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.
“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
“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…
“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
