We had breakfast. I got dressed. The TV was on. There were people running around everywhere. I played with Macy on the floor for a little bit. She brought out her Barbie dolls. Buffy was cleaning up the kitchen. But even though the race didn’t start until one P.M., my brain had already begun to shift. Buffy recognized that mentally I was somewhere else, and she respected that.
I was still in the motor-home living room, still physically there. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the race. “You’ve got the car, and we’ve got the plan.” Then I argued with myself. “But will the plan work? Quit questioning Dale’s plan. He’s the Man. Just be cool and calm and make sure you’re there at the end. That’s your job. That’s what Dale said. Get to the end.”
I was thinking about all those things that morning and gradually growing more and more distant from everyone because of the significance of the day.
Finally, it was time to head out for the race-morning hospitality visits. But this year, because I was driving for Dale, I had more sponsors than ever. Hospitality for Coca-Cola, hospitality for Oreos, hospitality for NAPA, hospitality here, hospitality there. After signing about a thousand autographs and telling all my new sponsors how I was going to win the race for them that day, it was time to head to the drivers’ meeting.
NASCAR requires all the drivers and crew chiefs to attend these meetings before every race. But at Daytona, the meeting was an event. Hundreds of people packed into a small room to see and be seen. The actual meetings themselves were generally pretty routine, pretty boring. We were told just about the same thing every week, like “When the caution comes out, slow down.” Duh! “Be careful on Pit Road.” “Don’t jump the restarts.” “Listen to your spotters.”
Spotters, they’re interesting folks—the driver’s eye in the sky. For safety purposes, they’re required by NASCAR. Spotters are positioned high atop the grandstand so they can see the whole track. If someone spins out, your spotter tells you that the caution’s out and where the trouble is and to slow down. That is why they are there. But over time, the spotters started doing more than just warning you about problems. They began assisting the drivers. “Clean high,” your spotter will say. “Three wide . . . you got one looking low.” Spotters make sure the driver is fully aware of what is going on around him.
I don’t really like spotters. It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like what they do. I think drivers should drive and the spotters should do what they were originally put up there for—to warn drivers about track conditions. But actually, at places like Daytona and Talladega, they are pretty helpful, I guess. We run so close together, we need all the information we can get to keep us from making a mistake that could cause a huge pileup.
My spotter was Chuck Joyce. Chuckie was pretty cool. He had spotted for me when I drove for Wood Brothers and had done a good job. So when I went to DEI, I asked him to come along. I loved Chuckie. He was fun. He was a travel agent. He didn’t know squat about racing. But he could see and speak, and he had a pulse. So he was qualified to be a spotter.
Before NASCAR gets into all the race procedure stuff, they introduce the celebrities, dignitaries, and sponsor folks who are in attendance. On this day, NASCAR welcomed our new broadcast partner to the sport. Fox and NBC had committed to cover all the NASCAR races. All through the eighties and nineties, our fan base had kept growing and growing. Fox and NBC wanted to be part of the action. This was a big deal for NASCAR. All our events would be on network TV—and just two networks. Prior to the 2001 season, our races were all over the TV. CBS had a few. ESPN had some. TNT, TBS. Seemed like most everybody but the Playboy channel and SOAPnet had a race.
This was significant for NASCAR. Fox and NBC paid a premium for the broadcast rights. It was also significant for my brother Darrell. He had retired from driving at the end of the 2000 season and was quickly signed by Fox to be part of their race-day coverage team. All the Fox broadcasters including Darrell were introduced at the meeting and were set to call all the action of the forty-third running of the Daytona 500. I was making my first start for Dale. Darrell was going to be calling his first race for Fox. Wouldn’t this be a great day for another first—my first win?
When the meeting ended, I headed off toward my bus to find a quick bite to eat, get my uniform on, and prepare myself to race. That had always been the routine for me. But on the way to the bus lot, I decided to change directions. I needed some quiet time. I was sure my motor home, full of family members and friends, would be far from quiet.
Instead I walked toward the race-car hauler. The hauler is a fifty-three-foot tractor-trailer that serves as the team’s headquarters during race weekends. Like the cars, the haulers are all parked tightly in line, side by side, and lined up by points. At Daytona, the haulers are parked in order according to the way they finished in points the previous year.
The guy who’s first in points gets the best spot—then second, third, and all the way down through the field. When you got to the end, that’s where we sat. We were a brand-new team. We had zero points. So my truck was way down there with nobody around it.
When I got to it, instead of going inside, I walked around and sat down on the front bumper. I stayed there by myself for ten or fifteen minutes and thought. This was a special time for me, fifteen minutes in deep, personal thought. That short time of reflection was crucial to my winning the Daytona 500, and it happened an hour before the race. I don’t think I could have performed like I did if I hadn’t had that time to myself.
I was thinking: It’s here. It’s time to race the Daytona 500, the most important race of your career, Mike. You can win in this car. You know that. Today, we’re gonna make sure to be there at the end and let everyone know it.
I knew it was important not to let all the excitement and enthusiasm force me into doing something stupid. “You can’t win this thing at the start,” I told myself. “The race is five hundred miles long. So take it easy. No mistakes. Focus.”
I thought about Dale’s plan, my car, the competition, and everything I needed to consider to win. And with that, I got up and walked off.
I think this impromptu meeting I called with myself was an extension of the coaching Dale had been giving me since September. He was rubbing off on me, and that was a good thing. I had certainly put the negative thoughts of Thursday behind me. I had turned it around. I remembered Buffy’s words: “You put yourself in a position to win that race on Thursday. You can do it Sunday too. Now go do it. Just make sure you finish the deal this time.”
I had seen myself make mistakes before in my career. Maybe I had a car I thought I could win with, and I just pushed too hard.
Obviously, I must have been doing something wrong along the way. I had to be different today. Dale had me confident I would be. Sitting on the bumper of the truck in the middle of this whirlwind of action and the hustle-bustle of people everywhere, I’d slipped away and found a moment where I could just focus on what it was going to take to win. Focus on being patient for the first part of this race in order to be able to make sure I was around at the end, along with Dale and Dale Junior.
Certainly, there was no guarantee I’d be there at the end, no matter where I was mentally. But trusting my skills and being calm would give me the best chance.
I found a quiet, tranquil moment of clarity in the middle of thousands of people. I had blocked all those people out. It was just me and my thoughts on the bumper of a big, ol’ truck.
That was important. Afterward I went back to the motor home. I was right: That place wasn’t quiet at all. In fact, it was quite hectic. I grabbed a quick bite to eat, put on my uniform, hugged everyone, and cleared that chaos.
It was time for Buffy and me to head toward Pit Road. It’s about a quarter-mile from where the buses are to where the cars are parked on Pit Road. The teams spend Sunday morning going through checklists of a hundred things on the cars, making sure the suspension is tight, the brakes are bled, etc., etc. They have just an endless number of items to check.
One of the crew members has a responsibility for ten things, another crew member for another ten things. So they spend all Sunday morning making the final preparations and adjustments to the cars. Then they go through inspection—NASCAR inspection. When they’re out of inspection and they pass, they go sit on Pit Road in the order in which they’re gonna start the race.
By the time noon rolled around, we were on our way to Pit Road. All the cars were there. The drivers were all making their way out for pre-race activities including getting introduced, meeting the dignitaries, and waving at the fans. I was in my uniform. Buffy had on a blue pantsuit with a light-blue leather coat. She always dressed up nicely for the races. She looked beautiful.
We met up with Dale and Teresa. Buffy had asked Teresa when she and Dale were going to walk out because we wanted to walk with them. Along the way, we were laughing; I was enjoying a walk with my friend, my car owner and our wives, getting ready for my first race for the man who had given me this wonderful opportunity, and, in general, just being really relaxed and enjoying this experience.
We were signing the occasional autograph on the way for fans who asked and just reminiscing or talking about life in general. Not really talking any race strategy at this point. I knew what I was supposed to do. We had covered that on Friday. Now it was just a matter of getting ready to start the race.
I had gone through all kinds of stuff in my brain. What Dale and I talked about. Adjustments me and my crew chief, Scott, had tried during the qualifying races and practice—which ones were good and which ones were bad. Now it was: Just go execute. Go do it.
Walking out with Dale made me feel different. I was so happy with where I was mentally. This time out, I knew in my brain—I didn’t just think it, I knew it—I could win this race. My car was perfect in final practice Saturday afternoon. Not only was it fast, it handled great. Handling is very important at Daytona. I was confident about my car. That’s one thing that was different. I’d never, ever had a car this good. It had it all.
I was also thinking about the meeting we’d had on Friday morning after Thursday’s qualifying races, where Dale had mapped out how we were going to win this race. That meeting was amazing to me. How did he figure it all out? I don’t think anyone else had. I know one guy who didn’t.
It was the first meeting I’d ever had like that. I can’t imagine anyone had ever had a meeting like that. Dale told me how we were going to do it. Dale knew more about winning at Daytona than anyone. He had won more races there than anyone. Man, I loved my leader! Racing for Dale was going to be so cool, I thought. He had me right where I needed to be. 0-fer-whatever? I couldn’t care less about that anymore.
It’ll be me, Dale, and Dale Junior.
I figured Dale must have talked to Dale Junior, right? I hoped Junior was down with that plan.
CHAPTER 21
GREEN FLAG
Until lap fifty or so, I just ran in the pack. I didn’t make many moves. I didn’t take any chances. I just hung on. That was my plan early in the going that day. I didn’t have anything to gain by pushing too hard too soon. There have been times when I gave myself good direction then didn’t follow it. This time, I actually took my own advice. I’m happy about that.
My car wasn’t handling exactly like I wanted. It was loose. If you’re a race person, you know what I mean by that. And if you’re not, it’s funny that you’re reading my book. Anyway, when I would go into the turns, the car just wouldn’t handle like I wanted. The rear end was wanting to swing around. And when you’re running 200 miles an hour, side by side, sometimes three wide, that’s not good. I was telling my crew chief over the radio, “It’s just not right. I can’t get the back end under me.” That just about describes it: Every time I’d try to make a move and I got in a tight squeeze, it would want to spin out. So my pre-race game plan was key: My car wasn’t ready to charge, and I’d convinced myself I shouldn’t be charging that early anyway.
So I was managing an ill-handling car, along with not being overly in a hurry. I was just trying to log laps until I could get in the pit and have my crew make some adjustments.
“It’s loose—not terrible loose but sorta loose,” I told the crew before the first stop. “I’d say a six loose on a scale of one to ten. We need to work on it. I’d say a little wedge, but I’ll leave it up to y’all.”
After we pitted, I was pleased. The adjustments we made addressed my problem perfectly. In just one pit stop, the crew nailed it. That’s unusual for a new crew. There are about a dozen things they could have done to it based on my feedback, and they picked the right ones.
Now that the car was right, I needed to see what I had. It was time to get going and see what I could do. I needed to know how much car I had under me. I didn’t want to wait any longer. Fifty laps, sixty laps—the race was roaring by. I had to see if I had the horse under me I thought I had, one I could actually ride to the front of the pack. If the handling was right and I was doing everything I knew how to do and I still couldn’t get there, then that would be a real concern for me. I wouldn’t be in control of my own destiny. I would be just another car in the crowd. I knew that as soon as I got my car handling right and I decided it was time to go, I’d better start gaining some ground. Oh, and I did.
Draft, block, pass: It really wasn’t so complicated. That’s what I’d been doing my whole life. And I was doing it again. Weaving through the traffic and moving up a car at a time.
The block part of the technique used to win at Daytona is interesting. Everybody does it. You block for two reasons. One is the obvious reason: to keep someone from passing you. But the second reason is at least as important as the first one: so you can get a push from the guy following you. Two cars hooked up at Daytona go way faster than one. You block. The guy pushes. You speed up. It’s a wonderful thing.
By the time we hit lap 70, I had raced to the front of the pack. I was leading the Daytona 500, driving for Dale Earnhardt. It felt great. But there was a lot of race left to go. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mikey, I thought.
Things were going perfectly—so far. I’d definitely learned I had a car I could win the race in. I’d gotten the adjustment I needed. I’d been patient long enough. I’d absorbed the flow of the race. When I was ready to go, I went. From lap 70 to lap 170, I was at or near the front most of the way. I didn’t lead much, but I led some. And I was certainly competitive through the whole middle part of the race.
With thirty laps to go, things were getting really intense. This is to be expected so late in such a big race. With every lap that goes by after the halfway point, the intensity ratchets up a notch. Early in the race, if you were thinking about trying to squeeze into a tight hole, you might say, “Ah, I’d better not try that.” Now it was getting down to where if you needed to squeeze yourself into a hole, you were going to squeeze in there—or try, anyway.
When people start squeezing into holes and taking chances like that, that’s when crashes occur. And when crashes happen at tracks like Daytona and Talladega, the restrictor-plate racetracks, the crashes usually involve a whole bunch of cars at once. At plate races, pretty much everybody on the track is in that same draft.
On this day at Daytona, there were thirty-some cars in this lead draft. The front of that pack is the safest place to be. At lap 172, I made it to the front again. At lap 173, I was very glad I had.
Coming off turn two, somebody tried to get in a hole that wasn’t there. There was a major crash. More than twenty cars involved. A serious, race-altering pileup on the back straightaway. When I looked in my mirror, there was stuff flying everywhere. One car was even flipping, doing cartwheels back there. Smoke, dirt, parts, pieces—what a mess! What a crash!
Back in 2001, even more so than now, you worried anytime you saw any wreck, especially one of this magnitude. Part of your brain always thinks, Someone could be hurt back there. Could be someone I’m close to. Heck, it just as easily could have been me. But at the same time, there is also relief. Your car’
s not torn up. You can race. It’s really nice when the big crash is behind you or you weave your way through it somehow.
I was looking in the mirror seeing all these cars wrecking behind me, and I was thinking: I hope everyone’s okay. For sure, that took a bunch of guys’ chances away.
The caution flag flew, and it was quickly replaced by the red. The wreck was so big, NASCAR didn’t want us driving back through all the debris. Besides, the ambulances needed to get to all the cars that were crashed to make sure no one was injured. Whenever there’s a red flag, the field is brought to a stop just past the start-finish line. As we rolled to a stop, I was looking in my mirror to see how many cars had actually made it through the wreck, how many people I was now going to have to fight to win the Daytona 500. But what quickly caught my attention were the two cars directly behind me. One was red and one was black. It was Dale Junior and Dale, just like Dale had said it would be.
Dale Junior and I were ahead of the wreck. Dale had somehow weaved through it. Can you believe that?
I kept looking and finally thought: Where’s Park? He wasn’t around, just like Dale had said he wouldn’t be. I mean, seriously? I know Dale’s won seven championships and seventy-some races. But this was freaky. How did he know this? The three of us, one, two, three! It took me a minute to get my brain around that one.
Now we were working together for real. We didn’t have to sort through forty other cars anymore to find each other. Most everybody had crashed. There were maybe fifteen of us left. And the three of us were up front. For the first time I could see it. I could see exactly what Dale was talking about. The three of us, up in the front. It was time to put our plan—Dale’s plan—into action.
Line up and work together.
Once NASCAR lifted the red flag, we all made our way to Pit Road for the final stops of the race. I entered Pit Road as a leader but exited fourth. Dale Junior had taken the top spot, and Dale was third. The green flag waved on lap 179, and the field was cut in half. But I couldn’t tell. The action at the front of the pack was more intense than it had been all day.
In the Blink of an Eye Page 13