Earnhardt Jr., I Bow to You

88.  Led four laps today in the unbelievably long Daytona 500.  Then, with the final lap, Dale Earnhardt Jr. came from nowhere to take second.  One more lap and he would've won.  Incredible.  Simply incredible.  My throat is sore from screaming so much.

That was breathtaking in its beauty.

What a way to start the NASCAR season.  He is a contender now. 

Wow.

Craig Baker -- Humboldt's Speed Freak

The above picture of the 71 car was not from last night's Judy Fox Memorial Race at Redwood Acres Raceway in Eureka, California. By the time the 71, driven by Craig Baker, took to the track it would've been too dark to get a good picture. Baker is my favorite driver from the area. His work in the mini stock division is a thing a beauty and last night going in he was tied in points for first place with his brother, Scott. Tonight's main event for the mini stocks would determine the champion. My daughter and I were on hand, and I don't think either of our throats felt right by the time we were done screaming during that race. But I digress ...

I grew up around racing, but I never liked it. My father raced in various divisions, but stopped soon after I was born. He tried to get me into racing, even offering to set me up in a car, but I declined. It wasn't until I actually played Gran Turismo on the PlayStation that I suddenly appreciated what went into the sport. From there I started watching NASCAR and my father and I now had things to talk about. I never got to see a race live with him, though we had planned on it. That is one of my great regrets in life. When I would talk with him on the phone and we would discuss point leads, team changes and the legendary corkscrew at Laguna Seca I could tell by his voice that he was finally happy that we found something we could both discuss in a civil manner.

I took my daughter to her first race last year. She fell asleep and didn't seem to like it. This year she expressed a desire to go to Back to School night at Redwood Acres, where she happened to win the coloring contest and got a bunch of free stuff. More importantly, she said she loved the races (and wanted to stay for the whole thing) and even expressed a desire to race. Yesterday was her soccer game and more importantly (to her) a brand new iCarly.

When it comes to iCarly and my daughter, you don't get in her way. She loves that show with a passion, and will spend many of her waking hours describing plots and discussing in great detail why some characters are "bad." But yesterday, despite the promise of a new episode, she insisted on going to the races. And though we left early because she was tired (a soccer game and a day spent shopping and cleaning will do that), we had the time of our lives ... and not just because of Baker.

My daughter was on her feet a lot of the race, cheering and screaming at cars to get out of the way of "our guy." She witnessed the biggest wreck of the season at the track, at which point she said, "I want to race, but those accidents look scary." And even cooler, she's learning the sport. She correctly identified what most of the flags mean (leaving me flabbergasted) and at one point declared, "He saved it!" Indeed, the driver did save his car from wrecking, and she was astute enough to point that out.

Then came the mini stock main event. Fifteen laps. Craig Baker. Baker took an early lead, but as the race neared its conclusion, Baker's brother started making his presence known. Whomever made it over the start/finish line first would be the division champion regardless of where the other cars placed. Coming into turn four on that final lap, the brothers were side by side, the crowd on its feet. The price of a ten dollar ticket to the races always seemed like a bargain, but now it seemed like we ripped them off. This race was worth far more than that. This was about honor, respect and skills. One would win. The other would be first loser, as Dale Earnhardt used to say about second place.

Earlier that evening was the big wreck. Four cars in an orgy of bent metal and fluids. Tempers flared, but everyone was all right. It took a lot of cleaning up, and the man sitting beside my daughter and I was, as my daughter pointed out, crying. She wanted to know why. I explained the emotions that come from not only being a racer, but watching a race. What it is like knowing that everything you worked so hard for with little reward and a chance of death had now ended, and I explained why when you watch that happen to someone you can feel their pain, and how you can also feel their joy. I explained that I never cried when seeing someone wreck, but I've come close to tears when someone wins. When that person hoists that trophy over his (usually it's a male) with tears running down his face as he thanks those who helped him, you know how hard it is to get in that winner's circle. Every true fan knows this. Every true fan knows how much skill and luck have to come into place to actually win a race. If you are a non-fan who has read this far, here's a little experiment you can do. Take a stopwatch, start it and stop it as fast as you can. That interval of time is the average interval of time between first and second place in a NASCAR Sprint Cup race.

No other sport has a margin of victory that close.

Tears are warranted.

I explained this to my daughter, and she understood ... mostly. In time, if she continues to watch races (which she has expressed a desire to), she will get it. She may one day be that guy who was wiping his eyes. She may also be in that winner's circle.

The Baker brothers were side by side. You couldn't fit a person between them. They came off turn four at full throttle. Both had the same goal in mind. They wanted that championship. They wanted to be the first across the start/finish line. This wasn't about one giving in to the other. This was all about honor and dedication. Who was fast enough to get that win? Who was going over the line first? Who was going to claim the title until next season? Who would see the pay off from all that lost blood and money, and who was going to be proud of his sibling yet harbor more than a little grief?

Scott Baker is a good driver. Damn good driver. His lines are clean. He races just as clean. He comes off corners smoothly, and if he gets loose he keeps the beast under control. Scott looks like a professional through and through. He is silent like Mark Martin is silent.

Craig Baker is a racer. He doesn't want to be fucked with, and if you do, you will hear about it. He takes to the track like a monster, his car under control at all times, but just barely. He pushes it, as witnessed by the dents that thing wears like badges of honor. If you have angered him, he will bump you during the yellow. Where Scott seems under control, Craig seems on the verge of exploding. Mark Martin versus Dale Earnhardt, if you will. Maybe I'm reading it wrong. I've only seen a handful of races with them, but I've watched enough racing to know what I'm seeing.

The crowd on its feet, screaming, forgetting to breathe. The Bakers door to door. One mistake and it would be whoever could pull their ass out of the dirt fast enough as the other cars blew by. One was going home a champion.

The hollering. The yelling. I wonder if Craig heard those things as he crossed that start/finish line a hundredth of a second ahead of his brother? I wonder if he saw us on our feet, mouths open, hands clapping? (I've never clapped so hard in my life, and my daughter and I were both screaming our heads off.) He was a champion, and we witnessed one of the best races I've ever seen live or televised.

We didn't stick around to watch Craig collect his trophy. My daughter was beat, so we left just as the Thunder Roadsters took to the track for their main event. She loves those cars and the roadrunners, but she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore. I don't know what margin Craig won by. I don't know what, if any, words he had for the crowd. I do know this, though: My daughter and I had the time of our lives. We witnessed something very special, and we got to do something I never got to do with my father. It was one of those moments we'll both remember for the rest of our lives.

There are many reasons to shed tears at a race. Wrecks. Championships. Memories. I wish my father could've been there. But this? This was perfect, and I wouldn't have it happen any other way.

The Man Who Would Be King

Dale Earnhardt, Jr. came close in today's Michigan race. Fast car, good luck, fresh tires. Leader Jimmie Johnson ran out of fuel (again). With two laps to go, Junior was in third place. Brian Vickers and Jeff Gordon stood between him and the checkered flag. Both of those cars were low on fuel.

White flag. One to go. Things do not look good for the boy wonder. Not good at all.

They weren't. He finished third, which is not bad. He hasn't won in fortysome races, though, and a win would have been sweet. He wasn't complaining about third. In fact, he was quite happy.

NASCAR fans know the problem here. The Earnhardt legacy is long. Ralph Earnhardt was one of the pioneers of the sport. Dale Earnhardt, Sr. was a god among men. The reputation of the one they called the Intimidater is the stuff of legends. The black number 3 car coming up behind you was the kiss of death. He didn't win the most races of drivers, but he won some of the most spectacular. Love him or hate him, he was a force to be reckoned with. When he died, his son had already obtained a sizable fan base. With the elder Earnhardt gone, many turned their allegiance to his boy. They were big shoes to fill, and the man knows it.

Junior will never be his father. As much as fans would love to see that, he will never be that man. His driving style is not the same. His demeanor is not the same. His way of dealing with problems is not the same. He is his own man, and while fans like that, they also still hold him to higher expectations than, say, some like Kevin Harvick. They cheer when he leads. They boo when someone takes him out. Sometimes they get vicious. They don't seem to care that he doesn't win a lot of races, but you know it's there, and you know he feels the pressure.

Earnhardt Jr., like it or not, is the face of NASCAR. He is what the fans think of when they think of the sport. Jeff Gordon might be a media darling. Tony Stewart may get much deserved praise by the racing journalists and reporters. But Junior is the sport. It's a role I don't think he is comfortable with, and that is obvious by the way he fields some questions. He knows his place is important, but he also knows people unfairly compare him to his father and they are waiting for it come out of him.

It never will.

There have always been rumors that Junior will quit the sport. I'd hate to see it happen, but I wouldn't blame him if he did. The legacy is not something he asked for, and I doubt he wants it. He just wanted to race, and that has been tainted. As if the pressure of racing weren't enough (and make no mistakes, the sport is nothing but pressure both mentally and physically), he gets the pressure of living up to a man who has been turned into a deity by fans and the media. How can anyone live up to that? How can anyone withstand the scrutiny? I believe the only reason he hasn't quit already is because he loves the sport so much, and if you love it, you want that championship.

I know Junior is capable of it. I know he has the skills to pull off a championship run. I know he can stand up under the microscope. But how long does a person want to do that before it just becomes a hassle? If he walks away, he will have my respect. If he stays, same deal.

I just wish the comparisons would stop. Focus on the driver, and not his heritage. Save that for the highlight reel that comes after the championship win. That's when it will matter.

NASCAR Drivers I Hate

Jimmie Johnson

Jeff Gordon

Kyle Busch

Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon don't annoy me nearly as much as Kyle Busch. That man is a cancer. Honestly, I'd rather cheer for Osama Bin Laden over Busch. Every race I wish some sniper would take him out, to the cheers of the crowd.

Johnson and Gordon and too "nice." They are cookie cutter drivers who can drive the hell out of a car, but have all the personality of cardboard. Busch, on the other hand, is a villain who knows he is a villain and plays it up, so he has that going for him. I'd rather see Johnson and Gordon win any day over Busch, however.

Watching today's Dover race and seeing Johnson best Tony Stewart made me angry to the core, but I can't fault him for how it was done. It was clean racing. No complaints there.

When I see Busch wreck or hear that he has car troubles, my heart flutters. I always hope for the worst. Frankly, if I ever meet the man I will fight him. I will win, too, as I am driven by pure bloodlust. I won't stop fighting him until my teeth sink into his intestines and his teeth a stuck in my knuckles, infecting me with their sickness. I will spit chunks of his organs into his face while screaming, "Race now, Gypsy Motherfucker!" (I shout nonsense when angry. It confuses and scares the enemy.)

So here's to hoping a tire blows and puts him into the wall at 190. Here's to hoping the harness fails. As for Gordon and Johnson ... I don't wish you death, but I do wish you'd go to the back of the line or a while. I'm sick of seeing your numbers up there.

Coca Cola 600 Part One

Okay, I'm going to commenting on the NASCAR Coca Cola 600 as it runs. I was originally given the wrong time for the race by a co-worker. I'll let her live. As of now there are scattered showers in North Carolina, where Lowe's Motor Speedway is located. It's 79 degress. It's a 600 mile race, which is mentally devastating. It's a mind-fuck, and every driver knows it. It's a race that differs from the chaos of Bristol and the high-speed terror of Talladega. This is a several hour bout of mental torture that saps the strength and will. This is NASCAR. You don't get a break, and you will feel those extra one hundred miles. Four and half hours (if you're lucky) of monster speeds and split second decisions. Make the wrong choice and at the very least you lose the race. Worst case scenario? You end up dead.

That's why I love this sport.

Every driver is being asked how they mentally and physically prepare for this race. The rain adds an extra element of surprise. Jimmie Johnson, who I don't like, agrees that these extra hundred miles "challenge" the mind. He's one of the best drivers on this track. He's considered one of NASCAR's finest. He's saying it's torture. You know he knows what he's talking about.

600 miles. Speeds most of you have never thought about reaching in a car. The average race is tough enough. This becomes a near impossible sporting event. When the winner gets out of his vehicle, he will be drained. He will thank his sponsors, crew, God. NASCAR drivers usually mean those thanks, but this is one time you can be positive they do. The trophy the driver will win will weight over 200 pounds. His arms won't want to lift it. They will be numb from four plus hours at the wheel, the muscles turned to jelly, the g-forces fucking with their internal organs. That trophy will be the last thing on their minds, but one lucky driver will lift it, and he will know how close he was to death every second of the way.

Many of my friends don't understand why I love NASCAR. I tell them to watch a Bristol or Talladega race to figure it out. Once they understand the sport better, I recommend they watch this one. The casual viewer or novice will never know why this race is so grueling. Will never understand what it means to cross the finish line in any position. After four hours of breathing in fuel fumes and burnt rubber, these drivers will understand what endurance really means. For the guys who have been doing this for years, they will be thankful. For those like Joey Logano, who is just 19, who have never run this race before ... well they'll wonder if they'll ever do it again.

That flag will be flying soon. Jeff Gordon, another driver I don't like, is first in points. Tony Stewart, who I do like, is second. This race could change everything, or nothing at all. One thing is for sure, this is a racer's race. This is where, as the song goes, the bullet hits the bone.