Dover

(originally written 5/28/8)

This weekend is another rite of summer. Another annual event that announces to me that, yes, summer is really here. This is the weekend I go to Dover, DE. For the big NASCAR race. Yup, 43 cars going around in circles all day. And before I catch any shit for this, I will say I would gladly watch cars going around in circles all days than steroided out cheaters swatting at a ball with a stick and running around in circles. Or “ballers” running up and down a court and throwing a ball into a hoop. Unless they can use ladders and buckets of confetti like the Globetrotters do. In which case, count me in.

I have been going to “the races” as people call them even though there’s only one race, since fall 1989. Shit, almost 20 fucking years. Ironically, all of this is due to my brother, John. And while I originally went to see my favorite driver, over the years, I have found myself looking more forward to it just to spend time with him. And let’s face it, when 43 cars get revved up, you can’t talk at all. Kind of funny how things change over time.

I can’t tell you the exact year, it had to be mid 80’s. My brother (the oldest of all us kids, I am the youngest, and best looking, and best writer, and most charming, and most full of shit) had been into racing for as long as I can remember. I never really got into it. Like most people, fuck, it was just a bunch of cars going around in circles. At this time, NASCAR was on TBS, a channel his cable didn’t have. So I said he can come over and watch it. I had nothing to do, so I decided to check out this racin’ thing. This race was on a road course. (Most traces are on ovals or something similar. Road courses have both left and right turns. Obviously the object is to stay on the paved course.) I was watching as their favorite driver was making his way around. Out of nowhere, this black car intentionally drove off the track, shortcut through the grass, rode beneath him and took the spot.

Dale Earnhardt.

Man, my brother threw a fit. “Goddamn, you can’t do that! He should be parked. That’s ridiculous.” In the span of 3 seconds, I saw John go from calm to ballistic. All because of this black car.

Dale Earnhardt.

Best part is he was never penalized. He, in fact, ‘got away with it’. This drove poor John even more nuts. I did what most brothers do. I antagonized him. I started busting his chops. I started rooting for this Earnhardt character. I did it to get under his skin-which I did. But I also did it because I thought it was pretty frigging cool he did get away with it.

Next week, I found myself tuned in, just to see what he would do next. I learned quick. Dale was a polarizing figure. Most fans hated him. I mean really hated him. Hated him like John hated him. Me being a new fan and all, found this fascinating. I didn’t put the dues in to see some of the things he’d done on his career. For a time, he had the nickname Ironhead, because he would just as much tap you out of the way than just pass you. On top of that, he was just plain good. He had won Rookie of the Year, and then the championship the very next year. He already had 3 or 4 titles by the time I started watching him. This drove fans even more nuts. He was good, and knew how to get his hands dirty. It was a great figure for a new fan to root for. Or at least just to call his brother every time he won a race. That’s what brothers do. Recall, it was my brother who turned me onto NASCAR in the first place.

I started following it every week. Dale’s legend grew and grew. He had an uncanny way of winning at the superspeedways (i.e. Daytona and Talladega where speed could reach almost 200 MPH), and always seemed to do something inhuman and put on a show. I would call John when Dale won. I would send articles of the win from the paper to him. But it just served to draw me closer in. I was now a fan, and could watch cars go around and around in circles all day. As long as Dale was there, there was the chance to raise hell.

For my high school graduation, John gave me my first Earnhardt t-shirt that he bought at Dover. This is fucking HUGE. It meant that when he went down there, he had to go to Dale’s trailer (just about every name driver sells their souvenirs, t-shirts, hats, etc from a tractor trailer that goes to every track), and buy the shirt. I know this had to kill him. He HATED Dale, so it had to burn him that he had to wait in line to buy a Dale shirt and carry it around. I knew this. To this day, I still have the shirt.

At this time, John had been going to both the spring and fall races at Dover for years and years. It just so happened that a ticket for the fall race was open and he wanted me to go. (Even though this is still years before the NASCAR boom of the late 90s, tickets were still hard to get, and they did have waiting lists.) I said yes, and got my first taste of the circus.

It was like the Grateful Dead of sporting events. As many others did (and still do), we parked in someone’s yard. I mean it was a huge yard that went back for a country mile, and hundreds of cars parked there. They parked at this yard every year, another rite for next summer. There were a few hours before the race started. Everyone seemed to be dressed in their favorite drivers’ gear. Hats, t-shirts, jackets, seat pads, coolers. Bill Elliott fans (like John. By this time, Elliott was clearly in decline, and to piss John off, I called him Bill Idiot), Richard Petty fans, Davey Allison fans, Rusty Wallace fans. I came out of the car to dozens of people just tailgating. Listening to country music, drinkin’ cheap beer from a can. Dads throwing footballs to their sons. And this wasn’t a sausagefest either. Plenty of women, dressed for the heat. In some cases this was a good thing, but in many, it was not. Grills going, Frisbees and baseballs flying by.

Everyone happy. Wallace fans hanging out with Darrel Waltrip fans. Even though everyone had their favorite, and may hate the driver of the next guy, it didn’t matter, everyone got along. When ya had to pee, there were plenty of trees and groves to do your business. I remember and old, rusted out car hull and plow thingie in the trees which were favored with my urine. I don’t even think I drank that day. It was just such a new world to me. Airplanes with banners behind them and helicopters above us. John had a bunch of ‘regulars’ come down for the fall race. We got our shit together, and headed out to the track.

Which is approximately 2 miles away. Kinda sucks, but this is new territory to an 18 year old. Just rivers and rivers of people, most with hats of their favorite driver, streaming to Dover Downs International Speedway. Along the way, there were huge fields where RVs could park for the weekend. It was here I saw my first, honest to goodness “SHOW US YOUR TITS” sign in an RV window. I argued to hang out here a bit, but they said to keep moving, because no one ever does. As we kept walking, laded down with coolers, binoculars, headphones, bags, there were more and more parking lots of RVs and campers. Just like our ‘lot’, you just saw tons of people having a blast. The closer you got to the track, the roads were closed except for emergency services, etc. Crowds jammed up to thin down to walk downhill to the track property. More, like thousands RVs, campers, vans parked here. Most had flagpoles with their favorite drivers name, number, car, sponsor, signature. The track was huge! Of course, we came in where we needed to go halfway around the track to get to our Turn 1 seats. Dover christened itself the “Monster Mile” Remember, it’s 1989, so pastel and dinosaurs were all the rage. You could buy bright green or yellow Monster Mile hats or tees, with the feyest looking dino you’d ever wanna see.

(I’ll cut through some of the BS racing things here, since it really isn’t the point) We get to our seats. Our metal, hot, uncomfortable seats. Sure, it’s September, but once you get up into the track, the heat and sun just bounce everywhere. I think my butt still has seat grooves burned into it. From quiet to 43 cars ‘starting their engines’. No TV captures this moment properly. You will not be able to hear the person next to you. Cars take a few parade laps, the green flag drops, and they’re off. Coming right at me. Hmm, a bit unnerving, and the catch-fence in front of our row 1 seats doesn’t look like it can stop a wayward pigeon, let along a 2000 pound racecar. As the cars pass, I am hit with a wave. A wave of rubber. I never would have thought of this. Rubber flies off the track and tires. I can feel it sticking to my sun screened face. Rubber and heat. Yum.

Silly me, never having gone to a race, I don’t have a headset, so it will be hours of loud cars assaulting my ears. Mental note for next time, bring something more than a Walkman, pansy. At the end of the day, there is one winner. And as luck would have it, it’s his first win at Dover, his last win at Dover, his only win at Dover.

Dale Earnhardt. The Man in Black.

I still remember his victory interview blaring over the PA as we left. “Great race track, great fans.” Yup, he must be talking to me. I am sure I am an interminable prick on the long ride home to John. I am sure he wanted to throw me on Route 1 and root for one of his beloved Ford drivers to run me over. So, all in all, good time, I am hooked.

As the years go on, I only go to the spring race, which is fine with me. There are only 3 guys that go to the spring race. Me, John and his lifelong friend Fred. Every year, it’s the same deal. Meet at my parents at 7, BS for a bit, then hit the road. Stop for ice and gas. John had managed to find a backroads way to the track. Saves us a ton of time. Every year, we park at the same place. In the same general location. I make sure to piss near the car hull and plow-thingie. Gotta honor the tradition. I wise up as I go down. Bring headphones, food, and beer. Always cans, since the track doesn’t allow glass. You gotta love any sport where you can bring in your own swill.

The Dover weekend is always a sign that it’s summer. The race is traditionally run the first Sunday after Memorial Day, so summer is in full swing. It almost becomes like Xmas Eve to me. I like Xmas Eve a lot more than Xmas, because everything is all in front of you. The best is yet to come. That’s what this day becomes to me. Not because I can watch Dale go around in circles, but because I find I really enjoy the time with John and Fred.

Fred’s a real guy. No pretense, no illusion. Married to the same girl for as long as I can remember, coupla kids that come down to the fall race. Fred works in a machine shop (the same place John now works). Works long hard hours. Smokes the cheapest cigarettes the Getty Mart sells. Drinks the cheapest beer, and it doesn’t bother him. (One time I brought Yuengling cans down. Fred pulls one out, holds it out to examine it and says, “I’ve never heard of this. Is this one of them microbeers, Kev?”) He knows just how to pepper his speech with the properly placed “Goddamn” or “shit”. Talks about guy stuff. “Shit, John, I was driving down the street the other day, and I saw this sweet ’76 Mustang for sale. Pfft, I shoulda pulled over and looked at the Goddamn thing.” Doesn’t believe in such modern ideas as recycling. “Aw, shit, Kev, I don’t do that.” Never used a computer, despite how much porn I tell him there is. Never uses sunscreen, even when I repeatedly offer. Some years he didn’t even wear a hat. (Which I didn’t do that fall ’89 race. The result? Sun poisoning on my face. Only me could find a less of a way to turn off the chickies.) Comes out beet red, but never complains. Always brings PB&J and Slim Jims to eat during the race.

He will offer you his beer when you get to the track. He will offer you his food as you’re watching the race. That’s the kind of guy he is. I really enjoy just listening to the 2 of them talk on the way down. It’s real man talk; about cars, and tools and machines and the broads at work. I can’t properly do them justice. In a world of guys shaving their backs, using ‘body washes’ and going all metrosexual, this is a bastion of real men talk. I start to find I enjoy this almost as much as the race.

As the years go on. I realize this is about the only time I spend with my brother, and probably the most time anyone in my family spends with the guy. He’s a pretty smart guy. I am sure he’s one of those guys that’s like worth $15 million dollars already, but you would never know it. He’s the one that told me to start a Roth IRA ASAP. (Which I did, and recommend you do, too.) The funny part is we are so different. Beside the huge age difference. He’s quiet and reserved, very shy. I am too, but to a point. He’s very regimented. He goes to bed the same time every night. Buys the same exact things at the supermarket every week. We’ve often joked that he goes to the market with exact change. He sowed his wild oats when he was young, but has since really cleaned up his act. I probably drink more in one weekend than he drinks all year. He has short hair, and looks younger than me. In fact, at a strip club, I convinced the dancer that I was the old one, and he was the young one. Guess I look like shit.

He likes the Ford guys, I like the Chevy guys. He probably doesn’t have a single DVD. He still uses a rotary phone. He washes his car-Ford Mustang, of course once a week. I am lucky if I wash KevAmPire once a year. He doesn’t go out and get blasted. He was smart and never got married, and I…uh…I shouldn’t finish that one.

He also shocked the hell out of me at Xmas. He really did the nicest thing for me and my situation. I was totally floored, was so surprised at what he did for me. Goes to show, help sometimes comes from the least likely places…

Spring races just kept coming. As we perfected taking shortcuts, we also found the perfect place to pee on our way down. Every year, we honor the tradition, and piss in this open parking lot. Sometimes there are trucks and cars parked in there, but we must honor tradition. It would not feel like Dover, like summer if we ignored it. Although I am sure that tour bus didn’t appreciate us bum rushing the trees. Back into the car, and careening down to the same parking lot. As the years have gone on, this house as gotten more sophisticated. They added portapotties (goodbye plow-thingie), ice machines, trash and recycle and you need reservations to get in. Some years we make them, other ones we don’t but we almost always get in. This is also I think one of the funnest times of the year.

The car is barely off, and me and Fred are in the trunk, getting beers. John doesn’t drink at the races. He’s straight edge that way. Me and Fred just start pounding. The atmosphere is great. Everyone is having a great time, throwing balls or horseshoes. Some people really bring elaborate set ups for their tailgating. Me and Fred drink Natty Lights and Molson Ices, John eats his sandwich and drinks his OJ. And we just have so much fun. John will give me financial advice. Fred will talk like a real guy. Fred wears his Earnhardt or Earnhardt Jr stuff. I wear all my Dale Sr stuff. John, every year, the same ratty ass yellow Matt Kenseth t-shirt. John is not one for bright colors, but every year, he’s rocking the yellow. I even tried to buy him a new shirt, and he said no. Off we go to the track after I have figured out the best possible way to cram as many beers in my cooler as possible.

Race starts, and there’s really not much talking. John will flip off Dale as he goes by. I’ll elbow him when Dale passes one of his drivers. We’ll yell back and forth at cautions. We’ll point when we think we see an accident brewing. Good times, good times. We’ll fry in the sun. A few years back, Dover repaved the track in white cement, and I will tell ya, a few hot hours getting the sun bouncing off white concrete will fucking fry your retinas. But I realize that of the whole day, the thing I enjoy most is that time hanging out, BS-ing in the lot with John. It’s time that is so fleeting; it goes by too fast, and the actual race is almost an afterthought. I have fun and all, but it feels like we’re past the most fun point.

John calls me up one year, and says he has an extra ticket to the fall race, if I wanna go. I kinda hemmed and hawed a bit, weather was looking shitty, and money and all. He does cajole me into going. A gray overcast day. We were with the bigger crowd. Still fun and all, but not as much as when it’s just us 3. I don’t even remember where Dale finished that day. It was September 2000.

Dale was killed in February 2001.

John had gotten me to see Dale one last time.

During these years, me and John had developed another informal racing tradition. I would drive up to him, and he had a bar right down the street that had the Daytona on, and catered to race fans. Beer was dirt fucking cheap. We did it a lot of Daytonas, but not every. As the years went on, the bartender and crowd moved to another bar. I went there for Daytona 2001. Got pie eyed, saw Dale hit the wall. There were a bunch of Dale fans there, and none of us were concerned in the least. We had seen him emerge from scarier crashes. Most of us were still saying he could win another championship. We really didn’t pay much attention as the ambulance slowly made its way. If it was going slow, that meant there was no cause for concern, right?

Thought nothing of it, as I left. Came home, hung out for a bit, when John called me. “Hey, man, I just want to say I’m sorry about Dale” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “What do you mean? He’s dead!” That John, always one with tact.

John had gotten me to see Dale for the last time.

I found out that I wasn’t much a race fan as I was a Dale fan. The races just didn’t seem the same without The Intimidator in his black car lurking. The races stopped being fun. I rapidly lost interest. June was coming up, and I had my mind made up that I wasn’t going to go. I lost sight that while the race would be boring as fuck without Dale, this was also my time with John (and Fred). My heart still wasn’t into it, but I went. We didn’t even get the usual lot that day. I found I still really enjoyed my time with John. I wasn’t looking forward to the race. It’s one thing to watch a race on TV when you can flick channel in search of boobies. But live at the track, there is literally nothing to do but watch cars go around in circles all day. How would I get through that part? O yea, beer.

So the race itself became an expensive cover to pay to drink beers all day. I mean get plastered, more so than when Dale was alive. Good Lord, watching 43 cars go in 400 circles can drive one batty. But there me and Fred would be, losing track of what lap it was and who was in the lead. Even though the leader board is right in front of us. Dover would later add huge TV screens to show highlights and accidents. Even though I don’t follow NASCAR like I used to, I always look forward to John calling me to ask if I can go. I get all giddy that Saturday night, trying to sleep. It’s bad enough I have to get up early during the week, but to do it on Sunday is a bit of a challenge for me. But there the three of us are, meeting at my parents. Fred, always the last, always with the big 3 mug of coffee, always the last one to show, always the one to drive down. There I am in the back seat, with weather forecasts, point standings, starting grid. And it all begins again. John and Fred, talking and bullshitting like the last of the real guys they are. There I am, just happy to listen, maybe to learn something. Looking at my brother thinking he is a hell of a guy.

Make the left, make the quick right, and here is the Traditional Parking Lot of Pee. The last few years, about 300 yards on the other side of the road, a carnival has been. It’s a bit surreal to pee near a fog encased Ferris wheel on a Sunday morning. Here we get to the usual lot, with the usual girl taking our money, and calling Fred ‘honey’. I am sure she does that to all the guys, but Fred falls for it every year. The last few years, they’ve kept pushing the start of the race back and back. For years, it always started at noon. Now, it doesn’t start till 1 fucking 30. Which is good and bad. Bad because that makes the day that much later, and traffic that much more of a bitch as you run into shore traffic. Good because that gives you precious more time to hang and drink. If I got a 2 mile hike, I better be well buzzed to make it go by quicker. And like I said above, with no real favorite driver, the race can be boring as fuck. Pop another one open. And please don’t let a fucking Hendrick car win.

I find myself wanting this week to be over so I can go to Dover with John.


DVD Extras
Alternate Ending
Right after I got laid off, the Dale documentary was in theaters. For the movie, they created 10 special die casts of important Dale cars. Cars he won titles with, the Daytona car, etc. One of the cars was from Dover, spring 1990. I was at that race. There was nothing overtly spectacular about the car. In fact, it blew up. Twice. I am sure John was elbowing me when it happened. So why the need to immortalize it in 1:24 form? Turns out that the team fixed it. While they didn’t get a lot of points towards the season ending championship, they did get some as a result of fixing the car. Dale did win the championship that year, but only by a few points. And they look at this car as an example of being down, but not out. It didn’t win this race. But as the season went on, they won the championship.

I saw them advertising the car on QVC. (I know, I have quite a life to be watching QVC.) I had just gotten laid off, and money would be a factor. Still, I wanted it. Not only because it’s pretty wicked cool to say “I saw that car”, also, because I had identified with it. I felt broken down. I felt beat. But I knew there was a bigger race to be run, to be won. Irony made it something that I suddenly saw myself in. I mean, I usually only see myself in mirrors. I intended to display here at my desk, as some sort of inspiring sign that I may be down, but not out. One year later, it still proudly resides in a pile with my 13 other Dale die-casts. Still in the box like the rest of them. I never put it out on my desk, for fear of fucking it up. Or spilling a drink on it. Or sneezing on it, like I just did on the screen. EEIIWWW. But I still glance over to it. It’s still a sign. I didn’t think this shit would be going on for a year, but it still does inspire me. Maybe if I take it out of the box, my luck will change….