First and foremost, Sarah Palin remains the barracuda to everyone else’s guppy. Her endorsement of Joe Miller in the Alaska GOP Senate race was crucial in his . . . → Read More: Sarah Palin. Politics. NASCAR. What more could you want?]]> In looking at the results of this past Tuesday’s primary elections in assorted states, a few things are clear. To those who have ears to hear, as the Scripture says.

First and foremost, Sarah Palin remains the barracuda to everyone else’s guppy. Her endorsement of Joe Miller in the Alaska GOP Senate race was crucial in his upset win over incumbent Lisa Murkowski despite her heavily outspending, plus enjoying far greater public recognition than, Miller.

While it can be safely argued Palin’s support of Miller stemmed from her preferring his far more conservative political stance than that evidenced by Murkowski, this falls by the wayside when one considers she also supported the highly unpopular among conservatives John McCain, who crushed J.D. Hayworth in what many had thought would be a much closer Arizona GOP Senate primary than turned out to be the case. Granted, Hayworth was a bit of a clown. Actually, more than a bit. Yet despite this, he was highly favored among those who have labeled McCain the symbol of all that is evil in the Republican party. The opinion of voters strongly indicate otherwise. It should also indicate to those who blame McCain for everything under the sun that maybe they should get over themselves and their precious litmus tests. The enemy of your enemy may not be your BFF, but they sure ain’t your enemy either.

Anyway, an even stronger message was proclaimed in one of the Arizona GOP House primaries, where cyberspace sweetheart Pamela Gorman came in fifth with Dan Quayle’s son Ben taking the win. Ouch. For the record, Palin never endorsed Gorman despite her, on the surface, being everything one would want in a mama grizzly. Why?

Palin is seldom given credit for her political savvy. Or much of anything else, even by more than a few of her most ardent supporters who have become so enraptured by her aura they fail to see the person behind them. Palin is not addicted to pleasing those who measure everything by their aforementioned private political litmus tests. She pays little attention to pundits, professional or amateur, on either side of the aisle. Instead, time and again she has demonstrated pragmatism without sacrificing principals. Palin has never failed to explain her choices for those she endorses. When she doesn’t endorse someone… again, as the Scripture says wisdom is proved right by her children. More than once — Gorman, prior to that Chuck DeVore in the California GOP Senate primary — Palin has withheld an endorsement, in the case of DeVore endorsing a candidate (Carly Fiorina) who ostensibly should have been the last person to receive a nod, let along a wink and a smile.

Let’s break this down a bit.

When ostensibly solid candidates turn into dots on the horizon when the ballots are tabulated, the question of why naturally arises. Sometimes it’s due not to their being disliked, but rather to the opposition being more preferred. However, more often than not it’s due to the losing candidate, regardless of how in many cases they generate tremendous enthusiasm among the faithful, running a terrible campaign.

Bringing in one of my favorite topics, namely NASCAR, the parallels being succeeding in it and succeeding in politics are numerous. Examples, you say? Sure.

Race the track. A winning driver in NASCAR is running not so much against the other drivers as they are running against the track, and to a degree themselves. Each track in NASCAR is unique, with its own characteristics brought about by an assortment of factors: length, shape, degree of banking, configuration of turns and so on. How well you negotiate each track determines your success far, far more than how the other drivers are taking care of business. If you do your job well, you do well. Period.

Similarly, in politics, especially a primary, a successful candidate spends far more time defining themselves than running against or so much as acknowledging the other candidates. You can’t be the best of the people running in the primary and leave it at that. You have to be the best person for the job period. Using another sports analogy, running full bore against the other people in your party is the equivalent of a starting pitcher laying it all on the line… in the pre-game warmup.

Next, stay focused on the local. There isn’t a NASCAR driver out there who’s turning laps at a short track like Martinsville while thinking about their strategy for the upcoming race at a restrictor plate track like Talladega.

Far too many candidates are becoming bedazzled by the bright lights of social media and nationwide attention. While it’s definitely important to effectively use social media as part of your campaign efforts, devoting too much time and energy toward making appearances with, and winning acclaim from, the more popular practitioners of preaching to the choir generates tremendous applause from said choir. And nothing from the overwhelming majority of those who will actually be going to polling places where your name appears on the ballot.

Social media goes only so far. It doesn’t reach all that many people compared to traditional methods, and especially in politics is primarily received solely by those already in tune with the given message and its backing philosophy. They’re already voting for you. At least, the tiny number of people eligible to do so will be doing so. The old-fashioned way of shoe leather and direct local contact still rules. Think global? Sure. But campaign local.

Every driver is identified with their crew chief. While the driver is the one mashing pedals and turning the steering wheel, at every race the crew chief is the one who gets information from the driver about how the car is responding. From this, they prescribe what changes, if any, need to be made to the car during the next pit stop.

The person or persons who oversee a candidate’s campaign efforts are very much in the same vein as a NASCAR driver’s crew chief. If they are a hired gun, a carpetbagger whose apparent loyalty extends solely to padding their resume, you’ve got problems.

The best crew chiefs, even when directly questioned, talk up nothing and no one but their driver. Same deal goes for campaign managers, strategists and everyone else. Anonymous. Assistance. Always. Anyone who says “look at me” while ‘helping’

Is not helping. Period.

Substance first, style second. A driver might connect wonderfully with the fan base based on different factors — looks, mannerisms and the like. But if they can’t drive, they won’t be around for long.

Taking this to politics, kitsch makes for horrible advertisements. We’ve had some doozies this year. The unifying factor behind them all? The candidate who made them got smoked. Issues, issues, issues. Not machine guns.

Sell yourself, but not solely yourself. Have a personality, but it must be mainly demonstrated through policies and practices. Substance.

And that’s how NASCAR and politics work together.

By the way, Sarah Palin is a huge NASCAR fan.

BRISTOL, TN – AUGUST 21: Kyle Busch, driver of the #18 Doublemint Toyota, celebrates in Victory Lane after winning the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series IRWIN Tools Night Race at Bristol Motor Speedway on August 21, 2010 in Bristol, Tennessee. (Photo by John Harrelson/Getty Images for NASCAR)

This past Saturday’s Sprint Cup race at Bristol Motor Speedway . . . → Read More: Kyle Busch sweeps Bristol as NASCAR fails to deliver promised fireworks]]>

BRISTOL, TN – AUGUST 21: Kyle Busch, driver of the #18 Doublemint Toyota, celebrates in Victory Lane after winning the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series IRWIN Tools Night Race at Bristol Motor Speedway on August 21, 2010 in Bristol, Tennessee. (Photo by John Harrelson/Getty Images for NASCAR)

This past Saturday’s Sprint Cup race at Bristol Motor Speedway was one of the greatest non-events in NASCAR history.

Leading into the evening, all who watched were led to believe this would make UFC look like a tea sipping contest. Tempers were hot. Tensions were high. Bumpers were being triple-reinforced with titanium, all the better for bashing anyone in the way. Everyone had a grudge against, a score to settle with, everyone else. Call-outs were more popular than hot dogs at Martinsville. This was going to be old-school stock car racing, the kind NASCAR had been intimating would take place since before the season started when it said in so many words have at it, gentlemen. Instead of robotic corporate spokespersons it’d be Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots. The brawl to end it all.

So what happened?

Forty-three bunnies quietly hopping along, with nary a Bugs to spice up matters.

Thrillsville.

The lead poseur desperately striking an image as a cottonmouth water moccasin, yet on the track becoming Peter Cottontail, was Kyle Busch. He accomplished the hitherto unknown feat of whipping up on lesser competition in both the truck and Nationwide series, then negotiating his way through Sprint Cup en route to winning in all three series at the same track in an extended weekend. Busch is a first-rate driver and third-rate third-grade schoolyard bully, the one who continues to run his mouth for the sole reason no one can seemingly be bothered to shut him up.

It’s not that the desired outcome was a demolition derby. However, with the sole exception of Juan Pablo Montoya taking out Jimmie Johnson, all the pre-race blather about how this driver was going to get revenge against that driver who had done him wrong was revealed to be so much hot air. The on-track action wasn’t. It was Alphonse and Gaston. Instead of saying “clear” the spotters were reminding their drivers to mind their manners and say excuse me whenever they went by someone. The end result was a race that stultified rather than sizzle.

Thanks for not much of anything, boys.

(Cross-posted at Examiner.com.)

INDIANAPOLIS – JULY 24: Paul Menard, driver of the #98 Mastercraft/Menards Ford, in his car on pit road during practice for the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series Brickyard 400 at Indianapolis Motor Speedway on July 24, 2010 in Indianapolis, Indiana. (Photo by Christian Petersen/Getty Images)

Earlier today, the announcement was made that Paul Menard would be leaving . . . → Read More: Paul Menard to join Richard Childress Racing in 2011, as if it matters]]>

INDIANAPOLIS – JULY 24: Paul Menard, driver of the #98 Mastercraft/Menards Ford, in his car on pit road during practice for the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series Brickyard 400 at Indianapolis Motor Speedway on July 24, 2010 in Indianapolis, Indiana. (Photo by Christian Petersen/Getty Images)

Earlier today, the announcement was made that Paul Menard would be leaving Richard Petty Motorsports at the end of the season to become the fourth driver in Richard Childress Racing’s stable starting next year.

The most remarkable element of the announcement by all parties concerned was the ability to keep a straight face throughout.

Menard’s continued employment has precious little to do with driving ability. Between Sprint Cup, Nationwide and Camping World Truck series, going into this weekend he has made 291 races. Wins? One. In Nationwide. At Milwaukee. In 2006. Yeah, sign ‘em up.

No, Menard has a guaranteed job because his last name is Menard. As in the son of John Menard Jr., founder of Menards home improvement centers. When Daddy is willing to pony up the big bucks so his kid can have a 1:1 scale slot car minus the slots, it’s amazing how accommodating team owners can be in these economically-challenged times.

Menard is nowhere near the quality of driver that his new teammates are, namely Jeff Burton, Kevin Harvick and Clint Bowyer. It’ll be interesting to see how the team dynamic works, if in fact it works at all. The Big Three at RCR are all about wins and championships. Menard gives every impression of someone postponing stocking shelves at the old man’s store as long as possible. That said, retail shouldn’t be an issue for him when his racing days are done. He’s already used to working weekends.

(Cross-posted at Examiner.com)

JOLIET, IL – JULY 09: Kasey Kahne, driver of the #9 Budweiser Ford, looks on in the garage during practice for the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series LIFELOCK.COM 400 at the Chicagoland Speedway on July 9, 2010 in Joliet, Illinois.

(Photo by John Harrelson/Getty Images for NASCAR)

Ever since the announcement that Kasey Kahne was joining the Hendrick . . . → Read More: Kasey Kahne changes drink from Budweiser to Red Bull in 2011]]>

JOLIET, IL – JULY 09: Kasey Kahne, driver of the #9 Budweiser Ford, looks on in the garage during practice for the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series LIFELOCK.COM 400 at the Chicagoland Speedway on July 9, 2010 in Joliet, Illinois.

(Photo by John Harrelson/Getty Images for NASCAR)

Ever since the announcement that Kasey Kahne was joining the Hendrick stable in 2012, the question has been what he’d occupy his time with in 2011. Various ideas were floated: a third Stewart-Haas car, taking over for Mark Martin despite the latter’s protests that he had a firm contract with Hendrick he would fulfill. As it turns out, the answer is none of the above.

In what on the surface is an oddball arrangement, Kahne will drive for Red Bull in 2011. Although the assorted announcements from all parties are their obligatory happy-spin selves, more than a few questions remain unanswered:

• Setting aside the obvious promotional angle (“Kandy Kahne goes from beer bloat to blazing energy!”), how much capital is Red Bull willing to invest in what ostensibly is a one-year deal?
• How much sweet-talking was needed to keep the Pepsi people pleased, given that a Hendrick driver will be flying the colors of a competitor? Remember, Pepsi makes Mountain Dew AMP, presently being represented by Dale Earnhardt Jr.
• Unless Red Bull is planning a switch to Chevrolet next year, it’s difficult to accept Chevrolet doing the happy dance over who is certain to be prominently featured in their advertising come 2012 driving a Toyota next year.
• Who will be Kahne’s teammate at Red Bull? Brian Vickers’ return is at best uncertain, while Scott Speed appears headed toward the unemployment line. There are available names — Elliott Sadler, Marcos Ambrose — but do they fit the Red Bull marketing brand of hip X Gamers?

Stay tuned.

(Cross-posted at Examiner.com)

WATKINS GLEN, NY – AUGUST 08: Juan Pablo Montoya, driver of the #42 Target Chevrolet, celebrates after winning the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series Heluva Good! Sour Cream Dips at Watkins Glen International on August 8, 2010 in Watkins Glen, New York. (Photo by Rusty Jarrett/Getty Images for NASCAR)

The only disappointing aspect of Juan Pablo Montoya’s . . . → Read More: Target hits the bullseye with more than a little help from Juan Pablo Montoya]]>

WATKINS GLEN, NY – AUGUST 08: Juan Pablo Montoya, driver of the #42 Target Chevrolet, celebrates after winning the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series Heluva Good! Sour Cream Dips at Watkins Glen International on August 8, 2010 in Watkins Glen, New York. (Photo by Rusty Jarrett/Getty Images for NASCAR)

The only disappointing aspect of Juan Pablo Montoya’s victory yesterday in the Heluva Good! Sour Cream Dips NASCAR Sprint Cup race at Watkins Glen International was when he emerged from the car in Victory Lane, wearing an all-red fire suit. It ought to be red and khaki. Ah well.

It became evident at an early part of the race — about five minutes before the opening invocation, by most accounts — that Montoya and Marcos Ambrose were easily the class of the field. They provided some terrific lead battles throughout, with Montoya eventually prevailing over Ambrose due to the latter’s difficulties during late restarts and ultimately a softening tire. It’s odd to have a race that’s action-plus until the end when it turns into a snoozer, but that’s how Watkins Glen shook out.

With the win, Montoya delivered something no one who has previously carried the Target colors in Cup action, be it Jimmy Spencer or Casey Mears or Reed Sorenson, had accomplished. Namely, win. Maybe now Target will start carrying NASCAR diecast again. Or at least Bullseye in a racing suit.

Other items of note from the race were how roughhousing it has become the accepted norm during road course races done stock car style. Once upon a time, NASCAR on a road course meant one and all tiptoeing through the tulips. Or vineyards when the race was at Infineon. No more. Now, with the ever-growing number of drivers who embrace road courses, it’s chrome horn o’plenty time. With the gravel traps gone from Watkins Glen, instead it’s drivers with rocks in their head wreaking the most damage. As Denny Hamlin and Jimmie Johnson can testify, when Kyle Busch’s decision to make a two-wide turn three-wide turned him into the third car in a two-car accident. Heluva job, Shrub.

Also of note was the individual and collective misery of Hendrick’s Fab Four. When a Jeff Gordon, even with the distraction of his son’s pending birth which took place this morning, can muster no better than a tenth on a road course, something is not right both back at the shop and on top of the pit box. Johnson’s woes have already been mentioned. Mark Martin’s sole appearance at the top came courtesy of not having yet pitted when a caution came out. As to Dale Earnhardt Jr., ol’ Rocket 88 was a sputtering mess all weekend. Only his personally roaring to life as the day progressed salvaged a twenty-sixth place finish.

That said, in the end the day belonged to Montoya. And Chip Ganassi, who managed to not only talk Target into expanding its Indy car sponsorship into NASCAR several years ago, but keeping it on board during all the times when the red and white car ran like a dog, until it finally achieved the success in stock cars it had long enjoyed in open wheel competition.

Bullseye’s tail must be wagging in delight.

(Cross-posted at Examiner.com)

Kelley Earnhardt (L) with Skirts & Scuffs editor Rebecca Kivak at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte. (Photo courtesy Rebecca Kivak)

While the record book will show Marcos Ambrose won today’s NASCAR Nationwide Series Zippo 200 at the Glen — and no, just because Zippo sponsored Ambrose’s car does not mean the fix was . . . → Read More: In appreciation of Kelley Earnhardt]]>

Kelley Earnhardt (L) with Skirts & Scuffs editor Rebecca Kivak at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte. (Photo courtesy Rebecca Kivak)

While the record book will show Marcos Ambrose won today’s NASCAR Nationwide Series Zippo 200 at the Glen — and no, just because Zippo sponsored Ambrose’s car does not mean the fix was on — it will also note veteran Canadian road racer Ron Fellows finished sixth, while fellow Canadian J.R. Fitzpatrick finished an impressive eleventh in his second Nationwide race.

The connecting factor between the two?

Other than their being Canadian, that is.

They were both driving JR Motorsports cars.

In which they were placed by Kelley Earnhardt.

There are multiple names connected with JR Motorsports. Certainly Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s is best known. The contributions of Rick Hendrick, along with Tony Eury and Tony Eury Jr., are strong contributing factors. However, ultimately the organization’s success has stemmed from its central figure, one who while not shunning the spotlight also does not demand attention. Namely, Kelley.

In a perfect world, Kelley Earnhardt would be known as much for her race car driving ability as her business savvy. Regrettably, her on the track career never came to full fruition. She instead turned her attention in much the same direction her father did in the latter portion of his life, that being learning the business side of things. And learn them she has.

Owners often bear as much criticism for a driver or team’s performance woes as the driver or team themselves, while receiving insufficient credit when the right people are brought together. For example, Rick Hendrick has been lambasted by the Junior Nation for the struggles of the #88 team. Yet this is the same man who not only had the wisdom to put Jimmie Johnson and Chad Knaus together, he also none too gently ripped both of them a new one when early on in the relationship there was far more sniping at each other than celebrating with each other taking place. You don’t think he’s trying to find a solution to what ails Dale Jr.’s team? You’re wrong. But I digress; back to Kelley.

You know things are rough in NASCAR when even the Earnhardt name can’t secure full-time sponsorship for either of the two cars it runs in the Nationwide series. Despite this, Kelley has managed to find sufficient sponsorship, plus juggle a number of drivers, to where JR Motorsports has been able to keep moving forward. It doesn’t hurt that one of the drivers who occasionally takes a turn in the #7 car is… oh, what’s that name again… right, Paul Hospenthal’s wife.

You know — Danica Patrick?

Returning to the theme of owners taking blame along with acclaim, while most every one in the garage endures their share of flak, seldom if ever is anything negative said about Kelley Earnhardt. Why? Primarily because her savvy is evident for all to see. She engineered Danica’s entry into NASCAR, which despite the snarks of assorted media haters has gone as well as it could possibly be expected to go for a part-time, first-year experiment. One suspects she had a huge part in bringing the disparate individuals and businesses together that facilitated her brother’s winning run this past July in the Nationwide race at Daytona, flying his and her father’s number and colors. Finally, she oversees the business affairs of her brother, which given how regardless of his present on-track difficulties he is NASCAR’s shining star, would be enough to drive most people into an insane asylum with the sheer volume of demands on all involved. Kelley pulls it off with aplomb.

In a sport where brickbats are hurled at all with seemingly more frequency, and definitely more force, than bouquets are tossed it’s refreshing to see someone about whom seldom is heard a discouraging word. Kelley Earnhardt is such a person. NASCAR is all the better for her presence.

As are its fans.

Yeah, this is the look of a shell-dweller. (Photo by Todd Warshaw/Getty Images for NASCAR)

The recent New York Times magazine article on Dale Earnhardt Jr. should earn its writer a thank-you note from Pocono Speedway, wishing him well for taking the heat off over the track’s preferring to promote its implementation of . . . → Read More: Is Dale Earnhardt Jr. NASCAR’s post post modern man?]]>

Yeah, this is the look of a shell-dweller. (Photo by Todd Warshaw/Getty Images for NASCAR)

The recent New York Times magazine article on Dale Earnhardt Jr. should earn its writer a thank-you note from Pocono Speedway, wishing him well for taking the heat off over the track’s preferring to promote its implementation of solar energy over such frivolities as, oh, making the actual racing facility safe. It is to NASCAR’s credit that Elliott Sadler is able to race this weekend. Or, for that matter, breathe. But I digress; back to the story at hand.

There’s a tendency to take anything said in the Times about NASCAR with a salt lick, let alone a grain. We are talking about a publication which to this day has yet to learn NASCAR is an acronym. You know, one where all the letters are capitalized?

Anyway, as depicted by one Pat Jordan, Earnhardt Jr. is a mealy borderline hermit, forever hiding in his own shadow while trying to escape the giant one still cast by his father more than nine years after his death. He’s also too indifferent toward his chosen profession to put in the work needed for success. The only thing missing is Jordan saying, “Hey — look at the wimpy redneck with the red beard! Let’s all laugh at the hick.” Literally saying it, anyway. Oh, he’s a good enough writer to wrap everything with a vibe of sympathy toward poor Dale Jr., forever pushed and prodded by others into being something he’s not. However, in the final analysis Jordan’s article is the journalistic equivalent of someone handing you a miniature cupcake, flavor of their own choosing, and telling you not only is it your wedding cake, it’s the entire banquet. You’re not getting the full meal. In fact, you’re being pathetically shortchanged on dessert.

And journalists wonder why drivers have become increasingly hostile this year.

If the article is accurate, Dale Jr. ought to be lionized by the metrosexual East coast self-appointed elite, the one whose members are of the unshakable opinion everyone born south of the Mason-Dixon line are the byproducts of in-breeding while they themselves need two hands to carry a six-pack. Don’t hold your breath waiting for this to happen. Self-induced asphyxiation is a wretched way to go. No, one is best advised to write this off as yet another chapter in the ongoing saga that permeates much of the mainstream media. Namely, disrespect for all things, and individuals, NASCAR.

That said, before letting this go a couple of observations.

Were Earnhardt Jr. as depicted in the aforementioned article, he would not be competing in Sprint Cup and still hanging on to at least a shot of making the Chase despite his team problems. He’d be hiding in his bedroom. It’s not like he needs any more money. He could easily coast on his name, focusing on being a team owner. Or being a celebrity. Instead, he’s in the car.

Which ties into the final observation.

Were Earnhardt Jr. as depicted in the aforementioned article, no way would he have embraced the insanity that was the Nationwide race at Daytona this past July. He signed off on running a deal that involved bringing together three different race teams, including one overseen by his step-mother with whom his issues are well known. Also, not only did he run his father’s number, he ran his father’s sponsor and paint scheme. At Daytona. The track his father ruled.

The track where his father died.

Just the kind of thing an insecure introvert jumps into, right?

Dale Jr. placed himself in a position where it was victory or… actually, there was no “or.” It was win or utter humiliation. Before anyone snarks “yeah, but it was Nationwide,” bear in mind the field was generously peppered with top-tier Sprint Cup drivers. Earnhardt Jr. wasn’t running against a bunch of local yokels. This was big time. Even without the additional pressure.

Who won that race?

Dale Earnhardt Jr.

‘Nuff said.

So, is Dale Earnhardt Jr. NASCAR’s post post modern man?

Only in the mind’s eye of the New York Times.

(Cross-posted at Examiner.com)

The northern edge of Indianapolis is much like the outskirts of many big cities these days, a recent absorption of farmland now . . . → Read More: A Child’s Bracelet]]> (I normally run this post every July seventh on my NASCAR blog. However, given that today is the tenth anniversary of Kenny Irwin Jr.’s death, it seems appropriate to run it here as well.)

The northern edge of Indianapolis is much like the outskirts of many big cities these days, a recent absorption of farmland now buried underneath strip malls and lookalike housing developments.  The usual satellite suburbs dot the landscape, enclaves for yuppiefied office dwellers who strive to be in the city but not of it.  It’s tempting to subscribe to the cynic’s voice and decry the scene as ersatz country living, but such smug generalizations are as shallow as the man-made parks developers insist on building in such areas in lieu of preserving the patches of nature that were already there, legacies of the soil workers who handed down the land through generations until the current one cashed in their family history for a piece of Starbucks culture.  Such places are what their residents make them to be, and should they choose SUVs and latte living, it is their right.

On one of the straight-edge streets that pass for major thoroughfares in such places, one sees what one expects to see: impressive homes separated from the road by massive front yards that make even the stoutest lawn tractor earn its keep, the occasional school here, the odd store or gas station or apartment complex for yuppie wannabes there.  A few yards away from an intersection, a driveway somewhat wider than the norm presents itself, flanked on both sides by stonework signs bearing bronze plaques announcing the location.

Oaklawn Memorial Gardens.

The gravesite of Kenny Irwin Jr.

We were there on a sunny Saturday afternoon in late September of 2001, my brother and I.  In all honesty I shouldn’t have been there at all, so far from my California home.  The horror of September 11th had caused me to cancel a business trip to Atlanta that week, thereby also eliminating a plan to swing through Indiana on my way back.  However, family must come before all, so I reached into my own pocket to pay for a weekend flight so I could fulfill my promise to visit my mother and oldest brother after the now-abandoned trip.

It had already been a long day for my brother and I, starting with my first visit to our beloved father’s grave since his passing away in May of 1999.  The emotions were still raw as a few hours later we made our way from sleepy Greencastle through thirty miles of quiet farms and tiny towns until we reached our destination.  We both noted earlier in the journey having glimpsed what would be the next day’s eagerly anticipated place of visitation: the RCA Dome, where I would finally see my Colts play a home game.  However, this was for tomorrow.  Today was for another purpose, a purpose that as soon as I knew I was going to Indiana became a personal obligation owed to someone I had never known.

The pleasant woman inside the cemetery office smiled at my inquiry as she handed me a map and circled our destination.  We walked up the path she told us to take, commenting how the relative newness of the cemetery — it was opened in the early ’50s — left it minus the ostentatious crypts that marked most Indiana graveyards, which usually date back to the nineteenth century.  It could have used some more trees, but it was impeccably maintained; all in all as pleasant a place as could be designed given its thankless task.

We continued up the gently curving path, following the map as it led to a tree isolated in a small island marking where the path became two.  All was quiet; with the exception of one car off in the distance we had the place to ourselves.  We went to the left, walked a few more yards, and then left the path by stepping onto the thick green grass, quietly gazing upon the brass markers below.  A few more feet, and we had arrived.  Now absolutely silent, we saw what I had come two thousand miles to see.  Rather, not what, but who.

The late Kenny Irwin Jr., killed in an accident during practice at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway on July seventh, 2000.

Kenny Irwin Jr.’s grave marker is a simple bronze slab.  A photograph of an awkwardly smiling youth is mounted underneath a glass seal, with a swinging bronze cover providing additional protection from the elements.  Some mention is made of his racing career, but no listing of his accomplishments is given: USAC Sprint Car Rookie Of The Year in 1993, USAC Silver Crown Car Rookie Of The Year in 1994, USAC Midget Car Champion in 1996, NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series Rookie Of The Year in 1997, NASCAR Winston Cup Rookie Of The Year in 1998.  Instead, prominence is given to personal traits: son, brother, friend.  Then and only then, race car driver.  Beneath this, words from a hymn: “Our God is an awesome God, He reigns from heaven above with wisdom, power and love.”

Some crumbling mementos lay at the top of the marker, left there by the loving few.  A 42, the car number he drove when he died, cut out by hand of white rubber and sitting on a base of oval discs in the colors of the Bell South sponsored car that was his.  A faded photograph of a broadly smiling young woman, wearing her obviously hand painted “happy birthday Kenny” t-shirt.  A weathered Winners Circle logo pin.  Last and most touching of all, a handmade child’s bracelet, its string broken, spelling out I MISS YOU KENNY 42.  I knelt down and carefully moved the bracelet, rearranging its message into place where the letters had begun to shift out of line.

So why was I here?  I had already dealt that day with visiting the most personal, painful burial place imaginable.  Why remind myself of others’ loss?  And I wasn’t there because I was a Kenny Irwin Jr. fan.  Oh, he seemed like a nice enough kid; I remember a brief appearance he made on QVC once during the Batman and Joker special paint scheme promotion he ran with then-teammate Dale Jarrett where he came off as polite, well-spoken and pleasant.  But a fan?  No.  That wasn’t why I was here.  Paying respects to a member of the sport I dearly love?  Possibly, but there are many other fallen drivers to who I could go and pay my respects.  So why was I here?  Why was I now fighting tears?

I knew why.

It was the right thing to do.

When Kenny Irwin Jr. died in an accident during practice at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway on July seventh of 2000, the racing community and overwhelming majority of fans who before that day had derided him as a hack driver who shouldn’t be in a Winston Cup car collectively clucked their tongues, said “gee what a shame,” and then checked their schedule to see what time the race would start that Sunday.  There was no tribute lap, no silence at lap 42, no one holding up four and two fingers as they stood to honor him.  No massive floral displays of his car number, no one wearing his team hat, no plans for a memorial in his home town, and other than small stickers on the cars during the next race, no mention that he had ever been alive.  There was no intense study of the fatal accident, no safety mandates from NASCAR as a result of the crash.  No one — no one — save his team owner Felix Sabates and to the surprise of many Tony Stewart, Irwin’s arch rival across the dirt tracks of Indiana where they both honed their craft, seemed to really care all that much that a young man was dead.

Long after the fact, an embittered Kenny Irwin Sr. spoke.  He told of the people he never knew existed who had contacted him after his son’s death, telling him of his son’s generosity and charity work on their behalf.  He talked about how this news surprised him not in his son having done so, but in that his son, not only a son but also a best friend, had never mentioned he was doing these things.  He spoke of the pride he felt the day in 1997 his son was announced as the driver starting the following year of the #28 Texaco car, the car made famous by the late Davey Allison and then Ernie Irvan.  He talked about how his son took his eventual dismissal from the ride far better than he did, reassuring his Dad that it’d be all right.  Above all, he spoke of his son: his best friend, a young man of faith, and how that shared faith had carried him through the unspeakable agony of performing the act no father in his worst nightmare envisions: not preparing for the eventual, inevitable day when he would be buried by his son, but rather burying his son.  It wasn’t fair.

It still wasn’t fair, and never would be fair.  It never will be fair.  The racing world had demanded the rest of the world stop when its favorite son died at turn four of its most cherished racetrack in February of 2001, not ceasing its caterwauling over the single greatest tragedy in the history of mankind (or so it would seem given the never-ending maudlin sap parade at every race) until September 11th… and even then the meaningless tributes and ghoulish merchandising continued unabated.  Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Irwin grieved alone, politely ignored by the racing world in which their son had lost his life, a loss to which the response seemed to be “we don’t care.”

As I knelt down beside the marker and carefully rearranged the child’s bracelet, many emotions stirred deep within.  Shame, at how callously and flippantly I had once viewed the men and women who risked death every time they strapped themselves into a race car.  Resolve, a dedication to never again take these people for granted.  The knowledge that it was no cliché to say I would never watch racing the same way again, now forever mindful of the very real, very fragile humanity behind the machines and high-speed competition.  But above all else — far above all else — I felt a quiet emptiness at the realization, the full impact of the reality before me.  This was no longer an image on a television or pictures on a Web page.  This was cold, final truth.  A young man’s body laid in the ground beneath me, a young man who loved to race cars that I watched every Sunday, cars of which I collected little diecast metal replicas.  Now he was dead, and I would never see him race again.  His family would never see him again.  And no matter how fervently one believes in eternal life for those who believe, the quiet emptiness of loss remains.

I said goodbye to Kenny Irwin Jr., told him how by the grace of our God I hope to meet him in heaven one day, and asked him to forgive me.  I then stood up as my brother said goodbye to him as well, and then we left, my brother and I.  I felt shaken, yet I was okay with that.  It was good to be shaken.  For I had done what I knew I had to do.

I had done the right thing.

The Kenny Irwin Jr. Memorial Foundations operates the Dare To Dream Camp in New Castle, Indiana.  The camp offers a permanent year-round, racing-themed location accommodating underprivileged, at-risk, neglected and abused children between the ages of 6 to 17.  For more information about the camp and the foundation, please visit their Website at http://www.kennyirwinjrfoundation.org.

Life’s juxtapositions can create quite bizarre scenarios. Such was the case last Thursday morning.

There I was, heading down south to Auto Club Speedway in Fontana, California for my first time as an . . . → Read More: A Weekend Of Magic And Loss]]>

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

Life’s juxtapositions can create quite bizarre scenarios. Such was the case last Thursday morning.

There I was, heading down south to Auto Club Speedway in Fontana, California for my first time as an accredited media member covering NASCAR. Me. Diecast Dude. Accredited. Whodathunk.

Excited? Most definitely. Nervous? You betcha. Determined to do my absolute best? Absolutely. I had dreamt of, prayed for this opportunity. Living the dream? No way to know. Pursuing the dream to see where it may lead? Yes.

Then my brother called.

Our aunt was dead.

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

My brother had taken the lead in tending to our aunt since she had become unable to take care of herself last year. Dementia had set in, robbing her of her dignity even as she was mercifully unaware her mind was going. Now she was gone in body as well.

Throughout, my brother had demonstrated strength by every right he shouldn’t have. Wracked by diabetic neuropathy and the onset of MS, nevertheless he did the work and then some needed. His faith in Christ empowered him. It encouraged me. My brother in every sense of the world; in blood, washed by the Blood, fellow right wing outlaw.

If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

I already had much on my mind heading into the weekend. Now I had even more alongside what had been laid on my heart and soul. Turning back and returning home wasn’t an option. The opportunity laid out before me had to be seized and seized now. I would need to postpone my grief. There were no other options.

I’ve occasionally noted for my own edification that for me, Diecast Dude is more than an oddball pen name. It’s an aspect of my persona. I haven’t been Diecast Dude very often for quite a while. Too busy with other things. Arguably more important ones, such as the book. Still, I rather missed mixing entertainment plus information centered around NASCAR along with sardonic combativeness and digressions into Spirit-desiring sentimentality. Now I needed to be that like never before.

I also needed my right hand to hold up under the ton of typing that awaited as I pounded out blog posts and tweets about the weekends events. Otherwise, I’d be all thumbs. As in writing everything on my iPhone, tapping away with my thumbs since that was the only way to avoid the sharp pains stabbing their way along my fingers. Which is slow going indeed.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

I logged on to Twitter and mentioned my aunt passing away. A few people responded with consolatory messages. To each of you, thank you. To those on Twitter who follow me but missed it because they weren’t logged in at the time, I know you would have said something.

To those on Twitter who follow me but either missed it or ignored it because they were too busy at CPAC…

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Well, it’s on me to forgive you.

It’s also on me to say, “Hey. What are you doing?” There’s nothing that can be done about what happened. Yeah, it hurt, but it’s over and gone.

What about the next time, though? What about the next person who makes public mention of loss? Will you treat that person the same way you treated me, so absorbed in yourself and whatever you’re doing at the moment you can’t take a moment to write a simple ‘I’m sorry’?

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

I had to put all that aside. Friday morning, there I was at the race track, press credentials and garage pass dangling from my neck in an improvised holder attached to a temporary lanyard. I got a real one at the end of the day. But back where I was: there I was, walking into the media center looking at people who before that moment were merely names on bylines. Now I was one of them.

As the weekend unfolded, while there were moments of pure fanboy fantasy (“Jeff. Gordon. Is. Sitting. Three. Feet. Away. From. Me. JEFF!!! GORDON!!!”) for the most part my time was spent doing what I’d come to do: observe, report, interact with other journalists and online with my fellow fans. Which I did as best I could. The hand pain delayed some writing, but it was all completed.

I met a few journalists, some of whom I’d had different levels of contact with online. They were all polite, some far above. Dustin Long is a true gentleman in every sense of the word. Nicole Manske helped me get in close enough to Jimmie Johnson when he was doing a brief presser behind his trailer in a noisy pit area so I could record the conversation. was gracious and friendly during Sunday’s race when we sat next to each other in the press box. Didn’t do as much one on one with drivers or crew chiefs as I would have liked, but I was able to find Robby Gordon and get a scoop.

Fundamental truth of the matter was even with the turbulence that enveloped me, I was savoring the experience of being where I had longed to be for years and finding it did not disappoint. Moments such as this are scarce commodities for most of us. Now I was in the midst of one. Nothing could steal my joy. The sorrows would be there to be dealt with upon my return. This was a time to celebrate.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

During the weekend, something that had been percolating since 2008 came to full brew. Racing news for the thinking unimpaired has returned. I’ve teamed up with my main man Bram Hume at Backstretch Motorsports. Our goal? Beside total world domination, it’s to be THE go-to site for racing news, information and opinion. A major task to be sure, and one that will involve much work. But if I want to pursue this dream, there is no option to doing the work. Bring it on.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

The weekend, of course, had to end. After the frenetic fun of Friday’s press conferences, the Nationwide race on Saturday during which I politely informed one and all on Twitter I’d be more than happy to repeat my defense of Danica Patrick in person, and Sunday’s torrent of tweeting during the race it was over. Time to pack up and head home to office demands and deadlines.

And funeral arrangements.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part,

None of us have a complete grasp on what’s going on, or why. We know as best we can the moment we’re in. But even that knowledge is extremely limited. Everything else may as well be lollipop dreams in a cotton candy sky. We are totally, wholly, utterly reliant on God.

Whether we know it or not.

but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.

I don’t know why everything shook out the way it did this past weekend. I don’t know why this was the appointed time for my aunt to go to heaven, which is where I believe she is for she was a believer in Christ. I don’t know why a beloved online acquaintance went to the hospital Friday. I don’t know why the sister of my wife’s best friend, someone we knew, finally finished drinking herself to death Sunday. I don’t know why all this took place even as I was fulfilling a dream and started work toward making it my daily reality. I don’t know why one day I was in Disneyland and the next was at a funeral home.

I don’t know.

I know God knows, though.

That’s good enough.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

In the days of my youth I was a voracious reader, often reading the same book several times over. One of these was The Runaway Robot by Lester Del Rey. In it, the referred to runaway robot recalls a line he either heard or read once: ‘After a taste of freedom, captivity is no longer the same.’ While referring to my day job as captivity is ludicrous melodramatic bunk, now that I’ve sampled being a full-time NASCAR writer… ‘nuff said.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

It’s ironic that what is most feared in life, namely its conclusion, is in fact our greatest liberator. No one in their right mind wishes to hasten their demise. Yet in death not only are we promised eternity with Christ, we are promised the answers we could never know nor understand during our tenure on this planet. What’s more, we are promised the full embrace of Christ’s love for us.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

There was magic and loss this past weekend. I could have done without the latter. The former, though… the former made the latter a little easier to understand.