Sharyn McCrumb - St. Dale

“Now, how about we check out this Speedway tour,” said Harley, motioning them forward. “We can talk more over lunch.”

As the group began to file into the museum and gift shop building, Sarah Nash caught up with Terence. “That was a fine thing you did there,” she said. “Was it all true?”

He nodded. “Sure, it was. I’m a numbers geek. I just try not to let it show. This morning on the bus Karen warned me that she’d lied to Shane, so I had some time to think about it. Miracles. I want one, too.”

“Well, you helped out that young couple. I didn’t think you’d get involved.”

Terence smiled. “Rubbin’ is racin,’” he said. “I guess that’s as true in life as it is on the track.”

Sarah Nash chuckled. “The gospel according to St. Dale. Never thought I’d see the day. But they’re nice kids. She’s the brains of the pair, but he’s got a good heart. She could do worse.”

Terence didn’t answer at first. They had entered the building now and followed the rest of the group into the gift shop-an unauthorized detour that Harley had been powerless to prevent. Finally he said, “I’ve just realized who they remind me of. It’s my parents . That’s what they must have been like. A smart, ambitious girl who marries a nice guy who’ll be content to drift through life, and maybe she doesn’t even know why she married him. She’s using a college acceptance letter for a bookmark. She never told him about that, either. She’ll leave him one of these days, when she gets tired of him holding her back.”

“Maybe not, Terence. Sometimes an anchor keeping you grounded is a good thing. Not all women want to be outranked by their husbands these days.”

“But do you think I’m right about them resembling my parents?”

“Now that you mention it? Of course I do. I just hope they don’t end up the same way.” Sarah Nash looked thoughtful. “Maybe what they need is a drafting partner. May I borrow your cell phone?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call my husband and ask for a favor. Northeast State Community College in Blountville offers an industrial technology program in automotive service. That’s near enough to where Shane lives that he could take courses there, if we can get him in. Richard is on their board, so I think he can put in a good word for Shane.”

“So Shane can learn how to be a NASCAR mechanic?”

“It’s a start. While he’s studying at Northeast, he could do an internship at the Bristol Motor Speedway, which is about two exits away. Richard can probably arrange that, too. If Shane does well, maybe he can get financial aid and go on to a more specialized program, like the one in Mooresville specifically designed for NASCAR.”

Terence handed over his cell phone, still looking bewildered. “But how do you know about all this?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Well, Terence, your father told me about those programs. I think he had hoped that you might want to do that someday. Of course, he’d be very happy about the way things did turn out for you, I’m sure.”

While Sarah Nash placed her call, Terence walked into the gift shop, so lost in thought that he barely noticed the brightly colored displays of drivers’ emblems. One featured item did penetrate his reverie. You could get a dog or cat collar that said “The Intimidator,” marked with the red-outlined Earnhardt number three. He smiled, picturing his mother’s surly Bichon Frise in a Dale Earnhardt dog collar, but his thoughts were mostly elsewhere. He was still considering the purchase when a smiling Sarah Nash reappeared and returned his phone.

“Richard was there,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much I missed the old bear. Watching the Powells this past week has made me think about my husband more than I ever thought I would. And he sounded right glad to hear from me. I think Florida may not be as riveting as Richard thought it would be.”

“You asked him about Shane?”

“Yes. He wants to meet the newlyweds and talk to Shane about maybe going to Northeast State. He was so pleased to hear from me that he even promised to take us all out to see Li’l Dale the sacred goat, and said that if Shane and Karen want to stay at his place for the rest of their honeymoon, they’re welcome. His place is on the beach. I thought Karen would love that. I just spoke to them and they want to go.”

Terence blinked. “Stay with your husband?”

She blushed. “Well, Richard won’t be there. He said he might like to come back to North Carolina for a while. So we’re going to take on the McKees as a project, I suppose.”

Terence nodded. “I’ve been thinking about them, too. And about my dad. You know you asked me what I wanted to do with all the art pottery in my father’s house? Well, I think I’d like to send it to that auction house in Asheville, and put the money in a trust for the McKees. That way my dad would get to send someone on to NASCAR, even if it isn’t me. I think he’d have liked that.”

“I think so, too. I think Tom would be proud. Do you want to come with us?”

“With you?”

“We’re going to leave the tour. Shane wants to see that goat, bless his heart, and Karen wants to spend part of her honeymoon at the beach.”

“But how will you get home?”

“Didn’t I mention it? Richard has his own plane.”

“At all the other tracks we’ve reminisced about Dale’s past races,” said Harley. “And I know that now that we’ve reached Daytona there’s one tragic race that looms large in your minds. His last one: 2001. But I just want to remember another race that Dale drove here. You know he tried from 1979 to 1997 to win the Daytona 500 and never made it. But he loved racing. Somebody-I think it was Rusty-said one time that if NASCAR had ever announced that they were going to hold a race, but no crowds were going to turn up, no prizes would be given, and they were going to charge five bucks for drivers to run on an empty speedway, Dale Earnhardt would be the only fellow to show up. He just flat loved driving, win or lose.

“That’s why the story I’d pick to tell here is not the 1998 Daytona 500, which he finally won, but the one before that-1997.”

“Wonderboy won that year!” said a scowling Ray Reeve. “Why do you want to talk about that?”

“You’re right, Ray. Jeff Gordon did win in ’97, but that isn’t my point. See, that was the year that Earnhardt had his bad luck a little earlier than usual. Most of the time he managed to have his disaster on the very last lap of the 500-mile ordeal-within spitting distance of the finish line if possible. I swear, it was like God’s thumb-well, anyhow, in ’97 the curse hit a little early. He barrel rolled the black number three on the back straightaway, which ended his chances of a win that year. He wasn’t hurt, though. Shaken up, of course, but he crawled out of the car and walked to the ambulance under his own steam. They were supposed to take him to the track clinic to get looked at, but while he was sitting there in the back of the ambulance, Dale got to thinking about his car, and he decided that it was upright and therefore still able to be driven.”

Bekasu’s eyes widened. “He didn’t!”

“Oh, he did. He climbed out of the ambulance, went back to the Monte Carlo, and took off again. Didn’t have a hope of a win, of course, but he came in thirty-first. He loved being here. He loved it.”

The tram tour began with the recorded voice of Bill France, Jr., the head of NASCAR, welcoming visitors to the Speedway. The little caravan of trams began on the top of the 480-acre Speedway with its view of the airport next door and the Hilton across the street, trundled through one of the tunnels leading to the infield, and began its circuit of the two-and-a-half-mile track, while the Speedway guide told anecdotes about Daytona, not unlike Harley’s performance on the Earnhardt Memorial Tour. He pointed out the 44-acre Lake Lloyd in the Speedway infield, where the Intimidator had won a fishing tournament with a 10.8-pound bass. Around the track they went, staying off the 31-degree banking where the racers actually drove, past the orange balls on poles which were actually observation towers for the spotters to crouch in. Past turn 4. That was where it happened. But the guide didn’t say so. When he mentioned Dale, it was the win, the fishing tournaments, the happy memories.