No wonder the NASCAR Hall of Fame came to Charlotte (or should I say is currently contributing to making Uptown look like one big construction site). Charlotte (slash Concord) makes a two-week long festival out of the races … NASCARnival.
Step right up ladies and gentlemen, it’s a celebration with drinking and driving. As in people drinking while watching people drive. But it’s our equivalent to Mardi Gras nonetheless, with two races, the Pit Crew Challenge and Food Lion Speed Street.
Then there was also Kyle Busch’s birthday party at Cans. Just like rock stars have groupies and athletes have jersey chasers, NASCAR drivers have “pit lizards.” And let me tell you, they have similar characteristics of the common reptile … leathery skin and territorial instincts. One of them snarled at me merely for saying hello to Denny Hamlin. Hamlin and David Stremme are like the Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie of NASCAR.
There was also the Gillett Evernham Motorsports Party at HOM, which wasn’t much different than the Sprint party at Whisky River. But if you missed these parties you can always go to the Rusty Rudder on Tuesday.
At the All-Star Race, my buddy Britt, who is on Ryan Newman’s pit crew, took us around pit row, which I like to refer to as the highway of fun. He took us into the number 12 car transporter before the race where I asked Newman about a) his wife’s animal rescue foundation and b) how he turns the “Transporter” into a robot. Turns out, a transporter is not a transformer; all the porter does is store the extra car, but we both agreed it would be cooler if it converted into a robot.
Meanwhile, 3 Doors Down rocked it out, Kelli Bartik rode in the car with Kevin Harvick during the Burn Out contest and I had an epiphany.
I sat there on the roof of the HMS Worldwide motor coach watching the cars go round and round and round … and then it hit me — that’s what my relationship with my NASCAR Mr. Big looked like. He just drove me around in circles, and in turn, drove me crazy. I stopped spinning my wheels and sped off before I crashed and burned. I realized at that moment that by being off the track, I was actually on the right track.
Now, can someone tell me what is up with the homing device men have on women that telepathically alerts them that we’ve moved on — because he called right as I smiled to myself for driving forward on an open road and cruising along without a rear view mirror. But this time, I didn’t answer — I was too busy out racing his memory.
This article appears in May 28 – Jun 3, 2008.
