'That's the Toughest Man Alive Right There'
Even in a Sport Driven by Its Personalities, Dale Earnhardt -- the 'Intimidator' -- Stood Out From the Crowd

Sunday, February 10, 2008

You can't possibly care about a sport that consists of cars turning left all day unless you care about the drivers inside. And no NASCAR driver stirred passions like the late Dale Earnhardt, who was revered by half the fans and reviled by the rest.

A California phenom named Jeff Gordon knocked Earnhardt from his perch atop stock-car racing in the mid-1990s. But the bullheaded Earnhardt roared back, finally winning the coveted Daytona 500, at age 46, after 19 fruitless attempts.

I got to know Earnhardt as a young sportswriter at the Charlotte Observer. Over the years, I learned he was far more complex than the "Intimidator" persona he brandished with such abandon on the track.

NASCAR's working-class hero was moody, mischievous, sentimental and, when out of his element, never quite sure he measured up. That was apparent when he traveled to Washington in June 1998 as the reigning Daytona 500 champion to speak at the National Press Club -- a venue he found far more intimidating than the high banks of Daytona.

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With his storybook victory at Indianapolis Motor Speedway in 1994, Jeff Gordon won the trophy that every stock-car racer coveted. But Dale Earnhardt won the second running of NASCAR's Brickyard 400 the next year. Then he went on "Late Night With David Letterman" and bragged that he was the first man to win a stock-car race at Indy, landing another well-placed jab at the youngster he loved to needle as "Wonder Boy."

The 44-year-old Earnhardt had a son older than Gordon, who was then 24. Earnhardt was also a grandfather, though "Grandpa" wasn't a nickname anyone in the garage dared call him. The Intimidator didn't particularly like answering to "Senior," either, for that matter, after his second son, Dale Jr., joined him in NASCAR's top ranks a few years later.

Despite their generational divide, Earnhardt and Gordon gave NASCAR a delicious pair of protagonists once again -- a contemporary Petty vs. Allison -- with starkly contrasting personalities and widely divergent appeal.

Earnhardt, just over six feet, loomed larger when riled. The 145-pound Gordon simply refused to grow. And when he got excited in a racecar, his chirpy voice seemed to jump an octave.

Outside of racing, Earnhardt loved nothing better than hunting and fishing. Gordon favored scuba diving and playing video games.

Earnhardt looked like a modern-day Samson in his open-faced helmet -- his bushy mustache obscuring everything from his nose down to his chin strap. Gordon's baby face totally disappeared behind his brightly painted, closed-faced helmet, which, when paired with his bright red-and-blue racing suit, made him look like a Ninja Turtle.

Even their racecars evoked opposites. Earnhardt's No. 3 Chevy was coal black: a force of evil on wheels. Members of his pit crew rode their Harleys to the races if the track was within a few hundred miles. They also posed for a promotional photo sitting atop an automotive scrap heap, proclaiming themselves "the Junkyard Dogs." Gordon's rainbow-schemed No. 24 Chevy seemed to spread optimism and good cheer with every lap. It was serviced by color-coordinated crew members known as "the Rainbow Warriors," who had their own personal trainer.

But there wasn't the vast difference in the routes the two drivers took to NASCAR's top ranks that fans wanted to believe there was. Earnhardt had come up through a hard-knocks school, no question. And he was deservedly proud of the calluses that proved it. But Gordon's path hadn't been paved with gold, as so many suspected. He had clawed his way into stock-car racing, too, with his parents staking their livelihood on his ability to succeed.

By the time Gordon made it to NASCAR, he had raced nearly as many years as Earnhardt had. The Man in Black started in his mid-20s; Wonder Boy, shortly after turning 5.

Time spent behind the wheel of a racecar goes a long way toward seasoning drivers. It's called "seat time," and there's no substitute. It's how drivers pick up wisdom that isn't taught in racing school, and it has nothing to do with nerve or bravery.

It's being able to react to trouble on the track without panicking.

It's knowing how close you can run to another racecar without wrecking -- and knowing that the answer differs on a straightaway as opposed to a corner, on a short track as opposed to a superspeedway, while racing side-by-side as opposed to three or four abreast.

It's recognizing that a lug nut is loose by sensing a subtle vibration in a wheel.

It's realizing that a tire is rubbing against a fender and liable to go flat by the smell of tire smoke.

It's anticipating how a gust of wind will affect the car's handling by noticing the way a hot-dog wrapper skitters across the racetrack a few hundred yards ahead.

While Gordon boasted plenty of seat time when he arrived in NASCAR, Earnhardt had a huge head start when it came to handling the heavy, often balky stock cars. Gordon was acutely aware of his deficit and unashamed about throwing himself into remedial work. Who better to learn from, he thought, than the master?

Each time Gordon pulled his No. 24 Chevy onto the track, whether during practice or a race, he sought out the No. 3 and fell in behind. And nowhere did he work harder at mimicking Earnhardt's moves than on the sport's two largest speedways, Daytona and Talladega, where NASCAR had mandated the use of carburetor restrictor plates to reduce horsepower and keep speeds under 200 mph. With all the cars running at essentially the same top speed, the key to passing was exploiting the powerful aerodynamics at play. And no one did that better than the Intimidator. Air was invisible to most drivers. Earnhardt, they said, could see it. And Gordon felt sure he'd learn to see it, too, if he could just hang on to that black Chevy's bumper.

Earnhardt seemed flattered that Gordon was trying to download his brain with every lap. And as Gordon improved, Earnhardt reveled in having another foil join the ranks of his most worthy rivals -- Rusty Wallace, Mark Martin and Dale Jarrett, chief among them. Racing wasn't half as much fun, after all, if you couldn't beat the best. Just as in hunting, the bigger the kill, the better the marksman.

But Gordon's learning curve accelerated faster than most anyone thought possible. No driver won more NASCAR races than Gordon in 1995. He visited Victory Lane seven times and proved a quick study in racing with restrictor plates, winning the 400-mile race at Daytona in July. And though Gordon would squander most of a 205-point lead down the stretch, he became, at 24, the youngest driver in the modern era to win a Winston Cup championship. Gordon edged Earnhardt for the title by 34 points. In doing so, he denied Earnhardt the eighth championship that would have broken his tie with Richard Petty and established him, without dispute, as history's greatest stock-car racer.

Gordon was sensitive to the awkwardness of the occasion as NASCAR's top drivers, accompanied by their bejeweled wives, donned tuxedos to fete him at the season-ending awards banquet in New York that December. So from the stage of the Waldorf-Astoria's ballroom, the young champion proposed a toast to Earnhardt, who looked on from his table, dressed to the nines. On cue, a waiter carrying a silver tray strode on stage and presented Gordon with a crystal flute filled with milk. Gordon turned to Earnhardt and raised his glass, conceding he probably was too young for champagne, anyway.

Earnhardt roared.

And the seven-time NASCAR champion raised a glass of champagne in reply, saluting the driver who was, undeniably, stock-car racing's future.

Daytona Beach, Fla. -- February 1997

Drivers spend lifetimes dreaming of the Daytona 500 trophy. Engine builders indulge in the same fantasy, as do NASCAR mechanics, who live for a chance to have a hand in assembling the winning car.

But if 38 runnings of the Daytona 500 had proved anything, it was that the trophy didn't necessarily go to the most courageous driver or the fastest car or the hardest-working crew. Winning the Daytona 500 was as vexing a challenge as there was in stock-car racing. Few knew this better than Earnhardt, who had won everything else on Daytona's high banks -- 125-mile qualifying races, 300-mile Grand National races, 400-mile Winston Cup races -- but never the 500.

Earnhardt had fallen short 18 times, and his record of futility included some memorable gaffes and misadventures. He ran out of gas with three laps to go while leading the race in 1986. He led on the final lap in 1990 only to cut a tire and limp home fifth. In 1991, he plowed into a seagull on the back straightaway, damaging his car's snout and doing far worse to the bird. He led on the final lap again in 1993 but was passed by Jarrett, who had studied the champion's drafting technique over the years as closely as Gordon would later.

In 1997, Earnhardt found himself again in a position to win. Two-time Daytona 500 winner Bill Elliott led the race with 11 laps to go. On his bumper were five cars running nose to tail at more than 190 mph. Earnhardt was second, followed by Gordon, Jarrett, [Ernie] Irvan and Terry Labonte, each separated by less than a car length.

That's when Gordon made his move, pulling up on the inside of Earnhardt. "Ooh, this is gonna be close," Gordon thought as he squeezed past. Earnhardt's car skimmed the outside wall, bounced back and brushed the No. 24, then got rear-ended by Jarrett. The contact turned Earnhardt's Chevy sideways, and it flipped end over end down the backstretch before finally coming to rest, a smoking wad of sheet metal.

The caution flag flew. Amid the hush that followed, Earnhardt crawled from the wreckage, waved to the screaming fans and headed toward the waiting ambulance. He took one last look at his car and stopped. All four wheels were on and reasonably aligned. He walked over and asked a track worker to try firing the ignition. The motor roared to life.

"Give me my car back!" Earnhardt snapped. And he climbed in the window, steered back onto the track and fell in line under the caution, determined to complete all 200 laps and earn whatever points were still in play for his run at the season's title.

Meanwhile, up at the front of the field, Elliott had no teammates to help fend off the Hendrick [Motorsports] onslaught. It was one car against three, and Elliott knew it was hopeless.

With six laps to go, Labonte and Ricky Craven fanned out to the high side. Gordon dived low, and Elliott didn't know which line to block. He tried nudging Gordon low, nearly pushing him onto the racetrack's apron -- the flat shoulder of a track that's not meant for racing. It didn't work. Gordon sped by, pulling Labonte and Craven with him for a 1-2-3 Hendrick sweep.

But in the eyes of many, Earnhardt stole the show, refusing to quit in his mangled No. 3.

"That's the toughest man alive right there," Earnhardt's car owner, Richard Childress, told Jeff Owens of Winston Cup Scene afterward. "He deserves to win this race more than anybody ever has."

Daytona Beach, Fla. -- February 1998

A roar went up from the grandstands when the green flag signaled the start of the 40th Daytona 500. It erupted again on Lap 17, when Earnhardt took the lead. All afternoon, the No. 3 Chevy was the best car on the track, running near the front, never falling from contention. Its edgy driver set the pace for more than half the 200-lap distance, but he spent as much time eyeing the challengers in his rearview mirror as he did looking out the windshield.

Earnhardt again held the lead on Lap 199 -- just one lap to go -- when John Andretti and Lake Speed spun on the backstretch, bringing out the final caution. All Earnhardt had to do was fend off the furious charge from Labonte as they raced toward the flag stand, and the Daytona 500 would finally be his.

Earnhardt did it. And tears started welling in his eyes as he drove that final lap. It was a lap that seemed to take forever. It was a lap that had taken 20 years.

"My eyes watered up in the racecar," Earnhardt later confessed. "I don't think I really cried. My eyes just watered up on that lap to take the checkered."

The fans cheered like mad as he rounded the track and steered onto pit road, where dozens of mechanics from every team and several fellow racers had swarmed to slap his hand, extend a thumbs-up or simply touch his black car as it inched toward Victory Lane. Earnhardt stuck his left arm out the window and got a lifetime's worth of high-fives.

Then he veered onto the infield grass and spun the car in celebratory circles, cutting deep ruts in the turf. Once he drove off toward Victory Lane, his masterpiece was unveiled: Stock-car racing's master had carved the number "3" in the grass with his tires.

"The Daytona 500 is ours!" Earnhardt shouted. "We've won it! We've won it! We've won it!"

After the champagne and fireworks and photographs, Earnhardt swaggered into the press box atop the front grandstand, grinning like some deranged animal, with a pooch in his midsection. He hopped up on a swivel chair facing reporters, his back to the huge picture window overlooking the front stretch.

"It sure feels good to get that monkey off my back!" he said. And at that moment, he pulled a stuffed toy monkey from his racing suit and flung it across the room.

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.