In the Blink of an Eye

by Michael Waltrip

  Thanks to Steve and his team, the healing could continue, as did Dale’s winning tradition.

  CHAPTER 30

  DAYTONA RETURN

  You ever just know something? You see it. You feel it. You can’t prove it exactly. But you just know it’s true.

  Happens to me all the time. One time was when I showed up at Daytona in 2001 with Dale, dragging all those losses behind me. That man had me convinced I could win. I believed him, and he was right. The next time I felt something like that was a few months later, in early June, when it was almost time to return to the beach. I was at Pocono or Michigan or wherever it was, someplace I didn’t want to be, and I was struggling. The season I’d dreamed of my whole life had turned into a nightmare after the first race. Such an unbelievable win—and at the same time, an unimaginable loss. That contradiction had me stumbling through a life I didn’t want to be living, constantly reminded of a day I wanted desperately to forget.

  That day in February was the last time I had smiled at the track. That was before I knew about Dale. I’d had a little hope down at Rockingham a week later, when my car was fast and Dale Junior and I were joking about my performance. But then I wiped out and that was the end of that and the beginning of week after week of racing disappointment.

  Nothing went right. Yet every week there I was, back at another track, doing what I was supposed to do. I didn’t really feel like it was me doing it. I felt like I was just going through the motions, taking one meaningless green flag after another. But all that was going to change, and it was about time. I woke up that June morning and I felt different. I felt inspired again, for some reason. And I liked it. I must have had a dream, I don’t know. But the first words out of my mouth that morning were “Daytona’s coming up, Buff—and when we’re there, it’s gonna be game on. That place owes us, baby. It broke our hearts and derailed our lives. And I’m gonna go there and make things right.”

  I could tell Buffy liked what she was hearing. I asked her, “Can you imagine how mad Dale is?”

  I was wandering around all lost, looking for someone else to fix my problems? Unacceptable. Dale would never have put up with that. I wasn’t going to either. I was being a quitter, and I ain’t no quitter. Quitters don’t lose four hundred and sixty-two races in a row. They don’t get the chance. I was going to do what Dale had expected of me. I could hear him saying, “Put your heart in your car. Go down there and do what I hired you for, you P-word.”

  Yes, sir, boss!

  Our Daytona return was still a couple of weeks away, and what a return it would be.

  Saturday night under the lights, Fourth of July, Independence Day weekend. This would be a fireworks show, NASCAR-style. I was going south with an attitude. Nobody had heard much from Mikey since the last time we were down there. But they’d be hearing from me soon.

  When I was a kid, they called the July race at Daytona the Firecracker 400. Now it’s the Coke Zero 400. It has always been one of my favorite races of the year. It’s our chance to celebrate America’s independence. We racing people always do our best celebrating at the track.

  With each day that passed, I thought about Daytona and became more and more energized. My heart rate rose. I wanted revenge.

  I loved that feeling. I had missed it. The fire was back.

  When we got to Daytona, I was more than ready to get my season on track. My mission started with the first lap of practice. I was one with my car. I felt every bump on the track. Every adjustment on the car made perfect sense to me. It was as if I knew how the car was going to react before it reacted.

  I had been lost for months without any focus or direction. My race team minus Dale wasn’t helping me much either. He was going to be my team leader, and he was gone. Scott, who’d started the year as my crew chief, wasn’t at DEI anymore. We replaced him with one interim guy and then another. By the time July rolled around, I didn’t even have a crew chief.

  But I didn’t care about that detail at Daytona. I would take over there. In my mind, no one was better than me on that track.

  I thought about every move I had ever made at Daytona, every move that had ever worked for me. How I set people up. Where I made most of my passes. I planned how and when I would use those moves—and win. My attitude was, “I’m better than the competition. They will see.” I’m not sure I know exactly what “being in the zone” means. But I do know I was somewhere close to that zone.

  Despite it being a night race, my day started early that Saturday. I had an eight A.M. tee time at the LPGA golf course in Daytona with fellow racer and Daytona winner Dale Jarrett. His brother, Glenn, and Ty Norris completed the foursome. I liken this golf game to my February pre-race sit-down on the bumper of my truck, the counseling session I’d given myself. That session was about me relaxing, taking my time, and letting the race come to me. Golf that morning was the same thing. I even shot a birdie.

  I knew that night I’d have two teammates out on the track with me. But you need all the help you can get. I thought maybe I could work my charm with Jarrett on the golf course so if he had a choice of who to draft with that night, he would pick me instead of some other dude. I was working every possible angle. Jarrett commented about how fast my car had been in practice all week. I loved hearing that again. Hadn’t heard that since February.

  I was feeling like Confident Mike again. I liked the way this day was shaping up: some golf, a quick nap, a little dinner—and then I’d be off to do what I’d come to Daytona for. I hadn’t been sad for one moment leading up to my Daytona return. Just focused. I had successfully blocked out all the emotions that were associated with the last time I was there. I was ready—and a little mad.

  Then it was time to head out for driver introductions. Buffy and I started the walk. That took us by where Dale’s bus had always been parked. I’d walked by that spot about a hundred times that week. But this time it really hit me. For the first time that weekend, I felt the sadness. There wasn’t a bus there. The spot was empty. This was the place where he told me in February how we were going to win. As Buffy and I walked by, I could almost see him sticking his head out that door and yelling over to me. Tears began running down my cheeks. Damn, I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t say a word. Buffy didn’t either. There weren’t any words to say. She just wiped the tears away, and we kept walking, heading to Pit Road.

  As the introductions began, the crowd was just amazing. As big as ever, and more enthusiastic than I’d seen. When Dale Junior and I got introduced, the cheers were the loudest I’d heard. We were definitely the crowd favorites. It felt so good to know the fans were supporting us like that. But I knew it wasn’t only us they were cheering for. They were also cheering for Dale.

  The only way to respond to that was to go win. When the green flag flew, I could tell my car was good. I was competitive. Dale Junior’s car was better though. He was borderline dominant.

  It was pretty much your typical restrictor-plate race—tons of action, lots of passing, and a couple of wrecks. As the laps wound down, just like in February, Junior and I had gotten ourselves in a position to win. One last pit stop was all that was left. If I was going to accomplish what I had come to Daytona for, it looked like I would have to beat Dale Junior to do it. Every time I looked up, his bad #8 car was racing right at the front.

  I was ready to charge. A little too ready, I guess. And I made a mistake. I hate how I keep doing that, damn it!

  “Pit,” came the call over the radio. And I hit Pit Road.

  We needed a good pit stop if I was going to win. Passing was way more difficult than it had been in February. In an effort to make the races safer, NASCAR had changed the rules after the Daytona 500. Instead of the radical aerodynamic package we ran in February, we were running under more traditional rules. So track position was very important, and I wanted to help my crew all I could.

  I dove hard into my pit stall. I knew I needed to get in there fast. But I was going too fast. When I hit the brakes, they locked up.
I slid right through my pit. When I came to a stop, I was way past my crew. Lucky for me there wasn’t a car in the stall ahead of me, or I would have hit it. Even worse, I would probably have hit the crew guys too. Since that stall was empty and I didn’t hit anything or anyone, I just backed up, got my tires and gas, and returned to the track. I was thankful that I had the chance to return to the track and get back all those spots I’d lost.

  But, man, I was mad at myself.

  Instead of helping my crew gain a couple or three spots, my mistake cost us about twenty. And there wasn’t a worse time to do it. There weren’t many laps to go, fewer than ten, and I was stuck back in the pack.

  So I had to lean on that Friday morning lesson Dale had taught me when we were here back in February: Don’t worry about yesterday. I couldn’t worry about that pit stop. There was no time for that. I had to go get another win. That’s what I’d come to Daytona to do.

  I was down. But I wasn’t out. There was enough time. I knew it would take some very aggressive driving and some great moves. But I knew how to make those moves. I started making them as soon as the green flag waved, and I was right. What I was doing was working.

  High. Low. Middle. Three-wide, you name it. I was on it. From twentieth to the front.

  While I was fighting my way through traffic with just a few laps to go, Dale Junior grabbed the lead. With two to go, I’d raced my way to third. By the time we came back for the white flag, with another great pass I had done it: I was in the second spot. The only car ahead of me was Dale Junior.

  He was next.

  “Go get him, Mike,” I was telling myself. “You’re gonna win this race. You’re gonna win at Daytona again.”

  As we raced off turn two for the last time, Junior was a sitting duck. I had a huge run on him. I was gaining fast, and Elliott Sadler in the Wood Brothers car was locked on my bumper and pushing hard.

  I’m going to do it, I thought. I got the run to pass him with, and I know it. He’s done.

  The five seconds that it took from the time I realized I could pass him to when I needed to pull out and make the move—it seemed like forever. For five seconds, time stood still. I was seeing it all in slow motion. And I thought about so many different things.

  I thought about Dale. I thought about how much I missed him. I thought about how badly the last five months had hurt me. I thought about how tough it was for Buffy, having to live with my miserable butt. I thought how it must have been for Junior—heck, for all of Dale’s family—living with so much pain.

  And the more I thought about it, the farther I tried to shove that gas pedal through the floorboard: all the anger, sorrow, disappointment, and frustration welling up and me trying to squeeze it all out with my right foot. I was gritting my teeth and almost in tears, I was so mad. Five months of denial—five months of feelings I had suppressed—came gushing out of me in those five seconds.

  “Put him away, Mike!” I told myself. “No one’s ever needed a win worse than you do now. It’s right there for the taking!”

  I was thinking all of that, and his car was getting bigger and bigger in my windshield. I knew this win was mine.

  All the struggles of this season will be over, I thought, as soon as I make this pass. And I was on my way to doing it.

  Just as I drafted up on Junior’s bumper and went to pull out to make the pass, something happened that I can’t explain. Instead of whipping out and going around, I just held the wheel straight and rolled right in behind him.

  What?

  What just happened? I wondered. Why didn’t I pass him? I had him. Who’s driving my car here?

  Who knows?

  Was it divine intervention? Maybe it was. I know I wasn’t in charge. Maybe Big E was.

  Could he have steered my car right in behind Junior’s? That’s where I ended up and certainly not where I planned to be.

  I was pushing Dale Junior to the checkered flag, just like he had done for me back in February. Dale told Junior to push me then. Did he just tell me to push Junior?

  I thought that winning was what I had to do to get my Daytona revenge. But as we drove under the checkered flag one-two, I’ve never felt more like a winner in my life.

  Now, this is complicated because no race-car driver likes losing. But no race-car driver, probably no human being, had ever been through the emotions that I had the last time I was in Daytona. There was no standard for the feelings I was dealing with: the greatest triumph of my life followed immediately by such a devastating tragedy.

  I am so glad I made that decision. Or whoever made it. Crossing the finish line one-two—with me being the two guy—was absolutely perfect. I was ecstatic, and so were the fans.

  After the race was over, the cheers were so loud I could hear them over my engine. I hadn’t ever heard anything louder than my engine before. But that night in Daytona, the fans were that loud.

  When Dale Junior completed his victory lap, he pulled onto the infield grass at the start-finish line and began spinning his car around, waving his arm in the air. The crowd was going nuts. I needed to be part of that.

  So I pulled my car onto the grass beside Junior’s when he stopped spinning. As I pulled up, Junior ran over and leaned inside my car. “Can you believe this shit?” he said. “That was awesome. Listen to those people.”

  And he was right. It was awesome.

  The capacity crowd continued to cheer. Loudly. A hundred and fifty thousand people, maybe more, were there when the green flag was thrown. After the checkered, all of them had gotten up from their seats. But not a one of them had left. They were standing, cheering, screaming, and celebrating our amazing finish.

  And they were celebrating the life of Dale Earnhardt.

  This ain’t wrestling. You can’t script the moments like this in real sports. This was one of those moments, a time when a sporting event can make everything seem right. There are times when sports can be better medicine than any doctor can provide.

  When Dale Junior walked away from my car, I quickly climbed out and jumped up on the roof to salute the fans. “Thank y’all,” I yelled. “And thank you, Dale. I’m glad you woke me up before we got here.”

  That angry man driving down the back straightaway a few minutes ago? He didn’t exist anymore.

  Our finish exorcised him.

  The angry man who had given up on his season, his sport, something he had been so passionate about his whole life—that man was gone too. And back was my love for Daytona.

  Dale Junior then jumped on top of my car with me. He grabbed me and we hugged each other really hard. I think we were both getting the hug we had missed after the 500, a hug we each had been needing for five months now. It was just us hugging. But I could feel Dale with us too.

  What a moment! This was why I couldn’t wait to get back to Daytona.

  The record books will always show Dale Junior won that night. But I know that result gave me more satisfaction than any mark in the win column ever could.

  While we were saluting the crowd on top of my car, our entire team ran out to celebrate with us and the fans. Before he climbed off my car, Junior looked at me and said: “I love you, man.”

  “I love you too, Bro,” I said.

  Then he turned to his team and dove off my car, headfirst right into the middle of them. They caught him perfectly. He was crowd-surfing like he was at a Phish concert.

  I thought that looked like so much fun, I wanted a Phish dive too. But my team started waving their arms frantically.

  “No, no, no,” they shouted. “Don’t jump. You’re kinda big, dude. Plus you’re too old to be crowd-surfing, anyway.”

  I guess they thought I was Phished out.

  CHAPTER 31

  HE’S BACK

  Oh, what a night!

  That’s a song from the Sixties, by the way. Frankie Valli sings about the year I was born.

  When I finally got to bed that Saturday, I was feeling so content, relishing my return to Daytona and the unexpecte
d last-minute decision I had made. I’d thought I had to win the race that night, but I was wrong. I got everything I needed by finishing second. It couldn’t have been more triumphant. The story of our return to Daytona had a storybook ending. I did the right thing for the right reasons and pushed Dale Junior home. Together, we had done something special for the fans. Dale Junior and I got to celebrate our one-two finish. Us getting to celebrate at Daytona healed a lot of people’s wounds.

  I wanted this feeling to last forever. And I assumed that it would. Finally, I figured, I could live normally. The feelings that had haunted me the past five months—the guilt, the sadness, the sorrow—they’d be history. I had left them on the back straightaway that special night in Daytona when I tried to push my gas pedal through the floor and successfully pushed Dale Junior to victory.

  Or had I?

  As I was sleeping Saturday night, all those haunting feelings must have climbed into bed with me. When I woke up Sunday morning, I stretched, looked around, and recognized them immediately: “What are y’all doin’ here? Didn’t I get rid of you last night?”

  I wasn’t alarmed at first. In my simple brain, I just figured, well, maybe it would take a few days to shake these suckers off. After all, I’d been down in the dumps for five months. This might be a little harder to escape from than I anticipated. Losing those feelings might take more than one special night at the track. I was happy we had a trip to the islands planned for that afternoon. I felt certain Customs wouldn’t allow these complexities into the Bahamas when we got there that morning.

  We got up early. We packed Macy’s floaties. We gathered up our swimsuits. And we boarded our plane to Nassau. We were going to meet Teresa there and spend some time with her on Sunday Money, her and Dale’s boat. This was our first trip back to the Bahamas without Dale.

  When we’d planned the vacation a few months earlier, Buffy and I had wondered: Would it feel weird being down there without him? We loved Boat Dale. He was so relaxed, so casual. You could tell he was at total peace.