THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, August 23, 1994 TAG: 9408230550
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C2 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY DENISE MICHAUX, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 81 lines
Most people can tell you where they were when they heard the news that President Kennedy was shot, or when Elvis died.
I can tell you where I was when I heard about Alan Kulwicki's plane crash, Davey Allison's helicopter going down and Ernie Irvan's wreck during practice at Michigan.
Auto racing is a sport that somehow gets into your blood. Its athletes are almost like family, so it's hard not to be shaken when a member of that family is hurt.
My fascination with motorsports began on a Saturday night in 1989 at South Boston Speedway, a small track in Southwestern Virginia. The details of that night are sketchy; I can't even remember who won the Late Model event.
But I do know Rusty Wallace was making a special appearance and the Burton brothers - Ward and Jeff - were on hand as they were every Saturday night at that time. This was their home track.
Caught up in the excitement of the race, I found myself breaking all sorts of speed-limit laws on the long drive back to Richmond, my home at the time.
I attended that race as a spectator, but when I returned to work I went straight to my editor's office and begged for the chance to cover races.
I was hooked.
As any motorsports addict knows, I endure the snickers from cohorts who wonder why a seemingly sensible person could be fascinated by watching drivers go around in circles for hours on end.
While watching 3,500 pounds of steel and muscle travel at speeds in excess of 170 mph can be a thrill, that isn't why I dove headfirst into a sport I previously knew nothing about.
It isn't speed or power or danger. It's about people.
It's about watching people who work day jobs all week just to get to the weekend, when they can trade paint with their buddies at Southside Speedway or Langley Raceway or any other short track in the area.
It's about drivers who take the time to stop and shake hands with anyone who happens to walk by them in the garage area.
The athletes who power this sport are unlike any others.
They are not pretentious people. They do not feel they are owed something by the rest of the world, or that they sit on a higher plane than average folks just because they are in the spotlight.
These are average folks. They are your friends and neighbors, your local mechanics.
That is why when one of the superstars of the sport I proudly call my favorite is fighting for his life, everyone feels the pain.
It is a battle that has been fought and lost far too often lately.
I have covered every level of racing, from Southside and Langley to Martinsville to Daytona, and there are images I won't ever forget.
I remember Bobby Allison entering the press room at Richmond International Raceway for the first time since his near-fatal accident in 1988, quietly shaking hands with people and smiling.
I remember Davey Allison strolling hand-in-hand to his car with his then-pregnant wife at another Richmond race.
I remember Kulwicki interrupting a weightlifting session to do a telephone interview just weeks before he died.
And I remember Irvan describing a crash during a practice session for the Pepsi 400 in 1990 involving seven drivers. Irvan was luckier that day. He simply had to pull out his backup car to start the race.
I have been lucky enough to at least say hello to many of them. Nothing special, really. Just the way you greet someone you might pass in the hall every day.
That's what makes the people involved in auto racing special. They're just people.
A few weeks ago, I was talking about who might win the inaugural Brickyard 400 at Indianapolis. I had my preferences, but I couldn't really say I wanted any one driver over another.
``Is there anyone you don't like?'' I was asked.
I think that is my point.
We may have our favorites, but when it comes right down to it, each one of these drivers is worth cheering for.
Each one is worth talking to, worth shaking hands with. The loss of any one of them is one loss too many.
Get well soon, Ernie. by CNB