One good thing about a night race - you don't have to get up before dawn! I slept in until 7:00 and had a leisurely Sunday morning at my brother-in-law Tom's house in Charlotte. We had driven down from Northern Virginia on Friday, and did the "Family Visit" thing on Saturday. Yeah, I can't get enough of sitting around with the in-laws. Beats the heck out of watching a Busch race in person. Unfortunately, just like his sister I married, Tom has little interest in motorsports (i.e., the cheap so-and-so doesn't have Speedvision), so my viewing of the F1 cars screaming around the blind, Armco-clad corners of Monaco would be delayed until later in the week.

At 11:30 a.m., son Andrew and I hopped into the family sedan and made the 20-minute drive to a Clarion Hotel - the departure point for our Broach Tours bus ride to CMS.

We arrived at the parking lot behind the Diamond Tower at 1:00, just as advertised. Now we had only five hours to kill before the race! Although Andrew would have preferred to remain inside the air-conditioned bus, he accompanied the old man to the souvenir trailers. This trip saw an end to my two-year search for a tan Ford Racing cap (as Cheryl will tell you, that color matches my personality), so the old red and black one can now reside permanently on the package tray of my T-Bird.

Stop #2 of our hike was the Thompson/Anderson/White/Lauer campsites outside Turn 4, where The Artist Currently Known as Lou was so intently watching the Indy 500 on the DSS (this is "camping out"?) that we were able to swipe two Cokes from the cooler when he wasn't looking.

Cheryl provided her customary objective, unbiased account of the previous day's BGN victory by the Evil Roush Minion Mark Martin, which we had missed entirely due to the 35-mile local TV blackout. Cheryl also cajoled me into carrying the banner to the reunion site, and then promptly shooed us off as the hardy campers began preparing their pre-race banquet. Completing our "lap" of the grounds, we got back to the bus parking lot for the Broach Tour gourmet catered meal of barbecue, cole slaw and iced tea. It works for me, but not for my son, who maintains his 5'4", 115-lb physique on a diet of pizza and burgers. This was followed by a half-hour siesta in the bus, before the walk back around to the frontstretch side all over again for the 4:30 reunion. Andrew holds a dim view of all this walking around before races; I consider it a necessary prelude to the prolonged sitting (and eating) in the grandstands.

I have to admit that the McCollom Boys missed the pre-race show, AKA Humpy's Aerial Assault on the Speedway; we heard the explosions and cannon fire while hiking up for the reunion. Maybe next year...

Joyce, Rod and Lou were still recovering from Saturday's oppressive heat, and rumor has it that John and Mary McManus were holed up in their air-conditioned bus somewhere nearby, but Cheryl bravely schlepped up the hill to the Smith Tower, cooler and camera in hand. We displayed the banner, Neil and Cheryl Leipziger arrived shortly, and our small but enthusiastic group chatted and people-watched for about an hour before heading to our respective seats.

By the way, Cheryl T. was wearing a Jeremy Mayfield shirt, so all of the reunion participants were among the Ford faithful this day. Is that SIX "favorite" drivers now, Shrimp?

Row 64 of the Diamond Tower does provide a view of the entire track, but no matter how much they gussie it up, it IS the backstretch; I had to rely on the PRN radio guys to call the pit stops for me. I forgot the tape measure, Jack, but I think the stadium-style folding seats are about 18 inches wide. The "armrests" stick out about far enough to reach your elbow, and have no useful purpose that I could see.

***Warning: Totally biased, sexist, facetious "race report" follows***

I had Andrew pick a number between 1 and 100, which determined that the #94 car would be my "favorite" for this race.

Well, wouldn't you know that after working his way up from 33rd to 12^th by lap 106, Elliott came up with the crappiest set of tires on the planet during the longest green-flag run of the night (did I mention I've NEVER seen him finish higher than 10th?). Ol' DW did a marvelous job of prolonging the agony, and must have royally pissed off Martin in the process, but there would be no yellow flag to save Bill from going a lap down. Bradberry's asking price must have been too high.

Now, as luck would have it, I would be unable to flee the premises early without stealing a car or hijacking the tour bus. I had left the Slim Jim at home, and have never driven a bus, especially out of tight quarters in a parking lot, so I was pretty much forced to stick around until after the checkers fell. The black-garbed fans all around who scrammed with 60 laps to go expressed their surprise that I was actually going to sit in my $84 seat until the end of the race, but all I could do was smile and wish them a speedy trip out.

Then, much to my chagrin the VERY cute, VERY young, VERY shapely Gordon-cap-and-tee-shirt-attired fan sitting directly in front of me packed up and left at the same time! Now, having lost even the hope of watching her jump up and down in the ecstasy of a Rainbow victory, I headed for the concessions.

Senor Humpy's idea of nachos - some VERY yellow, thick chips and pure, unadulterated Velveeta - didn't help a bit.

Oh yeah, back to the "race"; Bradberry drops his price in the late stages and wrecks all by his lonesome (after the Hendrick contractually-required LaJoie-induced yellow failed to produce the magical set of tires). Miracle ending for Wonderboy. Big Whoop. That's it. No more will I throw away big bucks on these *&^%$# scripted marketing extravaganzas. I'm gonna pack my own nachos and root for all the Late Model Fords on Saturday nights at Old Dominion. Both of 'em.

Taking the Broach Tours bus proves to be a wonderful idea! Dozens of cars sit still, while Smokie waves us down the road; I could get used to this. I'm feeling better already, and we're back at the Clarion in about an hour and fifteen minutes.

All that remains is a short drive and a late-night visit to the Mother of all grocery stores, the Harris Teeter at the Arboretum, five minutes from home base. Blueberry muffins for the morning (glazed donuts for the teenager).

Uh, say, when's the next Cup race down here? October? Maybe Tom will have Speedvision by then.

Steve McCollom

	Home | SHR | Race Pics | About the Author  | UCAP |  E-mail
This page was last Modified on:  .