attending his final event - the Hooters 500 at Atlanta. I asked my wife if she wanted me to buy her a ticket as well. The King's last race - on a fall, southern afternoon? C'mon.

Her answer was along the lines of "Fine, but I'll take a book to read." What? A book? I replied it would be wasted money if I bought her a ticket only to have her read the whole time. Who could even do that? "Then don't buy me a ticket. I really don't wanna go anyway." So I didn't.

My 43rd year as a racing fan is now underway. And I've been the sole representative from my home at all races I've attended since March 1991. I generally have a great time meeting other couples at races, but odds are slim to none any of them will ever meet my better half.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: The Horseshoe Lounge 1.0

Schaefer co-founder Philly and I made our way to Bristol in April 1992 for the Food City 500. The race was to be my first Bristol race since Rusty Wallace's first win in the 1986 Valleydale Meats 500, and I believe it was Philly's first Bristol trip.

Philly scored us a pair of tickets when he traded with his apartment neighbor for a set of bar stools. With the transaction being a somewhat last minute deal, we had to wrangle a place to stay. Remarkably, we found a room at the Red Roof Inn in Johnson City.

As we checked in, we asked the desk clerk for a recommendation to watch the NCAA basketball tourney games that afternoon and evening. She politely and articulately directed us to a neighboring chain restaurant. It had a lounge and would likely be airing the game.

Philly and I looked at each other, sneered, smirked, and returned to her. "That's fine and all. But it'll probably be crowded, overpriced, and boring. Where would you go if you weren't working tonight?"

She lowered her head, slipped into her natural east Tennessee country accent, and replied with gusto, "Well hell, I'd go to the Horseshoe Lounge up by the VA Hospital. They got the best burgers in Johnson City." Sold!

After getting directions, we dumped our gear and then laughed as we pulled into the parking lot of Casey's Horseshoe Lounge - a fine looking, hole-in-the-wall, entertainment venue. Once inside, we wondered if we'd gone to heaven. The bar had a NASCAR theme with name badges affixed to each table and driver swag hanging on the wall above each of them.

The burgers were indeed fantastic, and we downed them with a NASCAR-related but non-driver-specific Busch. After a couple of them, I was the first to break the seal. Returning to my chair, I found that Philly had ordered us a couple of PBR tall boys. Nice.

When Philly hit the can, I returned the favor and ordered a couple of Old Milwaukee quarts. Yes, they had genuine 32 ounce glass Old Mil bottles. They were dreadful, but the laughter, hoops, and fellow bar patrons were all fantastic.

As the night wore on, Casey's added several more folks. Being noobs in the place, we kept an active sixth sense in case the vibe turned south. We surrendered our table and moved closer to the door just to keep our options open.

After peaking our awfulness with Old Mil, we returned to an icy mug of something more mainstream. Miller Lite, Coors Light, whatever. I made what I believe was a very astute...and prescient... comment to Philly:

Ever notice in the movies when they have bar fights where folks smash beer mugs over each others' heads? But have you ever actually seen a mug break? These things are indestructible! I've seen waitresses drop them and drunks knock 'em over, but they never break. 

Within moments after had I said it, chaos broke out..kinda. With no warning, some dude found himself laying right in the middle of a couple's table. Their burgers went flying as did their beer mugs - which shattered as they hit the floor!

The new centerpiece managed to lift himself from the table to reveal a shirt smothered in mustard, and he feebly muttered Sorry. His buds came over to assist him - and brought a pair of cuff crutches! Turns out the poor slob had serious issues with his legs and needed the crutches to walk. When he went to take a leak, however, he was so drunk he had forgotten his crutches! He took one or two steps and pitched right over into the poor couple's date night meal.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Bristol 1

Soon after closing on our first house, I learned my little Toyota Corolla was ill-equipped for regular runs to the hardware store, landscaping lot, Walmart, etc. Adding to the need for more room in my vehicle was the addition of Winston to our household.

As a pup, Winston went just about everywhere with me. Getting smacked in the face by his sturdy and hyperactive puppy tail, however, got really old. I traded out my Yota for a 1993 Jeep Grand Cherokee, and life was a wee bit better.

I bought the standard, two-wheel drive model though I also test-drove the 4WD version. I opted for the two-wheel drive one because:

• The handling was more to my liking, 
• I didn't plan to take it on many off-road excursions, and
• The dealer wanted $2,000 extra for the 4WD option!

Schaefer co-founder Philly and I loaded the Jeep on a Saturday morning in April 1994 for an overnight trip to Bristol. We were on our way for the Food City 500. (As an aside, we were as stunned as anyone and laughed heartily as we heard on MRN that Mark Martin pulled off the track a lap early to gift the Busch race win to David Green.)

On Sunday, we picked a lot well away from the track. Cost wasn't bad - 10 bucks or so. After watching Earnhardt win...again, our jaws dropped as we arrived at our parking lot. The buttheads running the lot had eked out every stinking dollar of revenue they could. Vehicles were parked parallel and perpendicular liked a series of failed Tetris rows.

We were blocked on the sides and behind us. One upside we had, however, is no one was in front of me. A couple of options were available:

• wait for a bunch of half-lit fans to lollygag back to the lot and leave so we could back out -or-
• pull straight ahead, cross a small ditch, climb the slight rise, and turn right on the highway.

Facing a 5+ hour ride home to Chattanooga plus work on Monday, option 1 was immediately discarded. I eased down one side of the embankment, through the marshy bottom of the ditch, and up the other side. But then...

With the wet ditch, I got zero traction. I tried not to spin the rear tires, but I was making no forward progress.

As a few good ol' boys sauntered up, they offered sage advice "DROP IT IN 4 WHEEL DRIVE MAN!" I laughingly bellowed back "I would if I'd had two grand more."

Philly stepped out of the passenger side and asked the guys if they could give us a hand. Sure enough, the inebriated bunch of good-hearted souls gathered at the rear of my Jeep and yelled Go!

I eased into the gas but still wasn't going anywhere at first. But then bit by bit, I moved forward some. I glanced to my left and spotted Philly doubled-over laughing outside the door. Before I could even ask what was so funny, he stammered out just keep going between laughs. 

Finally I popped out on the shoulder of the highway, and the Jeep's rear wheels were again back on asphalt. Philly yelled thanks and jumped in. I threw my hand out the window to acknowledge them too, but returned my focus to checking my mirrors for on-coming traffic. 

Philly then said while still busting a gut "stop a second and look at those clowns." All of them - several shirtless - were covered ankle-to-neck in fresh mud but laughing and with a fresh brew in hand. 

With a shake of the head and you've GOT to be kidding me, we headed for I-81 to lead us home.

TMC 

TMC Racing Stories: Daytona 2

Some have wondered.
Some have guessed.
I've shared with some.
Others couldn't give a rip.

But here goes.

I've blogged a handful of times about one of my uncles introducing me to racing back in 1974. He took me to my first late model sportsman race and first Cup race - both at Nashville's Fairgrounds Speedway. He also took me to my first Daytona 500 in 1980. Other than those occasions, however, we didn't go to many races together.

Another uncle - the youngest of the four siblings - invited us to Daytona in 1991 for the annual Pepsi err Firecracker 400. I had been the previous couple of years with different friends, but this was to be the my first race with three of my uncles.

My oldest uncle rode with me. Ronald - the one that intro'd me to racing - drove separately with my cousins in his Camaro. We stayed together pretty closely on the trip from Tennessee to Jacksonville on Friday. Not a bad pace - 70-75 most of the way. Until.

We got to Lake City FL and knew the next milestone was the Duval County / Jacksonville city limits line. As we approached it, both of us amp'd the speed a bit more. As we got well into the county and close to Orange Park, we were both flying. (Not advised kids.) I was in front of him and blocking by switching lanes on I-295.

But I deked when I should've juked, and he re-passed me as we hit the Buckman Bridge over the St. John's River. The bridge was a no-passing zone back then. But I swung around another car, passed Ronald, and moved back in front of him as we exited the interstate on the other side of the bridge. I held the lead until we got to my uncle's house, and my oldest uncle and I declared ourselves the winners. My cousins immediately howled in protest about my no-pass zone infraction. Either way, we knew a great weekend was about to unfold.

We headed for Daytona early Saturday to make the mid-morning green flag. Many today frequently pine for a return to that tradition. Those that do so either (1) have never experienced it or (2) have forgotten what it was like. It was beyond hot. We may well have been halfway to Hades after having interstate-raced the night before.

But...we were there.

Let's see...

Chilled adult beverages? Perhaps a few
Sunscreen - scant
Water - zero

I honestly remember little of the race except for Awful Bill from Dawsonville winning in his blue Coors Light Ford and the bad wreck involving Joe Ruttman and Darrell Waltrip.

As you may have rightfully surmised, I wasn't a big fan of Elliott back in the day. One of my uncle's friends who went with us and his young son, however, were big Elliott homers, and they were elated. The kid gloated all the way back to Jax as the rest of us continued consuming the remaining inventory of the coolers.

Once home, someone had the lame-brained idea of playing basketball on my uncle's concrete driveway. Frequent replenishment with Gatorade? Umm, not exactly - unless Stokely Van Camp had a Bud flavored one.

My oldest uncle had a belly as big as west Texas and sported a shirt the size of Rhode Island. He acted as if he had the game of Lebron James, but his hoop skills were much closer to those of Etta James. The rest of us just flopped around, missed shots, paused to take a swig, and fell down...a lot.

I spent as much time lifting myself from the scorching concrete as I did with my ferocious defense on an uncle or cousins who by now were beginning to look a lot alike and starting to replicate in numbers. At some point, I collided with Ronald and went to the deck.

As we sweated, laughed and burned, the 12 year-old Bill Elliott fan stood over me after one of my falls and declared with resignation: "Mr. Chase, who know what your problem is? You're full of too much country."

I have no idea where he came up with that - and really wasn't sure at the time what he even meant. But I started laughing and then embraced it. I got up, tousled his hair, and replied "Ya know Nic, you got that right. I am full of too much country."

Nic the Elliott fan at Talladega two races later

Over time, I've defined the label as I've seen fit. I've embraced it as as a compliment, accept it as an insult, and often see it in others.

In May 2016, I met Darrell Waltrip in Charlotte coming down the Smith Tower elevator following Thursday night qualifying for the Coke 600. I'd met Ol' DW before but re-intro'd myself. I said "We've met before DW, but my name is Chase. You've seen me on Twitter as toomuchcountry." He paused and joked for the benefit of others on the elevator "Hmm, I didn't think there was such a thing as too much country." I held our shake an extra moment, maintained eye contact and replied "Yes, there is...and No, there isn't."

A quarter-century and then some ago. Wow. I've watched many races since then. I'm now more diligent about using sunscreen, my water intake is much higher, I consume far fewer cans of Schaefer, and I haven't raced to a race since July 1991.

And now you know the origin of toomuchcountry.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Nashville 1

Far too many NASCAR-related press releases include home track references. Yet some old school fans and a handful of (mostly retired) drivers can legitimately claim one. Nashville's Fairgrounds Speedway is indeed my home track.

• I saw my first race at Nashville in 1974 - a national late model sportsman race of which I don't remember much. 
• I watched Cup cars for the first time live in 1976 during qualifying for the Nashville 420. 
• The 1978 Music City USA 420 was my first Cup race to attend, and
• Qualifying night for the Busch Nashville 420 gave me my first chance to roam a NASCAR 'garage' area on July 9, 1982.

Following my first Cup race, my aunt and uncle led me through the gate, across the start-finish line, and into the pits to look for drivers and cars. It was arguably my most memorable experience to that point as a fan. Other than that night in 1978, I simply used a ticket to sit in the stands.

I don't recall how I learned a pass could be purchased to simply walk through the back tunnel and into the hub of activity on qualifying night. But I remember the cost wasn't much - ten bucks or something like that. Other memories have faded from that night too.

• I can't remember if I went with someone or alone. I was a fairly new driver, and it's hard to believe my folks would have let me take the family Olds to the fairgrounds. But I have zero recall of conversations with anyone else I knew that night.
• Did I take a pen and paper or did someone let me borrow some? I've got several autographs from that night on varying scraps of paper, but I don't remember taking a notepad or pen from home.

I do remember, however, wanting to see two specific cars: the 43 of King Richard and the 42 of Kyle Petty. Roaming the inner loop of the track that served as Nashville's 'garage' area, I found the Petty Enterprises transporter - but not the cars or drivers.

I continued strolling by the transporters and trailers and then back up towards the quarter-mile track and pit road. A few drivers autographed my meager supply of paper including future NASCAR Hall of Famers Dale Earnhardt from Bud Moore's Ford team, Terry Labonte, and Bobby Allison and other legends such as Harry Gant, Ricky Rudd, Buddy Arrington, and Sterling Marlin.

A J.D. Stacy Racing van was parked on the quarter-mile, and I stopped for a look in hopes of meeting the #2 Buick's crew chief: Dale Inman. Though I didn't cross paths with him, I did spot the car's driver: Tim Richmond. He offered me a signed postcard, but someone told him they'd run out of them. Tim leaned into the van and said something to the effect of "Toss me that one right there. Yeah, that one." Next thing I know, he had autographed a copy of a race program, handed it to me, winked, and thanked me as he returned to his conversation. Needless to say, I was sky high and had renewed energy to seek out the Petty cars.

I made it to pit wall - and there they were. Most of the cars had been pushed to pit road for qualifying. Each car had a ribbon of individual orbs of light reflected from the track's grandstand roof bulbs. And there it was - Kyle's 42 with new sponsor UNO playing cards from his new deal between STP, UNO, Petty Enterprises and Hoss Ellington.

Stepping across pit wall and standing next to the car was a rush. Using my pitiful GAF 110 camera with the four-sided Magicubes, I carefully tried to frame and snap some choice pics. I opened plenty of sleeves of racing photos as a kid and had been disappointed with the results. But all in all, I was pleased with what I captured on pit road that night.

Not far from Kyle's Pontiac was the The King's 43 with the reverse day-glo red and Petty Blue scheme. I'm sure crewmen such as Mike Beam, Steve Hmiel, Richmond Gage, Wade Thornburg, Robin Pemberton, etc. were all over the cars. For whatever reason though, I tuned out anyone milling about the car and focused just on absorbing the colors and shapes of them.

After getting the snaps I wanted, I crossed back over pit wall and just tried to soak in what was happening. Suddenly it dawned on me I recognized a driver sitting on pit wall with his back to me.

By 1982, I had three or four Richard Petty autographs in my collection. All, however, were on postcards sent to me by STP or Petty Enterprises.

But here he was - the man, the legend, the King - sitting in front of where I was standing. And now I had a chance to meet him. Yet a weird and ill-timed thought crossed my mind that I still vividly remember: How do I get his attention? What would my proper mama have me say?

I tried door number 1: Mr. Petty? (She would've been proud of me.) No response.

Door number 2: King? (Hey, I was a fan.) Nothing.

Door number 3: Richard? (She would've cringed.) Again, nothing - and I wasn't sure I was up to tapping him on the shoulder as a fourth attempt.

Finally and fortunately, a crew guy nudged his leg, pointed behind him, and said "That kid's trying to get your attention."

"Hey man, how ya doin'? How long ya been back there?"

It's kind of embarrassing now to look back at how pathetic my first encounter with Richard Petty was. Good grief, I was well up in my teen years. I had already approached other drivers that night, collected autographs, thanked them, smiled, and moved along - all without issue. For some reason though, meeting The King seemed different. It's a wonder I didn't just puddle right there from my nervousness.

Despite the fact he was about to climb into his car to qualify and was likely done for the moment meeting fans as he got ready to do his job, he did what King Richard seems to have always done. He took the time to greet a fan - and sign an autograph for this one for the first time.

As last year's racing season concluded, it dawned on me 2017 will be my 43rd year as a Petty fan.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Loudon 1

Schaefer co-founder Philly and I flew to Manchester, New Hampshire on a Friday morning in July 2005 for a great weekend culminating in the New England 300 Cup race at what was then Bob Bahre's New Hampshire International Speedway.

We dropped our bags and keys after a rental car's drive to our hotel on the outskirts of Boston. The hotel shuttle guy dropped us at a nearby T station, and off we headed to Fenway and uncertain destinations afterwards.

A co-worker and I did a similar trip two years earlier. In 2003, he and I got a pair of BoSox v. Toronto Blue Jays tickets at less than face from an angry young lady. She was livid because her boyfriend hadn't showed or called. She sold us the tickets for $25 each, we thanked her and bought her a drink, and grinned all the way to our seats.

Philly and I weren't quite as fortunate in 2005. One, the opponent was the New York Yankees. Two, we didn't cross paths with a scorned Bostonian female. Despite holding out until the bottom of the first, street prices didn't flex down much. We begrudgingly parted with a hundred bucks each ... and then some, but we were about to experience Red Sox vs. Yankees in Fenway.

I'm no baseball fan, but I truly dig a baseball park experience. The game itself was a blowout with the home team winning 17-1. But to be in the park and soak in all the animosity the Boston fans for their New York rival was surreal to say the least.

Leaving the park, we decided to clear our heads a bit by walking to Back Bay and beyond. We made our way to the obligatory tourist trap of the Cheers bar, formerly known as the Bull and Finch Pub.

Source: Wikipedia

With nowhere else to go until mid-morning Saturday, we asked the waitress to keep bringing 'em until it was near time for the final T run for the night.

A good time was had - and Philly was particularly generous. On a return trip from the john, he stopped by the bar and bought two nice, ornate steins for us. Philly's goal is to spend ZERO on race trips so this was an extremely kind and unexpected gesture on his part. (Plus he was already over budget with his Fenway spend.)

The waitress finally said "OK, you've got about 15 minutes to make the final T for the night." Somehow we paid her and got directions to the subway station.

After dropping our tokens and bumbling down the stairs, there sat the T with the doors open. We prided ourselves on a job-well-done. Maximum enjoyment time on a Friday night before race weekend. But the doors didn't close. With it being the last train of the night, we surmised the operator was holding it a bit longer for the extra stragglers.

Suddenly, standing wasn't good for Philly.

Philly: I gotta take a leak man.
TMC: No way. The subway is about to leave.
Philly: I'll never make it to our stop. I'll be right back.

And boom off he went. I knew our stop, but I wasn't sure if Phil remembered. He could hail a cab if necessary, but I'm not sure he could provide a cogent address. He fortunately made it back in time before the doors closed, and I immediately declined any intel as to where he watered the concrete flowers.

We made it to our stop, lumbered to the top of the stairs, plopped on the curb, called the hotel, and sighed as we waited for the hotel shuttle.

Then ever so calmly, Philly said simply "Well. Damn."

What??

"Remember when I went to take a leak? Well, I took the steins with me. And when I zipped and walked, I reckon I forgot to pick 'em back up."

- - - - - - - - - -

The recently retired Tony Stewart won the Cup race in dominating fashion. The race was the second and final time I saw Smoke take the checkers.

Credit: Motorsport.com

And though Philly may have lost his newly purchased steins, at least he didn't present the winner of a 300-mile race with a 400 flag.

Credit: Motorsport.com

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Texas 2

As I noted in Part 1 of my Texas racing stories, I attended the first race weekend at Texas Motor Speedway in April 1997.

On race day for the Cup event, my brother-in-law Chuckles and I got to the track early for a special event he had arranged for us. Chevrolet was commemorating some sort of anniversary or release at Texas. Local Dallas / Ft. Worth Chevy dealers supplied 75 Monte Carlos to tour the track for a couple of pre-race laps.

After Chuckles gathered himself from his morning adventures (refer to Part 1), we got a bite to eat and then the the call to head for the infield to ready for the pre-race parade.

When we arrived to the fleet of red, white, and black Montes, we found them parked tightly side by side. Word spread quickly that the plan for passengers wasn't going to work. Each car's driver would jump in and GO as soon as the car to the left pulled away.

Chuckles apologized, but I was OK with the revised plan. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We tried. Besides, I had a pass. As a race fan, I was perfectly content with roaming along pit road, watching inspections, and keeping an eye open for drivers and crew members.

So off I strolled as Chuckles stayed to talk with some co-workers and peers from other dealers. One of my first stops was pit road near the start-finish line. Using my binoculars, I spotted Schaefer Hall of Fame co-founder Philly and my sister - already in their seats.

I continued roaming for about an hour before making the decision to leave the infield and head for my seat.  As I passed back through the field of Montes, some of Chuckles' buds spotted me and started grabbing at my shoulder bag.

Hey man, pass one this way!
Me: What?

A beer! Chuckles said you went back to hospitality to grab a few for us.
Me: No I didn't. This is my scanner bag. I told him I was headed to the pits and garage. Where is he?

He went back to hospitality to find you. They rearranged the cars, and passengers get to ride after all! 

Almost immediately, we heard someone holler "Saddle up! Find a car!" Everyone did exactly that. In the hour I was gone, many of the cars had been moved nose-to-tail to make for easier entry and procession to the track.

I jumped in the passenger side of a car - and waited. As the coordinator went car to car, he got to mine and asked about my driver. Feigning ignorance, I shrugged and replied "Dunno." A couple of minutes later, the driver's side door opened. Instead of Chuckles, a woman sat down behind the wheel. I introduced myself as did she. In an exchange of small talk, I learned she was the wife of one of the dealership's owners.

Basic instructions were given to each car.

1. No gapping - stay close to the car in front of you.
2. No riding high on the banking.
3. No heavy acceleration. 

With those easily understood directions, we headed for pit road, then to the apron, and then into the first turn.

It didn't take long for the instructions to be discarded. Our car was in about the middle of the caravan. We could see in turn 2, however, that a few cars had already started gapping the one in front of them - but would then burst back upon their bumper. I was grinning the entire time as I wondered who was losing their mind over this Chinese fire drill of an orderly pace lap.

She didn't goose ours right away. Instead, she started asking my opinion about what to do. I recall telling her:

• you are married to one of the dealers which I think gives you some sort of executive privilege
• I'm only along for the ride, and
• when in Rome...

As we rolled out of four and down the frontstretch, I unbuckled my seat belt, lowered the window, popped upon the door, spotted Philly and my sister, and ripped the biggest WHOOOO! I could muster. Sure enough, they made eye contact and waved back while laughing.

I settled back in for lap 2, looked to my driver, and said "See? I don't care. Let 'er rip if you'd like." As she exited turn 2 again, she slowed almost to a crawl to let the car in front of us get way ahead. Then she punched it. We certainly didn't hit NASCAR speeds, but the rush of hitting 90-100 MPH for a short period down the backstretch of a NASCAR speedway was immense.

My new best friend and I were laughing heartily as we continued through the tri-oval again and back to the infield with a hard left at the end of pit road. As we neared our parking spot, there he was. There stood Chuckles - a beer in one hand, a smirk on his face, and a middle finger fully extended.

Me: That was incredible!
You sonuva... I spent weeks setting that up and didn't even get to go!
Me: Well, if you hadn't wanted that next beer so badly.

When we got to our seats, Philly said dryly but apparently factually "Seventy-five cars on the track, and only one fool was hanging out the window hollering. You."

Twenty years later, the story is told regularly at each race. And twenty years later, the experience - or lack thereof - still burns for Chuckles. Each Thanksgiving when I remind him of it, he replies "Still can't believe you left me behind."

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Texas 1

In April 1997, Schaefer Hall of Famer co-founder Philly, my sister, my brother-in-law Chuckles, and I attend the inaugural race weekend at Texas Motor Speedway. Chuckles arranged a special event at the track on Sunday morning for he and my sister. But when my sister learned how early they had to be at the track, she declined and gave me the offer.

I was all-in even though it meant we had to be at the Dallas Cowboys' Texas Stadium at o'dark early to ride city buses to the speedway. After check-in and a biscuit, we loaded the buses for the ride. Not long after departure, Chuckles cracked a joke and proudly popped a cold one. *P'st*

After downing a couple of more - at around 6AM mind you - he started getting a bit antsy and began to look behind him for the bathroom. One problem: we were on a city bus - not a chartered coach. No facilities.

As the bus crept along a road leading to TMS, he started brainstorming out loud. "There's a 7-Eleven. I wonder if I could make it." His co-workers and I all laughed as we told him no way.

We finally turned onto track property, and Chuckles was about to burst. The bus stopped as did all in-bound traffic. Chuckles spotted a single port-a-john in a grassy area about 100 yards from the bus and bolted for the door.

Somewhat a bit surprisingly, he sort of just ambled his way to the can. On the other hand, I've never seen him run - then or since. The rancor at the back of the bus rose as we all wondered if he could pull the return trip. Sure nuff, the door opened - and out he strutted with a smile of pride. But then...

His face fell a bit as traffic opened and the bus began moving forward again. At first Chuckles tried a quicker walk - and then a light jog - and then a full run. A once in a lifetime viewing. But it was too late.

The bus proceeded through security and stopped near the hospitality area. I knew I was good. I was behind the secured area, and I had Chuckle's bag with the race tickets. How he planned to get into the area he arranged, I had no idea.

But about 15 minutes after our arrival, he trotted into the tent. Sweaty and red-faced - but he made it. He held court as he talked about his walk - and then the ride he hitched in the back of a gracious Texan's truck - and then the sad sack sordid affair he had to explain to a rent-a-cop minding the gate. Amazingly and perhaps with some empathy, the guy let him pass!

After a quick recap of his planes, trains, and automobiles to those under the tent, his radar then led him to the tub of iced brews.

And then things got really fun, but I'll save that story for part 2.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Daytona 1

Trying to convince someone to give racing a shot is challenging when the other person stubbornly rejects pretty much anything outside of baseball, football, and hoops.

When two friends and I got an apartment in college, the arguments soon started about the legitimacy of racing, identification of drivers as athletes, my "misplaced" fandom, etc. Some got pretty heated, but most just involved good-natured ribbing.

One of the two friends and I continued sharing an apartment after graduation. Some of the banter continued, but I tried a different angle. I suggested he put his money where his mouth was: Go to a race and see if you don't return with a changed opinion.

Initially, he didn't take the bait. But then Ken Schrader's Red Baron Ford caught his eye during the 1987 Firecracker 400 on TV.

We lived on frozen pizza, Rotel tomato cheese dip, and cereal in the apartment, so Schrader's sponsor was right in his wheel house. Soon after, he softened his stance. "Let's go."

When the next year's Firecracker rolled around, he and I made the drive from Chattanooga to Daytona. Schrader had moved to another red car. He was out of Junie Donlavey's #90 Ford and into Rick Hendrick's #25 Folger's Coffee Chevy. By then, however, he was a Schrader guy regardless.

He took a VHS camcorder and made his way to the fence on the final pace lap as the cars came out of turn 4 to the tri-oval. He glanced back at me as the drivers prepared to hammer down, shrugged his shoulders, and sneered as if to say "not impressed".

I waved him back and mouthed "Just watch!" Ignoring the Barney Fife Security Force's admonition to move away from the fence, he stayed as the cars came up to speed in turn 1.

When they roared through 4 at speed, he quickly lowered his camcorder and instinctively snagged his cap as the wind tried to make off with it. He then slowly turned back towards me, smiled broadly, and mouthed "I. Like. This."

While he never became a rabid NASCAR fan, he certainly became much more interested in it. After his debut at Daytona, he went with me a couple of times to Talladega and once to Atlanta - where he got to see Schrader win in the Kodiak Chevy in 1991.

Concerned about TV ratings or attendance for NASCAR events? Have a friend or family member skeptical about racing? Know someone who enjoys racing but has never experienced the thrill of being at the track? Invite them!

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Richmond 1

My one and (so far) only trip to Richmond for a race was in May 2002. I was scheduled to be in Cary NC the week after the race for work. So I left a few days early, jumped over to High Point to hang with friends, and left early Saturday morning for a planned, single-day trip to Richmond.

Our crew consisted of three Schaefer HOFers - Philly, Paduc and me - plus a friend of Paduc - a British chap. As we left from a Greensboro mall parking lot, we knew it was going to be a challenging trip. A persistent, misty rain followed us most of the way.

As we arrived, however, optimism returned as the rain had stopped. Philly and I parted ways from Paduc and his British bud as our pairs of tickets were in different sections of the grandstands. Philly and I tailgated with a few folks, watched several drivers cruise by on scooters, and then headed for seats as the skies again darkened and light precip returned.

NASCAR officials managed to put the race under green with Ward Burton starting from the pole. But the racing was short-lived, and the race was postponed until Sunday. The two of us donned our rain ponchos and began the slow walk back to the van.

Along the way, we began working through multiple iterations of Plan B.

• Go home and lose the race? Unacceptable.
• Go home and drive back Sunday? Long friggin' trip. A next-to-last resort.
• Sleep in the van and fall out Sunday morning? Not desirable but acceptable and cheapest.

Though we were damp, we weren't soaked - though our shoes were steadily headed that direction. Yet, our two compadres hadn't arrived to unlock the door and help us agree on next steps.

After about an hour of standing in the rain, our feet had begun to grow gills and my temperature had started to rise from frustration. We finally spotted two sadsacks headed our way - fully drenched and without ponchos.

We laughed, they grumbled, and we all piled in the van. Still in race ready mode, I made the pitch to just stay where we were - in the dry van. No clean clothes, no toothbrush, wet shoes? Who cares - we'd be racing in about 15 hours! "Let's just sleep in the van, roll out tomorrow, find a Walmart, and go racing."

The Brit turned from behind the steering wheel, sneered, and chirped "You're a bloody fool. I need a room and a shower chap." 

The truth came out the next morning at breakfast. With the nighttime rain, an unfamiliar track, and a healthy consumption of beer, the two had walked the opposite direction of the van. We had parked behind the backstretch and walked to the front. When the race was called, they walked out the front gate - and kept going. Apparently after a half-mile or so, they realized nothing looked familiar. They had to retrace their steps to the track, rethink things, and then set out again towards the backside of the property.

So though I suppose I deserved to be called a bloody fool, I did get a good laugh out of it - plus a dry room, a shower, and a hot breakfast.

As an aside, the race was won by the recently retired Tony Stewart. It was the first of two times I saw Smoke take the checkers.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Talladega 2

The eventual co-founders of the Schaefer Hall of Fame hit Talladega for the 1991 summer race. The weekend was a return trip for me but the first Dega experience for Philly.

For the most part, my previous trips to the track served me well. We talked our way into the camping area behind turn two as I'd done before despite not having tickets in hand. On race morning, we also moved the car to just outside the camping area behind the backstretch. I'd parked in the same place for three or four races. The spot made for a pretty easy, post-race getaway after leaving the backstretch GA seats.

On this particular day, however, the spot was a bad call. We made it to the car and began a slow crawl down what was then a gravel road behind the back stretch through the throng of Talladega loonies.

As we got closer to turn three with a plan of getting to Speedway Boulevard, traffic flared to three or four makeshift - and gridlocked - lanes.

We soon realized the problem. Track officials had opened the crossover gate allowing cars and motorhomes to leave the infield. They did so with zero staff directing traffic at ground zero where the perpendicular flows of traffic intersected.

Once a couple of motorhomes eased their way through the cars, it was a bit like a procession of elephants. Several cars forced the issue by jumping between the vehicles leaving the infield. Zero progress.  

Finally, one good ol' boy had seen enough. Shirtless but with a beer in hand, scrawny chest puffed out, and middle finger extended, he made his way between two rows of cars to voice his displeasure at the column of campers.

The door slowly opened to one of them and out stepped an occupant. Giving the drunk redneck his due, he immediately recognized who it was.

He ran up to Bobby Allison, put his arm around him, flipped his scowl to a big grin, and started hollering at his crew somewhere back in traffic "It's Bobby Allison man! Bobby Allison!"

Allison was very calm about the encounter. He whispered something in the dude's ear and went back inside his motorhome. A split-second later, the guy went into Moses mode to part the seas. He directed cars to halt so Allison could continue - presumably to the neighboring airport for a quick flight home.

Once Bobby was rolling again, the self-designated traffic control official strutted back to where he began exclaiming "Bobby Allison y'all. F'n Bobby Allison."

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Atlanta 1

For the first half of the 1990s, I lived in Chattanooga, TN. Races at Talladega and Atlanta were easy day trips. In March 1992, however, we chose to live large, spend the night  in Atlanta, and then head to the track Sunday for the Motorcraft 500.

For the most part, the trip was at the right price: free.

• Three of us crashed in the hotel room of a King Racing / Quaker State team member.
• We were comp'd two hospitality passes. Through some creative logistics, we made two passes work for three of us - and even leveraged them into garage access.
• A couple of additional friends bought and comp'd us tickets and agreed to bring sandwiches.

The hospitality event and garage access were amazing. The rest? Well...

Our friends were racing noobs. As we headed for the grandstands, we learned our friends bought seats on the fourth row of the frontstretch near the top of pit road. They believed preferred seating at a race would be similar to sitting near home plate at a baseball game or down low behind the bench at a football game.

For those unfamiliar with the original Atlanta configuration, the track was a true, tight oval. Long, high turns and short, fast straightaways. The stands were right up on the action.

But...beggars can't be choosy. We were at the track on a nice spring day...for free.

Shortly after the race began, I got a shoulder tap followed by some amateur sign language asking if we were ready for sandwiches. We replied with thumbs up.

Rather than pass pre-made sandwiches, subs, or wraps down the line, our ignorant but well-meaning friends broke out a loaf of white bread, a pack of bologna, cheese slices and a squeeze bottle of mayo.

We tried to balance the fixins as best we could. Shortly after the mayo hit the bread, however, it was peppered - but not with the seasoning.

Sitting on a low row at old Atlanta resulted in several hours of being sandblasted with track grit and tiny rubber pellets from the tires. With fresh mayo exposed on a piece of Wonder bread, all that grit settled evenly and provided an awkward crunch to our freshly made sammiches.

TMC

TMC Racing Stories: Talladega 1

After several years of blogging detailed posts about racing history, I'm pretty tired.

So for the downtime of racing season between now and 2017 Speedweeks, I don't plan to do a lot of racing research or meaningful blogging. Instead, I thought I'd just share some random stories from days at the track over the years. I don't really have much of a plan or schedule. I'm guessing one story trigger a memory and will simply lead to another post. So here goes.

A bud of mine and I rolled into Talladega in May 1992 for a weekend of racing and fun. That weekend as has been documented previously is best remembed by us as the flashpoint for our Schaefer beer tradition. But we also met a few characters - as is generally the case with any trip to Talladega.

We were setting up our tent, readying the grill, unloading the coolers, etc. when a couple of good ol' boys wandered over. The conversation went a little something like this.

Bubba: Y'uns been down here afore?
Me: Yeah, a few times.

Bubba: Was y'all here last year?
Me: As a matter of fact, we were. We...

Bubba: Yeaaahhh man, we served a mess a'breakfast that day. Dang.
(Bubba #2 chuckled a bit to break his silence.)
Bubba: Man, we had people from everywheres over thar. Did y'all come over?
Me: No, we just had our thing going over here friend.

Bubba: I'm tellin' ya man. If I had a nickel for every cup of coffee we poured, damn. We woulda had about twen... well, we woulda had about four dollars.

TMC