'That's the Toughest Man Alive Right There'

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Liz Clarke on "One Helluva Ride"

Washington Post reporter Liz Clarke talks about her new book about "One Helluva Ride: How NASCAR Swept the Nation," an excerpt of which appears in Sunday's editions.

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Earnhardt thanked the Lord and every living person who had helped him chase his dream of racing stock cars. He thanked every past winner of the Daytona 500 because, he said, they taught him how to race the track. And he thanked the loved ones he had lost: his father; his hunting buddy, Neil Bonnett; and his mentor, T. Wayne Robertson, the force behind R.J. Reynolds's NASCAR sponsorship. They had been watching from heaven, Earnhardt felt, keeping him safe on every lap.

"I thank everybody that touched my life in racing and helped me get where I am," he said. And he asked reporters to put it in their stories just like that.

Someone pointed out that a crowd of fans had wandered onto the front-stretch grass below and were digging up clumps of dirt and grass that his racecar had kicked up in its celebratory spins. Earnhardt spun around and looked. He would earn no income from these unlicensed souvenirs, but it didn't bother him a bit.

"Now those are some good race fans!" he said, waving at the adoring throng below.

And though the champion must have been impossibly small to their eyes, peering down from a press box that was 12 stories high, the fans knew it was him and frantically waved back. Then, like a high school marching band, they formed themselves in the shape of a giant "3." Earnhardt laughed. Then they scrambled around and re-formed in the shape of an "8," for the eighth championship he wanted so badly. Then they dropped to their knees, flung their arms above their heads and bowed.

Earnhardt smiled so broadly that his mustache stretched across his grizzled mug.

"It's just unbelievable that you could win another race and feel more excited than you feel about the last one," he said. "But the Daytona 500 tops them all, buddy. It tops them all."

Washington -- June 1998

A few months later, I got a call at The Washington Post from Earnhardt's public-relations man, J.R. Rhodes. Dale was coming to Washington to speak at the National Press Club, an honor normally reserved for heads of state, national political figures and titans of industry.

Could I come? Could I come early? There was a reception beforehand, and Earnhardt wouldn't know anyone.

I found him that day standing in the middle of the reception, dressed in a suit and tie, his hair neatly combed. I had never seen him so nervous -- his posture rigid, his eyes uncertain. The room was packed. But the guests seemed frozen in the Intimidator's presence, marveling at him as if he were a shark in a glass tank. They were awed, yet afraid to go near.

Just stand with him, I was told. Just stay with him.

He cracked a faint smile when I said hello.

"I wish you'd written my speech," he muttered under his breath.

Oh, no! I said. It's going to be great.

"Could you ask me the first question?" he mumbled. "I don't think people are going to ask me any questions."

Sure they will, I told him. But I'd have one ready, just in case.

I felt like one of those stable ponies they put next to a thoroughbred racehorse to calm him down. Only Earnhardt's nerves were making me nervous. I started wondering if it was going to be a disaster.

The reception mercifully ended, and he was whisked away to the 13th-floor ballroom and seated on the stage along with NASCAR President Bill France Jr. and a host of Press Club dignitaries. Earnhardt was the first stock-car racer to address the august body, and his speech was being broadcast on C-SPAN.

I took a seat in the back of the room.

"It's intimidating to stand up here and talk," Earnhardt began, his voice slightly quivering. "When they first asked me, I asked them, 'Are you sure you want me up there?' I don't get really excited about too much off the racetrack. But really, I had trouble sleeping last night. I kept waking up and thinking about it and wondering, 'What am I going to talk to those people about?' I've only got an eighth-grade education, and to be speaking to the National Press Club . . . well, I knew I couldn't talk politics. But I can talk racing -- where we come from and where we're going."

The more he talked, the more comfortable he became. His voice returned to its normal register. And every time he made a joke, the audience of 150 or so responded with gales of laughter. The Intimidator was finally strapped in and up to speed.

He talked about how proud he was to have won seven NASCAR championships. He spoke about his son Dale Jr., who was then 23 and off to a promising start as a rookie in the Grand National ranks. He talked a little about Gordon, whom he referred to as "that kid," drawing even more laughter. And when it was time for questions, he was bombarded from every direction.

What did he think about restrictor plates?

What really went on between him and Rusty Wallace in the tussle during practice at Michigan the previous weekend?

What did he think of Ford's new Taurus?

What advice would he give for dealing with road rage on Washington's notoriously congested Beltway?

"You've got to give a little," Earnhardt said, borrowing a line from the prerace drivers' meeting he had to sit through every Sunday. "Just be nice and hope the other guy is, too."

Earnhardt charmed them all and was rewarded with two standing ovations -- a first, as far as anyone could recall, for a National Press Club speaker.

First, Gordon had charmed Madison Avenue. Now, Dale Earnhardt was commanding standing ovations from official Washington. NASCAR was changing, all right. But in the years that followed, not everyone, nor every place, would be able to keep up with its frenzied pace.

As I headed toward the exit I took one last look over my shoulder. NASCAR's seven-time champion was basking in a sea of adoration, signing autographs and posing for pictures with TV cameras all around him.

Earnhardt had conquered a new realm. And it seemed as if he'd go on forever.