NASCAR superspeedway car builder, owner & crew chief

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  I am not writing for prose or poetry, nor to become known as a writer.

This is not a history book. I just want to tell some stories. I have no surviving children, but would like to pass on some of my experiences and my  perspectives to my relatives and extended family.

   I have accumulated more friends than anyone could possibly imagine, for which I am humbled and most appreciative, and I want to share these stories with them as well. I have no regrets and make no apologies for the content.

   Each story is based on my best recollection of a true occurrence and detailed as best that I can remember from a mountain of memories. I cannot alter my life's experiences to fit anyone else's narrative /expectations.

  Who I was has made me who I am.

Some of my memories are shrouded in depth and darkness, others in a

mysterious complexity, so I make no attempt at absolute accuracy, nor do I

try to be politically correct. 

   I consider political correctness to be an act of cowardice. I don't feel the need to try to placate the uninformed folks who are filled with ego and braggadocios and loudly demand that their perception be the prevalent one, regardless of their lack of historical perspective or any familiarity with logic.

   These stories are articles and accounts of my life as I recall them, and are intended to be an entertaining presentation. Any hard feelings caused by memories that don't match yours are unfortunate and you'll just have to figure out a way to deal with it on your own.

   With the day winding down, I stand here recalling the days as a crew member, when going over the wall during pit stops, I had been run over in Richmond, dragged down pit road in Darlington, broke my forearm in Phoenix and nearly cut off my left thumb in Talladega. I broke my ankle in Atlanta and blistered both palms in the Pocono’s.

   I am also pondering the more gentle side of my life that is intertwined and woven into the very fabric of my being, and is as undeniable as it is obvious, and that is the fact that wherever we traveled to compete, there was a bountiful bevy of beauties that would take a varying degree of interest in what we were doing in exchange for an opportunity to play a small part in it. 

   As the shadows grow longer, and I sweep the shop floor, I think back not to the traveling tarts that traveled from town to town, but to the occasional glimpse of a genuinely classy and elegant lady that had an unexplainable passion for the oily and dusty lad with callused hands, strong back and tousled hair, replete with the pungent smell of oil and gasoline that substituted for deodorant and aftershave.

  These ladies were easily recognizable by their nicely coiffed hair and sunglasses, polished finger nails and matching toe nails protruding from open toed shoes, but more importantly, a light cotton summer dress cut at mid thigh exposing a taunt calf and a well turned ankle.

   I grew to cherish being able to endure the oppressive heat of the afternoon only to be engulfed by the amorous warmth of the night.

   One such lady followed me home earlier this year, and as I stand here in the door of the race shop in the shallow shadow of a setting sun, I turn out the last light as she enters the open doorway and places her bottle on the cluttered desktop. Then, wordlessly she puts both arms around me, tilts her head slightly and nibbles on my left earlobe. The next instant she is leaning inward in such a provocative manner that makes it abundantly clear of her intentions. 

   The sun has long since worked its way beyond the west window as she casts a clearly defined silhouette befitting Venus, and as she approaches, she permeates the room with my favorite aphrodisiac, an alluring and aromatic blend of perfume, perspiration and booze.