The water of the Chattooga slipped silently under the Hwy 76 bridge. The full moon shown through the white pines and oaks up the long hill toward Clayton. Then came the rumble. You heard it coming but saw no lights. The cubic inches of the Cadillac engine took over the road and surrounding forest. If you had been standing there, perhaps the only thing you would have seen was the '40 Ford sliding past you amidst the thunder, all lights off, a determined and furrowed brow looking out the windshield, and the back of the car almost dragging the pavement. That precious clear liquid was stacked in quarts and gallons safely in the trunk. As the roar slowly climbed the hills into Long Creek on the other side of the bridge, red and blue lights appeared around the curve at the top of the hill on the Clayton side. The Georgia State Patrol slowed and turned around in the middle of the bridge. "Maybe Ben Jones over in Oconee can catch 'em." uttered the GA Trooper as he headed back toward Clayton.
Thus another game of cat and mouse was over. This game took place all over the hills of the South each night in the post war '40's. These young men challenged the law and the road each night to transport clear liquor to the towns and cities in the Foothills and Piedmont. Poverty was rampant in the South and a man could make a better living turning his corn into liquor instead of selling it by the bushel at market. An interesting product of these games with the law started coming to light. At many so called racetracks, mostly short circular rutted venues cut into the red clay, these young men brought their hauling machines to see just what they could do against their brethren. The movement flourished and the venues added bleachers and some sort of schedule. Many promoters at these tracks wound up in fights with their racers at the end of the event due to enforcement of "rules" that were made up on the go. Greenville-Pickens, Gaffney, Metrolina, Concord, Bowman-Gray, Waynesville, Asheville, and many other tracks hosted a ragtag bunch of competitors each week. Finally, in a smoky hotel in Daytona Beach, FL, one of these racers named France and a table full of others sat down and created Nascar. Nascar was to be a sort of governing organization for these races all over the Southeast. The first race of what was to become the "Winston Cup Series"(yes I will always call it that, Sprint be Damned!)was held in Charlotte in 1949. The rumble of that '40 Ford with the Cadillac engine came down out of the mountains and began a sport that would spread across the country.
Ralph Earnhardt had a shop in the backyard of his home on the corner of Coach and Sedan Street in Kannapolis, NC. He was a "linthead." He and thousands of other men and women across the South eeked out a living in the cotton mill. Ralph hated it. He loved racing. He walked away from the mill and concentrated on his racing. It was a rough life. His wife Martha and their children lived a lean life. Then, Ralph started winning. He was winning all over the Southeast, becoming Track Champion at numerous venues. They raced all week back in those days. Ralph and crew would get home from Greenville-Pickens and immediately prepare the car for the following night's race at Asheville. On and on the cycle went with a tow headed young Dale watching in the background, playing in the infield in the creek that used to run through Greenville-Pickens Speedway and risking a whipping when Ralph or Martha saw those muddy clothes. Gradually, Ralph let Dale grab a wrench or two and help him work on that mythical #8. Ralph was hard on his boy and instilled a work ethic in young Dale's mind. Ralph was disappointed when his son dropped out of school, quit his job at the mill and wanted to race like his dad. Dale was not to be deterred but Ralph gave him no quarter. Dale married young and became a father. His racing career stuttered. Dale would race just to pay the bill for his tires from his previous week's race. Life was hard. Ralph saw his son struggle. He may have helped him here and there but let Dale make his own way. Ralph was Dale's father but he was also his idol. The world seemingly crashed down on Dale in '73 when Martha found Ralph dead of a heart attack in their kitchen. His father, his mentor, his role model was gone. Dale's eyes hardened at that point and he began to bear down on his competition. Later in life, Dale told of his love of the Travis Tritt song, "I'm Gonna be Somebody". That is what he had told Ralph in those early years. In 1975, Dale drove his first Cup race in Charlotte for Ed Negre. The legend had started with a 22nd place finish.
Throughout his early career, Dale was chastised by competitors and fans alike for his hard charging style. Daryl Waltrip crossed paths with "Ironhead" numerous times. As he raced to rookie of the year his first full season, fans took note. People began to see themselves in the mustached former "Linthead" from Kannapolis. This "Everyman" did things on a racetrack they only dreamed of doing on I-85. He moved slower cars out of the way with the "Chrome Horn" and threaded his way through gaps where only angels would dare to tread. He dominated the sport leaving competitors shaking their heads on how in the world he did it.
The blue and yellow of that Wrangler car was very similar to the Bobcat's Blue and gold. The seemingly giant of a man with the big mustache and cowboy hat was bigger than life to an 8 year old like me. Grandaddy was a fan of this blue and yellow clad hero just as he was of other hard chargers like Cale, Donnie and Bobby, and Neil. As we sat on Sunday afternoons either watching the race on CBS or listening to them on MRN, Grandaddy would sometimes say "Earnhardt's comin!" Sure enough, that Wrangler car would wind up in the front and Grandaddy and I would smile. That Wrangler car turned into a Big Black Chevy with a forward slanted 3 on the sides. "The Man in Black" was my man. As I grew up, he remained that man with both me and Grandaddy. Back around the early '90's, I took my first trip to the hallowed ground of Talladega. As Sammy Carver and I sat with the other miscreants in the old wooden backstretch grandstands, Sammy would later say that I had the biggest permagrin on my face when I first saw that mean black 3 car go past on the parade lap. On the second lap, when all the cars are at full speed, I had tears in my eyes as the concussion of 43, 358cu inch engines thundered by at full song. Earnhardt didn't win that day but I witnessed the sheer finesse of Earnhardt as he used the air to thread his way through the field. I sat on those wooden bleachers twice a year for a few years then higher up in the shiny new aluminum ones.
While working for Lowes, I made friends with the marketing director of Lowes Racing in North Wilkesboro. He surprised me one April when he sent me an all access pit and garage pass for Talladega. (Cue Angels singing) I drove alone down to the track that Saturday because Sammy and the gang couldn't come until Sunday. I set up my tent in the infield and then walked through that hallowed gate into the garage. I immediately sought out the 3 stall and watched in awe as the crew worked on the car. I rambled around the garage. I even got to climb up on top of the 31 Lowes hauler and watched some of the Busch Race with an injured Mike Skinner and Richard Childress. I asked Mr. Childress where Dale was. He said he was probably either asleep or watching a young Dale Jr. race the Busch Race on tv in his motorcoach. I felt like a kid when Richard told me I could meet him when he came out for final practice. I climbed down and rambled around some more. The Busch race finished up and the Cup crews started scrambling about, preparing for practice. Suddenly, there he was. He stood beside the stall with Childress, alternating between laughing and pointing seriously at something he didn't approve on about the setup. I couldn't move. Here I was 8ft from my hero and I couldn't stammer out a word. Just then, Richard motioned me closer. He introduced me and told Dale I was from Seneca. Dale said "That's right next to Clampson!" then grinned that mischievous grin. It was all over from then because I felt I had to catch Dale up on almost twenty years of my life, how my Grandaddy loved watchin' both him and his dad. He lit up when I said that. He talked with me for about ten minutes like he had known me for years. "Time to get to work. Tell Grandaddy I said hello. It was good to meet you Scott!" And with that, he climbed in that Black Chevy and fired the monster up. I stood there like a deer in headlights with that permagrin all over my face. I followed him up until he turned to go into the inspection garage. I walked on out to a deserted pit road to watch happy hour practice. I found an empty spot about halfway up pit road and sat down on the pit wall. There was a smattering of other fans and other photographers but none within about thirty yards of me. I watched and snapped pictures as the cars took off up pit road to head onto the track while the rest thundered down the front stretch just across the infield from me. I turned to look as Dale pulled out of the garage area and rumbled up pit road. All of the sudden he stopped right in front of me. "Take a picture for your Grandaddy!" he yelled. He lit the tires up as I snapped the picture and waved at me as the car rocketed on down pit road. Permagrin.
Fast forward to February 2001. I watched Daytona with Grandaddy and Mom that day over at Granny's. The last lap was thrilling as DW called Brother Mikey home to his first win. Dale had hit the wall in turn 4. Nothing too spectacular. I had seen him upside down on fire numerous times only to have him walk away. This was beginning to sound a little more serious as we watched Ken Schrader run over to Dale's car, look in, and begin to frantically motion for the rescue units to hurry. The race broadcast ended without any news but you could see on DW's face that all was not right. I came on home and flipped on the TV. A little while later, a news conference broke in and there was big Mike Helton, a mammoth of a man, shaking as he told us we had lost Dale Earnhardt. It sounds silly I know but I am teary eyed as I write this. I broke down and just sat in the middle of my living room. I was stunned. Then the phone began to ring. My mother called, hysterical, asking if I wanted her to come down here. As soon as I hung up, the phone would ring again. "Are you Ok? Oh my God! How in the world...." I was beside myself as the reports continued on the TV and the calls continued. My good friend and former girlfriend Allanah Moore showed up at my door about an hour later. She was a Mark Martin fan but loved Dale as well. She knew how upset I would be. I cried like a little kid in her arms late into the night. The weeks that followed were rough, rougher here in the South especially. Funeral Homes all over put out guest books so that fans could come by and sign. Greenville-Pickens had set up a memorial on the backstretch in front of Ralph Earnhardt's name on the Wall of Champions. My cousin Amy and I went over there and signed the guestbook. The line around the track looked like a melting pot. There were people that didn't look like they had a pot to piss in standing right next to doctors and lawyers. Black and White, all talking, sniffing, and hugging as we shuffled together through that line. As Amy and I got to the book, we looked at all the notes, flowers and memorabilia that people had left. I left a copy of that picture from pit road that day. We turned and started back down the track. Maybe it was just my eyes tearing up but as I looked back across the infield there at GP, I swore I caught a glimpse of a muddy clothed little boy romping and playing as the rumble of big V8's surrounded him. In a blink of my eye, he was gone.
Part of my childhood, part of the South, and the shoulders that carried NASCAR died that day in turn four at Daytona. While I still went to Talladega after his death for a couple of years and saw Jr. thread the wind like his father taught him, it was never the same. Struggling Jr., Harvick, and a few more of the old timers still have my interest as the torch bearers of Dale's legacy. This thing they call Nascar racing today is a mere shell of what it used to be when that Black #3 was in the pack lurking, wating to pounce and rattle someone's cage.
Godspeed Dale. Hope you and Neil Bonnet are enjoying that fine hunting and fishing up there.
The rumble continues to fade up Hwy 76 and into the hills.....
