St. Dale

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Harley looked at the hat full of fives and ones nestled alongside Justine’s twenty-dollar bill. He was picturing Geoff Bodine’s dismay if he should ever find out about this. Better try to set them straight before the disaster went any further.

  “Okay, maybe he didn’t get all the laurels that he deserved,” said Harley, backpedaling for all he was worth. “But Old Geoff is not down and out. He was rookie of the year in ’82. He’s on the list of the 50 greatest drivers ever.” And he will kill me if he finds out I had anything to do with this, he finished silently. “And-and-let’s see-Okay, did you know that Geoff Bodine invented the bobsled used by the U.S. Olympic team? The Bo-Dyn bobsled. Famous for it. The man’s a genius. And he’s been racing a long time. Heck, just this year, old as he is, he was right up there with Ward Burton at the finish of the Daytona 500.”

  “With Ward Burton?” said Shane. “Well, what difference does that make?”

  Harley blinked. He was about to point out that since Ward Burton had actually won the Daytona 500, it made quite a bit of difference, but before he could voice this thought, Karen tapped Shane on the arm to ask him a question, and Justine, who had been canvassing other tables, appeared at Harley’s elbow with the hat full of money.

  “I know he’s rich,” she said. “Or at least not missing any meals. I just felt like we ought to make the gesture, that’s all. I hate it when people don’t get a fair deal in life.”

  “That must keep you awful busy,” said Harley.

  She gave him a playful tap on the arm. “Oh, you know what I mean! I just naturally root for the underdog, that’s all. I just never know what to do about it. Most of the time I just write a check and hope it helps.”

  Harley remembered a cartoon he’d seen once in one of his dad’s Saturday Evening Posts. It showed a fellow in the water, obviously drowning, and a man in an overcoat on the dock was saying, “I can’t swim. Would twenty dollars help?”

  “Now, Harley, do you reckon we can get this hat full of cash turned into a money order or something?”

  He groaned. “If you are hell-bent on doing this, I think there’s an all-night gas station down the road. They’ll probably sell money orders. But where are you going to send it?”

  “Don’t you know? I thought all you race drivers were buddies.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have my Christmas card list on me.” He’d be damned if he was going to tell her about the pile of business cards on the nightstand back in his room. In fact, if Bodine found out about it, he would definitely be damned.

  “Oh, come off it. You know where to find him.”

  Harley sighed, thinking that Justine Holifield must go through life the way Dale Earnhardt went around a race track. “He lives in Cornelius,” he said at last. “And Cornelius is about the size of that pool table, so I reckon that if you just wrote ‘Geoffrey Bodine, Cornelius, NC’ on the envelope, it would find him sooner or later.” He hoped she didn’t know where Cornelius was; that is, only about seven miles west of where they were sitting. Harley was gearing up to explain to her that during racing season home is the one place you could be sure that a driver would not be, but Justine didn’t press it further.

  With her sweetest smile she said, “Cornelius. Thank you, Harley.”

  “Just don’t mention my name anywhere on that letter.” Another thought occurred to him. “You’re not about to go walking up the road in the dark, are you?”

  “Harley, it’s Concord, not Beirut. Besides, Dale wouldn’t let anything happen to me in his own backyard, so to speak.”

  Harley tilted his chair so far back that he nearly toppled over, which is when he caught sight of the Earnhardt poster tacked to the wall behind him, staring a hole through his back. With a sigh of resignation, he straightened up in the chair. “Naw, I guess Ol’ Dale wouldn’t let anything happen to you around here,” he said. “In fact, he just told me to walk you to the damn gas station.”

  The next morning, Harley retrieved the wreath for Lowe’s Motor Speedway before helping Ratty stow the luggage back in the bus. “Short trip this morning,” he remarked to the driver.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” said Ratty. “It’s a long way to Talladega.”

  Unfortunately the Number Three Pilgrims had overheard this remark, and apparently some of them were old enough to know World War I songs, because on the drive to the Speedway, they improvised a spontaneous version of “It’s a long way to Talladega.” When they got to the last line and, in a burst of exuberance, Bill Knight sang out, “But Earnhardt’s still there!” They all fell silent for a moment, and then everybody began to talk at once.

  Harley’s head hurt too much for him to bother with his note cards, but if there was one speedway where he didn’t need them, this was it. Home turf. He’d have to use the microphone, though, and even the sound of his own voice was grating on his nerves, but at least if he talked, they wouldn’t sing anymore.

  “Lowe’s Motor Speedway,” he began. “Short trip, folks. We’re getting off the Interstate at exit 49, so don’t try to get in a nap on the way, because we’ll be there before you know it.”

  Cayle waved her hand. “Okay, Harley, but how come we’re not going to Atlanta after this? It’s right on the way.”

  From the driver’s seat, Ratty spoke up. “We’re staying on the outskirts tonight, but we have to go by there again to get down to Daytona, and the Atlanta Speedway is south of the city in Hampton, so it makes more sense to hit Alabama first.”

  “We’ll get there,” Harley said. “But we have one more stop in Carolina before we head south, and we’ll be there real soon. Lowe’s Motor Speedway. The house that Humpy Wheeler built. The place is about forty years old now, but like a lot of beautiful forty-year-olds, it’s had a lot of work done to stay looking good.”

  “Don’t look at me when you say that,” said Justine.

  Harley refused to be drawn. “This is a one-and-a-half-mile track,” he said. “Used to be called the Charlotte Motor Speedway until 1999. Note that while it is big, it is technically not a super speedway. These days only Daytona and Talladega are considered super speedways-they’re both high-banked, at least two and a half miles long, and requiring restrictor plates. This place looks big after Martinsville, though, doesn’t it?”

  A few of them nodded and went back to taking pictures.

  “This was the first speedway to feature night racing, and-I’ll take their word for this-they claim to be the first sports facility ever to sell full-time residences.”

  “Residences?” said Bekasu. “Residences?”

  “They built condominiums above turn one,” said Jim Powell. “I hear they’re real nice.”

  “And you can stop looking like you were weaned on a pickle, Bekasu,” said Justine. “Because before you make some sneering remark, I would remind you that the baseball stadium in Toronto has a hotel built in it, too, and there’s picture windows overlooking the playing field.”

  Jesse Franklin called out, “I hear this was the first track to sell its name for corporate money.”

  Ray Reeve’s customary scowl deepened. “Kind of makes you wonder why they interrupt a televised race with commercials, doesn’t it? Seems redundant to me. Advertising on the cars, advertising around the track walls, logos on the drivers’ helmets…The whole damn race is a commercial. Wasn’t like that in the old days.” No one pointed out that he was wearing a University of Nebraska sweatshirt today.

  “The Speedway seats 167,000 spectators,” said Harley, raising his voice to regain control. “And you could get another third as many folks in the infield area, where they allow campers.”

  “You know, you probably don’t need to give us all those statistics,” said Bill Knight. “Most of your passengers know an approximation of them already, and the rest of us won’t remember.”

  “I know that,” said Harley. “But my corporate masters want me to be thorough, so bear with me. Now there’s a lot of reasons for drivers to like this Charlotte track. Anybody know of one
?”

  Terence Palmer looked up from his hotel copy of USA Today. “Since the banking in the straightaways is only five degrees or so, drivers can get up a good speed here, and they can pass, so I suppose it’s not as frustrating as some of the other tracks.”

  “True enough,” said Harley.

  “Besides,” said Justine, “it’s within commuting distance of Lake Norman. Could Dale have slept at home when the race was being held here?”

  “Him and half of his competitors,” said Harley. “Lake Norman is the Beverly Hills of NASCAR. And before you ask: no. I did not live there.”

  “Dale did,” said Shane. “Before he bought his farm.”

  “Most of the racing shops are close by, too,” said Harley. “The Hendricks drivers could walk to the track from their garages. Of course, you know-most of you know-that all the Winston All-Star events except one have been held here, and that the Memorial Day race now gives the Indianapolis 500 a run for its money.”

  “Speaking of money,” said Ratty. “What are those humongous buildings over on the right?”

  “Condominiums,” said Sarah Nash. “They have a country club here, too.”

  “Don’t get me started,” said Harley.

  “If this tour is going to be a true tribute to Dale, I guess we ought to tell some of the good stories,” said Justine. “And this being Charlotte, you all know what that story is. Except you, Reverend. I know this is all news to you, but that’s good, because there’s nothing more fun than telling a great story to a brand-new listener.”

  Sarah Nash frowned and edged closer to Terence. “Here it comes,” she murmured. “The pass in the grass. I suppose it was too much to ask that we get through this week without somebody telling that story.”

  “I remember thinking that it was wonderful,” said Terence. “I was in eighth grade when it happened, but we talked about it on my hall for days. Why do you-Oh. That’s right. You’re partial to Bill Elliott.”

  “Let me tell the story, Harley!” said Justine, waving frantically. “I was here that day.”

  “You mean May 17, 1987?” asked Harley, who didn’t even have to glance at his note cards. He had been there, too. Not driving. It was an all-star event. Harley had been just watching, openmouthed, like everybody else. Justine was nodding eagerly at the mention of the date. He sighed. If he didn’t let her tell it, she’d be chiming in every five seconds anyhow. “Go ahead, then,” he said. “If you think you can manage to put in some facts and figures instead of just gushing.”

  Justine nodded, assuming the serious look of the sportscaster historian. “It was the Winston All-Star competition that Humpy Wheeler set up in mid-season, like an all-star game,” she said, pausing for breath. This first bit was directed at Bill Knight, who had no idea what they were talking about. “It’s a special three-segment race. They call it the shoot-out. And that was the third year they’d held it. Hey…threes. Do you think that means anything?”

  “It means you’re digressing,” said Harley. “Get on with it.” He waved his note cards as a warning.

  “Okay, Bill Elliott won the first two, so he thought he was a shoo-in. But the last of the three races was only ten laps, and the prize-” She glanced doubtfully at Harley. “I don’t remember, but a lot-”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars,” said Harley. “And remember that the rules said the whole ten laps had to be run under the green flag. Caution laps didn’t count as part of the ten.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know that. Okay-so Bill Elliott was the man to beat. He had won the first two segments, which was no surprise. Remember, back in the late eighties, Awesome Bill was qualifying at over 200 miles an hour. And he was on the pole for that last race.”

  “What was he driving?” asked Matthew.

  Sarah Nash spoke up. “A red-and-white Ford Thunderbird, sponsored by Coors.”

  “Next came your buddy, Justine, the one-and-only Geoff Bodine, who was yellow number 5, the Levi Garrett car,” said Harley. “And then Kyle Petty. Before you ask-Earnhardt was in fourth position. He wasn’t the Man in Black yet. He was still the blue boy, sponsored by Wrangler in those days, so-” The look of exasperation on Justine’s face silenced him.

  “Are you done?” she demanded.

  “Go on, then. You remember the whole race, do you? Who was where? Who drove what? Blow by blow?”

  “Blow by blow is right,” she said. “They were driving like it was bumper cars in the amusement park. On the very first turn-bam! Elliott hits Bodine. Or maybe the other way around. Anyhow, the two of them collided and spun out, and Earnhardt, who was right on their tails, went low to get around them. He had the lead.”

  “Earnhardt caused that wreck,” said Sarah Nash. “He was behind them at the start of the race. I always thought he tapped them with his bumper.”

  “Oh, he did not!” said Justine. “But Bill Elliott must have thought so, too, because instead of being furious with Bodine, he went gunning for Dale.”

  “How did he do that?” asked Matthew, whose expression suggested that he had taken the term too literally; 1987 was, after all, the Olden Days, as far as he was concerned.

  Justine smiled. “Elliot wanted to get even for the bump, so he caught up with Earnhardt on the backstretch and bumped him right back.”

  “Right back!” echoed Sarah Nash.

  “Well, he thought it was payback,” Justine corrected herself. “Anyhow, when they were coming off the fourth turn on the track, Elliott ran Earnhardt off the track altogether. Dale’s car ended up in the stretch of grass that separates the track from pit road.”

  “He did this on purpose?” Bill Knight was aghast.

  Justine shrugged. “Rubbing is racing,” she said. “I never heard that Earnhardt complained about it. Anyhow, it didn’t have the intended effect, because Dale just kept on driving.”

  “At 150 miles an hour,” muttered Harley. It sounded easy enough to say, but Harley knew different. Two miles a minute. Reaction time: a blink. And grass was the worst surface to drive on, especially on racing tires which had no tread at all. They didn’t call them “racing slicks” for nothing. Not one person in a million would have done what Earnhardt did that day. You’ve left the track, going at a blinding speed, and your impulse would be to brake, at least to let up on the accelerator, or to put the car into a slide, maybe end up against the wall, just to have some control over where you ended up. But he did none of that.

  “It was the most amazing thing you have ever seen!” said Justine. “I was jumping up and down in my seat and screaming for Dale like a banshee. There he was on the grass, where he ought to be slip-sliding all over the place and crashing into Lord-knows-what, and instead he just kept right on going full throttle in a straight line like it was nothing out of the ordinary, and a few seconds later-zoom! He comes out back on the asphalt-and he’s still ahead of Awesome Bill. ’Course, now Earnhardt is pissed, because he was run off the track by Bill Elliott. There’s no getting around that.” She paused to see if Sarah Nash had any rebuttal, but not even an Elliott fan could deny the facts.

  “So never mind the rest of the field,” Justine went on. “Earnhardt has got a score to settle with Elliott. They’re racing side by side on the backstretch, and Earnhardt just starts easing over to the right and forcing Elliott close to the wall. Bumped him, too. I know he did it that time. He was getting even. Anyhow, Elliott ended up with a cut tire and finished fourteenth, and Earnhardt won the race. And that was the Pass in the Grass, the greatest move in the history of motor sports bar none-and I saw it happen!”

  “Your father has the poster they made of the drivers who competed in that race,” Sarah Nash told Terence. “They look like such kids to me now. Earnhardt was kneeling in the center of the photo in his royal blue Wrangler suit, almost smiling, and right beside him is a baby-faced Terry Labonte, looking like Potsy on Happy Days, and then next to him Neil Bonnett with his Siamese cat blue eyes. On the other side of Dale is Bill Elliott, in his red Coors firesuit, kne
eling alongside Richard Petty, who could still cast a shadow in those days, though he was still pretty thin.”

  “I love that picture,” said Jim Powell. “Bill Elliott looked like the country boy he was. You’d think he’d take half an hour to ask you to pass the salt-and then you think of him going 212 miles an hour without batting an eye. Imagine!”

  “Speaking of Mr. Elliott,” said Harley. “Anybody remember what happened after the race?”

  Justine nodded. “You’d better tell that, though,” she said with a glance at Sarah Nash. “I don’t want to make anybody mad.”

  The Elliott fan dismissed this concern with a wave. “Go right ahead and tell it,” she said. “I said Bill was an extraordinary driver. Didn’t claim he was a plaster saint.”

  “Well,” said Harley, by way of apology for the man who once gave him a ride in his helicopter, “remember that it takes a special killer instinct to make a fearless driver. If these guys took losing philosophically, they wouldn’t be champions. Okay, that said, Earnhardt’s worthy opponents were more than a little perturbed about how the race had played out, and the fact that the checkered flag had ended the race did not mean that they had turned off their tempers. The drivers were taking the post-race cool-down lap, and Bill Elliott went after Earnhardt. Coming out of the first turn, he rammed the number 3 car in the rear. They kept on going and then, in the backstretch, Awesome Bill cut toward Earnhardt, so that he’d have to slam on his brakes. I saw smoke coming off those tires, he braked so hard. Bodine went after him, too. It looked to me like they were going to use the Intimidator’s car as a punching bag with him in it. Elliott was playing cat and mouse with Earnhardt: he cut him off when he tried to enter pit road, and then at the entrance to the garage area, he cut him off again. That was about it, though. Nobody got hurt. The season went on after that, and Earnhardt ended up winning his third championship.”

  “That three again!” Justine called out.