Racing to the Finish

by Dale Earnhardt Jr

  I should have been really nervous—and I suppose I was—but whatever anxiety I had at Darlington paled in comparison to how I’d felt at Watkins Glen just one month earlier. My symptoms were better, but so was my confidence in a big, crowded setting. At Watkins Glen I had been careful to set aside my thick “Wild Thing”–looking glasses. On this day I kept them on for the entire half-hour press conference, even though they made my eyes look kind of huge.

  Micky was great. I knew he would be. He started off by giving a quick lesson on concussions. He explained that when the brain is moved around violently inside the skull it creates chemical changes inside the neurons and the cells of the brain, and those changes create “an energy crisis for those cells.” He explained the six different concussion types and told the nation that when he’d met with me I had experienced three of those: vestibular, ocular, and anxiety/mood. He explained the idea of specifically targeted treatment plans, and he bragged on me for sticking to that plan.

  “When I first saw Dale my goal was to help him become a human being again. I can tell you with confidence that is happening right in front of our very eyes. He is feeling better. He can tolerate a lot more. He’s having fewer and fewer symptoms . . . The second goal is Dale becoming a racecar driver again. And yes, we will be working on that as well. I am very confident that we are moving in the right direction in that respect.”

  He explained that my results, while improving, weren’t close to being normal yet. He reiterated the dangers of stress hampering the healing process and said it was no coincidence that, once the decision had been made to not return to racing during the remainder of 2016, my progress had started moving at a much quicker pace than it had while we were going week-to-week on the decision to approve or not approve my return to the racetrack.

  Twice he was asked if my previous injuries made me susceptible to concussion going forward, if me getting back into a racecar one day was really that great of an idea. “The only time you run into problems with concussions is when they aren’t managed properly. That’s what we’re doing with this one (managing it properly). We’re taking the time that we need. We’re doing the treatments that are needed. And that’s why we are doing that, with the goal of Dale being able to withstand the biomechanical forces, so that any incidences would not produce a return of difficulties.”

  The whole time Micky talked, I was grinning. I couldn’t help it. I was so glad he was there. I think people could see why I had the confidence in him that I did. The kind of confidence that, when I was asked again about retirement, I could say what I did. “We went through this process in 2012. It was very scary and difficult. Micky told me that I would one day be well and I would win races again. He was right. We got well and I had some of the greatest years and greatest experiences of my career. He’s telling me that we can do that again. And I believe it.”

  We went into the Darlington garage and I got to see my guys and Jeff Gordon again. The fans were great. Micky got to meet some folks too. It really was pretty stunning how much easier it was without the “Will he be back next week?” question dominating everything everywhere I went. I walked that garage with confidence. It had been a while.

  During our time there we were asked by both ESPN and Goodyear if I would be the celebrity picker for College Gameday the next weekend, when Tennessee and Virginia Tech played a college football game in the infield of Bristol Motor Speedway. ESPN even wanted me to narrate their big movie trailer–style open for their broadcast of the game that night on ABC. They had actually approached me about all that a couple of weeks earlier. I wasn’t ready then. I was now.

  I was ready for a lot of things now, including a lot of unexpected battles as my rehabilitation plowed into the fall. Throughout September and October, I had more highs than lows. But the lows were still there. My specific instructions from Micky and his staff called for me to go and do things, “normal” things like travel, dinner, concerts, and outdoor activities. I found myself still wrestling with a lot of guilt about that, especially whenever I would think about Kelley and everyone at JR Motorsports or Rick, Greg Ives, and all my guys at Hendrick Motorsports. They were working so hard all the time, still taking care of their normal business and I would think, What am I doing? Taking hikes and going out to dinner? I knew there was a lot more to it than that, but I still felt guilty about it. I felt like I was already retired, and I didn’t like that.

  It didn’t help that from time to time I would hear from people doubting what I was doing. Amy and I might post a picture on social media of us having lunch in the treehouse on our property (it’s a really nice treehouse) and someone who works for me would see it and soon I’d get a text or a call. “Dude, are you just hanging out in the treehouse? Shouldn’t you be doing rehab stuff? Are you not taking this seriously?!” They had no idea I had worked out for hours that morning or that climbing up into the treehouse was actually part of my exposure rehab, that heights had been one of my biggest symptom triggers. Just getting up there and not flipping out, that was a rehabilitation victory.

  I had never been a big concert person because of my dislike of big crowds, but Amy and I started going to see shows because we never had before. But we learned not to make a big deal out of it because we didn’t want to have to answer to “If you’re well enough to fly to Milwaukee for a concert, aren’t you well enough to get back into the racecar?!”

  There were also calls from some very high-profile professional athletes that were disguised as encouragement but were really sales pitches. I don’t have to tell you that the medical industry is big business, but you might be surprised at what other doctors will do to try to grow that business, especially when you’re a well-known athlete dealing with a headline-making issue like concussions. They try to lure big patients away from other doctors, and that’s what was happening here, asking their sports star clients to do their dirty work. “Dale, I saw your press conference with Dr. Collins and I know you think he’s great, but my guy says Micky’s treatment methods are all wrong. You should come see my guy.” I politely said no.

  My guilt extended from worrying that I wasn’t doing enough now all the way back to worrying about what I had done—or should have done—before. I unfairly beat myself up putting myself into my current position. As I’d told everyone at Watkins Glen, I didn’t let myself think about what-ifs when it came to the future. But I sure did a lot of thinking about the what-ifs of the past.

  What if we had said no to that tire test invitation at Kansas in 2012? What if I had come in one lap earlier instead of running the last lap of that twenty-five-lap run so hard? What if that tire hadn’t blown? What if I hadn’t been so Hammerheaded and told someone how sick I felt as soon as it happened instead of keeping it secret in 2012 and 2016? I would even reach so far back as, hey, what if I had taken better care of myself when I was younger? What if I had gotten way more sleep and drank way less beer in my twenties? Would that have helped me recover faster now?

  I told you, my mind never stops. I just have to try to hit the brakes when it starts going too far down one road and then try to steer it down some other one. That’s what I tried to learn here, to take that energy and focus it into something more productive than worrying. Like my rehab workouts or planning our wedding.

  I learned to shorten up my goals. Instead of allowing that “return to racing” goal to cast a shadow over everything I did, my targets became more short range. Stuff like “go to the grocery store by myself” or “be in good enough shape to go hunting when deer season opens.”

  We own a hunting camp in Ohio. When the leaves start changing colors, that’s where I like to go. In October my friend and fellow racer Martin Truex Jr. made that trip with me and my brother-in-law, L.W. I’m proud to say that I had a big hand in Martin getting his big break in NASCAR. We put him in our Xfinity (then Busch) Series car in 2003, and he’s had an incredible career in racing. When we made the trip to Ohio together, he was finishing off a four-win season and setting the stage for a c
hampionship run in 2017. Martin is one of my best friends. A big reason for that is that despite all his success he hasn’t changed one bit, even now, at the top of his game.

  One morning at the hunting camp I was in the garage next to the cabin, doing my exercises. Martin walked in to watch, and it dawned on me that he was really the first racecar driver to watch me do them in person. I was doing the gait test. That’s the one that looks and feels like the one you see people doing for police at sobriety checkpoints, walking heel-to-toe for twenty steps along a straight line with your eyes closed. To me, this test was always one of the truest measuring sticks of how I was progressing. In the beginning, I couldn’t do one step without losing my balance and pitching completely out to one side. Now I could make it to the end of the line, but sometimes it took a real big effort, my hands flailing like I was a tightrope walker in the circus. A drunk tightrope walker.

  I told Martin he should try it. He blasted down that line like it was totally nothing. Then he did it again. I thought about my talks with Micky when he’d raise the bar of our goals with his hand. I thought to myself, Okay, Dale, you might be close to “normal life” on this thing, but you’ve still a little way to go to reach “elite athlete.”

  I also saw the look in Martin’s eyes. He was in disbelief at how I was laboring and couldn’t even imagine what it must have looked like weeks earlier, as I described me stumbling around after one step. The look of confusion and then understanding made me wish I could’ve shown everyone what he’d just seen. “Man, Dale must have really been messed up.”

  Yes, I had been. But I was getting better. I was close and I knew it. Now I was headed back to Pittsburgh to prove it.

  Tuesday, November 15, 2016

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  My sixth visit to UPMC, and the fifth of 2016, felt different than all the others from the moment we hit the front door. I’d been sleeping better, and it had been a month since I’d had any significant headaches or dizzy spells. Micky had promised that the stress of not having to keep pushing back my imaginary comeback date would be liberating, and it was. With that anxiety reduced, I could feel my rehab improvements happening in relatively big moves instead of baby steps.

  As my mental and physical confidence returned, so did my willingness to reconnect with people. I took the crew out for lunch, I rejoined the team’s group text, and Amy and I went out socially with Greg Ives and his wife. One night we went to the Cabarrus County Fair and watched the pig races. We even tried some spinny carnival rides, and they didn’t make me sick.

  Our routine during these visits with Micky had become just that: routine. I met with him and then hit the gym and did tests for exertion, sensory organization, and gaze stability. I had my consultation to talk about my meds. I was off that Klonopin now, and that was fine by me. I could feel my edge returning. Then I headed back up to his office for my post-exam review.

  When I got to Micky’s office, he had my chart in his hand, and he was smiling. The page that listed the results of my tests in the gym listed a dozen ratings, six taken before the workout and the same six after. Every symptom listed—headache, dizziness, lightheadedness, fogginess, nausea, fatigue—was rated at zero out of ten on the scale. “Assessment: No symptoms with exertion.” Another page listed goal achievements, everything from levels of balance and stability to functional goals, both short term and long term. Each of those lines now ended with the most beautiful two words you’ll ever read: “Goal met.”

  At the top of his notes, Micky wrote: “With these findings, it is my opinion the patient is asymptomatic from the cerebral concussion he sustained June 2016 and meets criteria for progression towards returning to automotive racing activities.”

  I wasn’t completely cleared. I was to continue my exercises through at least the end of the calendar year. And like 2012, I would have to be put through my paces on the racetrack to see how I reacted to driving a racecar. But this exam was always the biggest hurdle. This time, as I left Micky’s office I didn’t cry, but there was no shortage of emotion, either. It was the happiest I had been since, geez, I couldn’t remember when.

  It had been 130 days, a whole four months since I had been behind the wheel of a racecar. With Micky’s approval, I would run that total up to 157 days and no further.

  During those 27 days between seeing Micky and the test session that would hopefully provide that final clearance, I stayed super busy. I went to the NASCAR season finale weekend at Homestead-Miami Speedway to watch our JR Motorsports drivers Elliott Sadler and Justin Allgaier finish second and third in the final 2016 Xfinity Series championship standings. I went to the NASCAR Champions Week celebration in Las Vegas to accept my fourteenth consecutive Most Popular Driver Award, voted on by the NASCAR fans. To win that again despite having missed half the season was pretty amazing. I was also a frequent visitor to the Hendrick Motorsports digital simulator, running virtual laps under the watchful eye of Greg Ives, prepping for the most important test session of my life.

  Wednesday, December 7, 2016

  Darlington Raceway

  The helicopter landed early in the morning right next to our house at Dirty Mo Acres. I was wired, but tired. I barely slept the night before because I was so excited to get back into my car.

  Anytime the helicopter comes to pick me up the biggest question is, where are the buffalo? I have four buffalo I keep on the property that move between two big sections of fenced-in land on either side of the house. If the helicopter comes whomping in and the buffalo are on the upper section near the helipad, they freak out. So there are windows of time when it can land and when it can’t. On this morning the buffalo were in the right place, but they’d be on the move soon, so our departure window to get to Darlington, South Carolina, was tight.

  I was ready. Amy was not. I waited as long as I could, but we had to get out of there if we were going to make it to the racetrack on time. It ended up we had to take off without her. I didn’t like that because I always wanted her by my side, especially during moments like this morning’s test session. She also always wanted to be there for me. But today she simply didn’t make it.

  The official reason she wasn’t ready in time was that the buffalo migration compressed the schedule too much. That’s what we said at the time. It was even reported that way in the media. But really, it was because she purposely wasn’t trying to get ready on time. All of that work we had done together, she always knew that the goal was to get to this day, to get back in the racecar. She never questioned that. Now that it was finally happening, she needed to stay home and deal with it in her own way. She was going to be in the house, on the safe place of the couch, praying and waiting on text updates from me.

  When we got to the racetrack, I wasted no time. I suited up and headed straight for the No. 88 Chevy that was waiting for me in that awesome old carport-looking Darlington Raceway garage. It was a bit of a gray, cold day, but I didn’t care. My entire crew had made the trip down, and so had Alex Bowman, which I thought was pretty dang cool of him to do. Dr. Jerry Petty was also there. Just like my comeback test at Gresham Raceway Park in 2012, Dr. Petty would be there to administer a handful of quick field tests to see how my mind and eyes were reacting to being back in a racecar. Once I was up to speed, I’d be traveling upwards of 180 mph around NASCAR’s quirkiest speedway, a 1.366-mile egg-shaped oval, originally built in 1950 and not for the speeds we reach there now. It’s located in the Sandhills region of the Carolinas, and that sandy soil gets into the asphalt, grinds it up, and makes the track surface rough and bumpy. It takes full concentration to get around there alone, not to mention in a race with thirty-nine other cars.

  I never felt any lack of confidence in my ability to get around that racetrack. I felt good. The last time I’d raced here, fifteen months earlier, we’d finished eighth.

  What I was worried about were my eyes. As Greg Ives walked me through the plan—run a bunch of laps, come in for my tests with Dr. Petty, and head back out for more—and
as Adam Jordan reached into the car and buckled up my window net, I was really conscious of my eyes. I tried to be mindful of my anxiety level and how that could affect my symptoms. But I was genuinely worried that when I got my car up to speed, and I was riding that high line up against the wall along the top of the 25-degree banking, with the G-forces kicking in and the car jostling around and me trying to stay focused on the path up ahead, that all of that would trip my head out again, wreck my gaze stabilization, and give me those bouncy eyes while I was blasting around the track.

  That’s how I steered through that first set of laps. I think I ran fifteen in all, and I ran the first few pretty tentatively. By lap 4, I could feel it coming back to me. It fit like an old shoe. I came back into the garage and Dr. Petty ran me through the same set of tests we’d done in Georgia four years earlier. The stick with the dot was moved into my face. My eyes stayed locked. I was given a straight line to walk. I walked that line like Johnny Cash. Dr. Petty shoved me in the shoulder to see if I’d stumble. I stood my ground.

  Checked out, I went back out. This time, as soon as my four tires hit the blacktop, I could feel myself smiling inside my helmet. This familiar wave went over me that I hadn’t felt in so long . . . I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt like that. It was like, Oh, yeah, there it is. Okay, Junior, let’s go.

  I dropped the hammer.

  I’d run 15 or 25 laps and come see Dr. Petty, he’d tell me I looked good, and I’d go back out again. Drive, test, repeat. I ran about 185 laps—250 miles—over the course of five hours, and if they had let me I would’ve stayed out there all day long. While I was on the track, Dr. Petty was calling Micky, Rick Hendrick, and NASCAR to let them know I was good to go. When I was in the garage waiting on the crew or Petty, I would grab my phone and text Amy about how well everything was going.