1997 Winston 500 Bob Paxton

Saturday dawned overcast but precipitation-free in  Ocala.  Heading south on I-75, I knew what the Alabama  weather forecasts were saying, but I was confident of  having a good trip and seeing a good race.  NASCAR always  seems to get these things in.

Halfway to Tampa, rain began to hit the windshield.  From  there, the weather got progressively worse.  By the time  I reached the airport it was so bad the field was  closed.  At about our scheduled departure time, the  thunderstorms lifted enough for the airplane to sneak in
and taxi to the gate.  Ten minutes later, they were back  with a vengeance.

We finally left Tampa three hours behind schedule.  Upon  arriving in Atlanta, the entire passenger load of a  nearly full L-1011 jumbo descended on the two poor souls  at the Delta service counter who would spend the next  hour and a half rebooking all the missed connections.

The sight at the gate from which the next flight to  Birmingham was to leave was not pretty.  A team of  mechanics were working on the #3 engine of an old 727.  Thirty minutes past scheduled departure, the flight was  officially KO'ed by mechanical problems.

The next one was a much newer and more reliable 757 which  deposited me in Birmingham nearly six hours later than my  brother Andy was expecting me.  Miraculously, he was
still there at the gate.

Sunday:

Andy had set the alarm, but it wasn't necessary.  A  spectacular thunder and lightning show roused me from my  sleep about ten minutes before wake-up call.  We headed   to the track in pouring rain.  Andy's wife thought we  were crazy.

The weather enroute varied from a monsoon to only a light  drizzle.  Andy knows a back way to the track and we  turned onto Speedway Blvd. having seen only a handful of  other cars.  Once on the boulevard, the traffic was heavy  but moving.

With the Hall of Fame in sight, though, it came to a dead  stop.  The rain was pretty heavy and there was nothing to  do but sit in the truck.  After a while, Andy's eyes  began to turn yellow and he muttered something to himself  about wishing he hadn't gotten that cup of coffee when we  stopped for fuel.

Thirty minutes later with the rain still pouring down, it  was clear Andy had an emergency on his hands.  Fortunately, he had saved the coffee cup.  I'm still not  sure how he did it, but one cup of coffee turned into two  and a half cups of---well, you know.  We looked at each  other and pitied the poor women who were caught in the  same situation.

After nearly four hours of sitting, the cops finally  cleared the road of the traffic that was approaching the  track from the other direction and we crept back up to  I-20 and headed home to Tuscaloosa.  We never got into  the speedway, but we did stay dry all day.

Monday:

Monday morning was drizzly, but no real rain was falling  so we headed to the track with renewed optimism.  This  time the trip down Speedway Boulevard went without a  hitch and we found a pretty decent parking spot not far  from our Gadsden grandstand seats.

I knew it was a long shot, but I headed toward the  traditional Dega reunion spot in the trioval.  Andy opted  to stay near our seats.

Upon arrival, there was no Sacred Scroll and no one I  recognized.  Rats!  This was my first Dega race where I  could actually get to the reunion and there wasn't one.  I had been standing there for a pretty good while when a  guy in a red jacket and a Bill Elliott hat stuck his hand  in my direction.  It was Jack "insert pithy saying here"  Kirkman.

We talked a while, then I headed up to Moss-Thornton.  I  really wanted to meet the esteemed keeper of the image  archive, but it seemed that was going to be a washout  too.

By then, the sciatic nerve problem that's been nagging at  me kicked up again making walking pretty painful.  As I  hobbled back toward Jack, another hand thrust itself  toward me.  BINGO!  The one and only Roger L. Smith and  Marcy.  Yes, Marcy, I really am a Ken Squier fan!

Back at the reunion site, Kirkman had been joined by the  Campbell clan.  Some more small talk followed, but there  was no sign of the Rainmaker, TSS, or any of the protest  banners.  Dang!  I really wanted to carry one of those  things, bum leg or no bum leg.  I can't believe we've  gone 0-for-April with that.  May has got to be better.

I reluctantly left the group to rejoin my brother who had  been entertaining himself for nearly two hours at that  point.  When I found him again, he had renamed the race.  Welcome to the Misery Loves Company 500.

The fact the PA announcer never gave any time estimates  to the green added to the misery.  You'd think with over  100,000 paying customers waiting, they'd at least give us  some progress reports. Sheeesh.  That's not too much to  ask.

No sense rehashing how Mother Nature toyed with us before  sending us scurrying for the truck.  We did manage to be  one of the first ones out of the track, though.  Guess  there's something to be said for sitting in the Gadsden  cheap seats.  They're the closest ones to the exit.

Tuesday:

By Tuesday I had had enough of this trip and was ready to  get home.  Things started out well as I made my first on  time departure of the journey.  The guy beside me on the  plane had flown down from Pennsylvania to see his first  NASCAR race.  I assured him the events of the weekend  were the exception, not the rule.

The good times didn't last, though.  In Atlanta, the  posted departure time of my flight back to Tampa was an  hour past the original schedule.  More mechanical  gremlins in the Delta fold.  Witkowski's words drifted  into my consciousness.  DELTA, Doesn't Ever Leave The  Airport.

Two hours late, we took off in a substitute aircraft.  On  arrival, the Tampa airport never looked so good.

Bring on next year.  The law of averages says *that* trip will be perfect.

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