In 1986, I was the executive editor of Grand National Scene and, among other things, my task was to assist the publication in its quest for interesting, quality feature stories.
Sometimes it seemed a daunting task. There were all kinds of subjects available, but to cultivate an original idea was not easy.
As the first NASCAR Cup Series race of the season at Bristol Motor Speedway approached, I thought I had done just that.
I asked myself, “Are these people crazy or what? They are willing to shell out good, hard-earned dollars to sit in heat, cold or rain for hours just to watch loud, rubber-and-grit-throwing racecars go around in circles. And because they do what they do, NASCAR has made a fortune, the speedways show a profit, a big handful of drivers live in elegant comfort and I’m one of the hundreds who is able to make a living from it all.
“There must be something to these people; something as yet unexplored. Why do they do it? How do they get enjoyment?”
Now I had called myself a racing fan for years. But was I? I was privileged in that racing is my job and although the hours can be long. and the hassles of a deadline are strenuous, I had been afforded a great deal of comfort and personal attention from speedways.
No hard concrete seats for me. No heat or cold. No rain. No money was spent on tickets, food or drink. No long lines at restrooms.
Was I really a racing fan? Can I honestly say that I would spend money to see an event, just like the average person in the grandstands? Am I able to do it just like him?
Once at Bristol, I looked to the grandstands, where sweaty people braved the heat by waving programs in front of their faces, occasionally jostling their oh-so-close neighbor with an elbow. I looked at the rows of folks in front of the concession stands and restrooms.
I looked at that teeming sea of people and I knew I had my answer.
I should be enterprising and become the average fan. No press box for me; no special parking and no credentials.
I would come to the track just like the guy from the gas station or the mill. I would do what he does, see what he sees, endure what he endures.
I passed the idea along to Robb Griggs. the publisher of GNS. I confess I didn’t know what his reaction would be.
He fell all over himself in support of the idea.
“Great! You really want to do it?” he said. “Tell you what, I’ll go with you. We’ll have the chicken, the beer, the radios, the…
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