It was wild up there. We were all fighting to see who could get to the lead.
Sterling Marlin had a really fast car. He pushed his way to the front after the caution. But just a lap later, I grabbed the lead back from him.
Sterling was right on my bumper. Dale Junior and Dale were behind him. We needed to shake Sterling out of there. And with fourteen to go, that’s what Dale and Dale Junior did.
Now we were one, two, three—all lined up at the front. Imagine that! Again, it was just like Dale had planned.
Thirteen laps from the finish.Talk about drama! But I had Dale Junior on my bumper, and no one could really get up to me. With eleven to go, Sterling got close. But our three cars tied together held him off. Junior and I were bumper to bumper at the front of the pack. The guy who had a real fight on his hands was Dale. He was in third, in a vulnerable position.
I was safe, I was hoping, because Dale Junior was latched onto me and was pushing. So I had a buffer between the action and me. Dale Junior was in a good position too, because Dale was pushing him. Dale was his buffer to all the people who were wanting to intrude on our little party at the front. Dale was third. He had no buffer. Nobody was pushing him. Fourth, fifth, sixth, all those other guys—they weren’t just waiting around. They weren’t sitting in line like Junior and I were. They were trying to fight their way up past Dale, press themselves into the action, and grab the lead. And they didn’t have much time left.
As each lap passed and I held the lead, I kept wondering, “What’s Junior thinking?”
The drama continued to build for me as each lap passed and I still held onto the lead. Holding it and keeping my eye on Junior.
As far as I was concerned, he was a wild card. I didn’t really know Dale Junior. I believed what Dale had told me, that we would all work as a team—the three of us—and win the race together.
I believed it, but I didn’t know it.
Dale Junior and I didn’t have a relationship. If you had asked Junior, he would have said: “I don’t know why my dad and Mike are friends. I just know they hang out all the time.”
I think Dale Junior wondered what we had in common that made us friends. I was about halfway between their ages. Dale was forty-nine. I was thirty-seven. Dale Junior was twenty-something, just a kid. I was an old married guy with kids. Dale was too. So I had more in common with Dale than I did with Dale Junior. Like most fathers and sons, the two of them were at different places in life.
Junior had had a lot of attention cast on him since he first showed up in NASCAR. Being Dale Earnhardt’s son meant the whole world was watching every pass he made. Dale Junior certainly hadn’t disappointed anyone who hoped he could hold a steering wheel like his old man could. Championships in the Busch Series, winning in his rookie season in Cup, Junior was proving he could. But because of all the attention he had gained from driving a car, he put a shell around himself.
I know Dale was proud of Junior. Dale the dad would light up when talking about all his kids and their accomplishments.
Dale had told me I could count on Junior. Now he was right behind me. I hoped Dale was right. He certainly had been so far.
I drove my car ninety percent of the time with my eyeballs in the mirror. I ran all the final laps that way. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust what Dale had told me. It was that I had to make sure I did all I could do to keep Dale Junior right in my tire tracks. I’d never talked to him about any of this. And this was the Daytona 500. He was just a kid. What was he thinking? He knew the plan, didn’t he? Would he do what his father told him to? I believed he would. Was I being naïve to think so? This was all new to me.
I sure wished I’d talked to Junior before the race to see where he was mentally, to hear those words directly from him.
That would have been a good idea, Mike. A little late now. Get over it.
Worrying about all that now was dumb. What was important was for me to focus on my car and keep myself positioned on the track the way I wanted to. If I hadn’t been able to stay right on the bottom of the racetrack and I’d opened the door for Dale Junior to get in there, I bet he would have. He would’ve said: “You slipped up, and I had to go.” That’s how that would have gone down.
So it was really important for me to do my job, not to give him that opening. And that’s what I did. I did my job exactly like I was supposed to do it. I did it perfectly. I never gave Dale Junior the room to make a move on me.
I just kept watching my mirror, and it kept looking just like Dale said it would. Dale Junior was right on my bumper. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do. And behind him, Dale was moving around a lot. I could see Dale Junior, and there were times on the straightaways I could see Dale too. All those other drivers were drafting up on him. There was a lot going on back there. I could tell that.
The other drivers were getting their runs. They were trying to pass. First Sterling. Then Schrader. Rusty Wallace too. They were all trying to fight their way to the front. Their chances to gain ground on me and Junior were winding down. If they were ever going to get to us, they had to get around one of the fiercest competitors of all time. It seemed like Dale had drawn a line in the sand: “No way you’re crossing this.”
But as determined as he was to keep them from crossing it, they were equally determined to say, “What line?”
For anyone going mano a mano against Dale Earnhardt at Daytona, I’d bet on Dale Earnhardt every time. They were teaming up on him, and that made it a fairer fight for those guys, I guess. But they couldn’t pass.
Dale was working, man. Blocking, crowding, getting run into and bounced off of, and drafting all over the place. He was doing all he could do to keep pushing us ahead. Dale said this is how it would be: Someone would get the lead and the other two would push.
But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I am sure: He wanted to be right where he was. I bet he didn’t think Dale Junior or I could do the job he was doing. And he was probably right.
If either one of us had been in Dale’s position, I don’t think we would have been as good or disciplined or smart as he was at sticking to the plan. He knew he needed to be that guy. He stayed back there in third and fought and blocked and tried to keep all those people off us. He did just that. He did an amazing job.
At the same time, I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do. Once I got the lead, I wasn’t just out for a Sunday drive. I had to be calculating. I had to be sharp. I didn’t just run with my foot flat on the floorboard, although I could have. I knew that wouldn’t get me the win. I had to recognize what was going on behind me. Going down the straightaway, I’d roll off the gas pedal just a little. I didn’t want to get too far ahead of Dale Junior. If I’d gotten too far ahead of him, it would have given him the room to make a run if he wanted. The gap I would have put on him would have given him the momentum he needed to maybe pull out and pass me. I couldn’t take anything for granted.
I know now that pulling out and making a move was the last thing he was going to do. He was just doing what he was told. He was staying in line. He was pushing me. But I didn’t know all that then. If he’d told me that before the race—or I’d asked him—it would have made my life a whole lot easier. Or would it have? Would I have believed him? It doesn’t matter. Bottom line is, at the time, I didn’t know what he was thinking.
As the laps ticked down, nothing changed. I kept looking in my mirror thinking, Five to go. Dale Junior isn’t making a move. He’s still sitting right there.
My confidence was rising now. Time was running out.
“No one’s made a run yet,” I said to myself. “I don’t think they’re gonna get one now. I don’t think it’s gonna happen. They can’t get to me.”
At a moment like that, you have to keep your concentration no matter what happens on the track. As Dale had proven at Talladega in the fall, no race is over until the checkered flag.
“Okay, just race,” I told myself. “Just race. Do your job. Stay in the present
. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I watched the mirror and the track and made sure I stayed right where I was supposed to be, which was down on the bottom of the track. I sat there and played with the gas pedal and kept myself spaced and did everything I was supposed to do in order to be in a position to win the race.
I knew what I was doing. And I was going to keep on doing it. I was in control of what I was doing. I just wished I knew what the guy in the red car was going to do.
CHAPTER 22
CHECKERED FLAG
I was a mess.
I was so close to winning the Daytona 500. I was out front. Just a few laps to go. And in my mirror, all I could see was red.
It said, “Bud.” Well, actually, technically, from where I was looking, it said, “duB.” It also said that objects in my mirror might be closer than they appeared, but I don’t think this object could have been any closer. This duB was all over me.
Keep pushing, I thought. Keep shoving. Come on, Junior. We’re almost there.
There wasn’t much talk over the radio. Inside my car, all I heard was a word or two every now and then. “All clear,” said Chuck, my spotter. “It’s you and the eight, single file.” The only voice in my head was Scott, my crew chief. He was counting down the laps. “Three to go,” he said as I crossed the start-finish line again. There wasn’t any coaching from anyone. I was in my world, focusing on doing the job Dale hired me to do.
“Two to go.”
In the mirror, nothing much had changed. Dale Junior was right on my bumper. Dale looked like he was back there swatting flies. Next time by, they’d be waving the white. But the white in racing doesn’t mean surrender. It means just the opposite. It means desperation for the other guys.
As we raced off turn four toward the white flag, I liked what I saw out back. I had lifted off the gas entering turn three and timed that lift perfectly. Dale Junior was right on my bumper, right where I wanted him to be. And behind Junior, Dale, Sterling, and Schrader were all in line. As we crossed the start-finish line again, Scott calmly said, “One to go. Bring her home, baby.”
From what I was looking at behind me, I believed I was going to do just that. It didn’t look as if anyone was lined up to make any kind of run. All the chaos of three wide and Dale blocking was gone when we went into turn one for the last time. Just five cars in a line. It wasn’t nutty back there anymore. Was this the calm before the storm? Were those guys lining up to make one last assault?
They would have to make that last run on me off turn two. And when we came off the turn, I didn’t see it. Junior was right on me, and the others were in line too. I thought, There’s no way. There’s no way they’re gonna get me. If I can drive to the end of this straightaway, make two left turns and drive up that other straightaway, and my engine doesn’t blow up and one of my tires doesn’t blow out, I’m gonna win. They can’t get me now.
At that point, it looked like we were playing Follow the Leader. But suddenly, about halfway down the back straightaway with Dale Junior right behind me, Sterling and Schrader made a run on Dale. They split him.
They were three wide when we went into turn three. This was good for me and Junior but not so good for Dale. I was right. I was going to win, and Dale Junior was going to be second, right on my bumper. Junior couldn’t pass me. The three-wide battle behind him meant my win was secure.
However, the storybook one-two-three finish, the one it looked like we were getting ready to celebrate, was in jeopardy. The last time I could see what was going on back there, Dale was in a fight for third.
But I was coming off turn four now, and I was looking for something I’d never seen. I had turned my focus from the black and red cars that were pushing me to the black-and-white flag that was going to be mine. I was so focused on where I was headed, I was paying no attention to what was happening behind.
I didn’t hear Chuck, the spotter, say: “They’re crashing behind you.”
My eyes were looking for that something I’d never seen before in Cup. And it was waving up ahead.
A checkered flag being thrown at me on a Sunday afternoon.
And this wasn’t just any checkered flag. This one would say: Daytona 500.
“There it is,” I yelled. “There it is!”
“Woo-hoo!”
“Yes, winner!”
“Woo-hoo! Yes!”
“Michael Waltrip is a winner!”
Finally, my 0-fer curse was over.
And there was Dale Junior right behind me in second. He hung in behind, just like his daddy said he would.
I noticed the caution lights were flashing. There must have been a wreck back there, I thought. But by then, I was slipping into a mild state of shock. All I could think was, We did it! We won the Daytona 500! Unbelievable!
I was in grade school when I started coming down here, gazing at the high banks of Daytona. Just looking at those banks is how I fell in love with this place. It’s funny how a little boy could fall in love with asphalt. But I did. Now after sixteen years of chasing wins—heck, a win—in Cup, this one was real.
Daytona counts. It counts more than any race. This is the greatest race in the world. I would put this trophy right by the one I won at the All-Star Race. If you’re only ever going to win two races, those were two pretty good ones.
As I continued around the track after the race, I drove right by that wreck Chuckie was talking about. There were crashed cars, ambulances, and safety workers at the scene. But I didn’t notice any of that or pay it any attention. I was just staring straight ahead, trying to get my mind around what had just happened to me.
So many emotions.
I was happy, for sure. I was thankful. I was relieved. My eyes were full of tears. My brain was glazing over. But how could I miss something as huge as the aftermath of that wreck? There were ambulances everywhere down there. Wreckers. And Dale’s car was right up in the middle of the accident.
I remember the cool-down lap clearly. I remember driving right past there. But none of it registered.
I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful for the moments of clueless celebration that followed. I knew I would get a chance to savor the love of my family, my team, and the huge throng of fans showing their appreciation of what we had just achieved, to bask in the celebration of my first win in NASCAR’s greatest race. And that felt awesome.
For a while.
What if I had noticed that crash? What would I have done? Especially if I’d seen who was in it. God only knows. I probably would have stopped, gone over, helped Dale out of his car to get a big hug from him. As it was I just motored on by.
I believe the good Lord protected me from seeing that and sent me straight to Victory Lane.
There, everything would be magical. I would experience first-hand something I had only dreamed of. My family, my team, and friends, all of them, would be there. And none of them would even try to fight back the tears.
Why should they? My eyes were already full of tears. Tears of joy.
It had taken me years to get this party started. And I didn’t have anything to do for a week. That’s when the next race was. I wanted to celebrate till then.
CHAPTER 23
VICTORY LANE
There I was, on the most sought-after piece of real estate in all of motorsports, Victory Lane at Daytona. What a way to break a little losing streak, huh?
As soon as I pulled into Victory Lane in my #15 NAPA Chevy, everything in the world seemed perfect. Buffy was there, crying, laughing, smiling. I grabbed her and said, “We did it, baby! We won this race! We won it just like Dale said we would!”
The sound of roaring engines had now been replaced by the sound of a couple hundred thousand screaming fans, clapping and cheering for a guy who had been trying for sixteen years to win a race. Now he had won the race. Confetti was raining down on my head. Champagne and beer were being sprayed everywhere. This was incredible. Victory at Daytona.
We were living it up, sucking up the mome
nt. I couldn’t imagine that feeling would ever end.
This was my special time, although I didn’t know how clueless I was. It was the greatest ever. We laughed and cheered and hugged. The celebration was under way, one I thought would last forever. Buffy, Macy, my family, my team—all of us were there, and all of us were winners. That dumb streak was over—finally! No more 0-fer. No more asterisk by my name. This win counted.
My heart was still racing. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. But of all the excitement and other emotions I was feeling, the one that felt the best was that relief. I was a winner. At last.
I wasn’t especially tired. It wasn’t a hot day. Daytona isn’t really a physically challenging racetrack. It’s very mentally taxing because of the large pack that you’re racing in and how hard you have to focus in order to put yourself in the right position. But now that it was over, I could say my run to the checker had been calmer than most that I had been in. Out front was the place to be, and I’d never been there before. I was usually in the back, scratching and clawing to scrape out a top-five finish. But I’d focused on driving my car and watching my mirror and keeping an eye on what Dale Junior was doing behind me. We had a race plan. We followed it. I knew in my heart that given the opportunity, I would win. A lot of people said there was a lot of pressure on me now that I was driving Dale’s car. But I disagreed. I thought having a ride like this would take the pressure off of me. Finally, I could just race to win. And I was right.
So instead of being overly exuberant, I was just more like, Thank God. I finally won a race. Any race. A race that counted. And this one counted a lot.
I looked up and there was Macy, standing near her mom. She had a huge smile on her face, and she gave me a hug as big as only a three-year-old can. It was a lot like the hugs she gave me in the motor home when this day first got started. Man, that seemed like a long time ago. She had a pretty dress on. She looked so beautiful and so proud. I kissed her on the forehead and held her tight. Then, just as I let go, one of the guys on the crew decided to take a beer can, shake it up, and squirt her, spraying a can of Budweiser all over Macy and her pretty little dress.
In the Blink of an Eye Page 14