Daytona 500

Well, it took a while but we here at TL East finally climbed out of our pit of despair. You see, we’ve been fans of NASCAR since the tender age of 12, that wonderful, just-slightly prepubescent age when we first understood that guys who drive fast cars and pretty blonde girls with big Hooters might have something to do with one another. Hey, Alan Kulwicki won the championship that year, and the next year my father took me, and my entire family, to a Hooters restaurant in Orlando for my 13^th birthday dinner, in the middle of a vacation to Disney World, no less. Needless to say, whomever we latched onto as a favorite driver was bound to stick.

In my youth I had a fondness for sports teams with color schemes I cared for. I don’t think that had anything to do with reason, or rationality, or anything else a thinking, self-conscious human might use to determine their sports heroes. For Christ sakes, I cried in 1984 because the San Diego Padres lost to the Detroit Tigers, just because I liked the look of their visitor’s uniforms. My only memories of that game are of the tears in my eyes that welled up looking at the Padres’ manager slumped in his dugout after Kirk Gibson hit the series clenching homer, and of my father (a young man at the time) running madly around our house in Kansas City, waving a Tigers Pennant and gyrating as though the Soviet Union had fallen. Little did I know how ashamed of myself I’d feel about my reaction after moving to Detroit in 1985 and beginning a life-long love affair with everything and every team associated with Detroit.

Mark Martin was only marginally associated with Detroit, but his #6 Valvoline was painted up in the proper colors. Red, White, and Blue. He enjoyed a great run of success in the Ninety’s (2^nd overall in ’90, ’94, ’98, ‘02) and won a lot of races (35 so far) along the way. He also happened to drive a Ford in a family where the 2-door Thunderbird was a sporty little sumbitch. The thing I’ve always liked the most about Mark is his low-key business-like manner. When he was winning a lot (see 1998), he was always a decent guy. Frankly, I’ve come to see him as one of sports’ role-models. After the 2005 campaign, when Martin placed fourth in the Chase behind Tony Stewart, he gave one of the best concession speeches I’ve ever heard. He thanked Tony for being such a great driver and champion. He then proceeded to mention how Tony walked in awfully big shoes, and that he (Mark) could only hope to try to fill them. As the readers of Turning-Left know, Stewart is liked, and can be called many things, but he cannot yet be spoken of in reverential tones. Martin had taken a liking to Tony though, and frankly, Stewart was a bit embarrassed at having to follow such an accolade.

As the 2007 season took hold this year the semi-bombshell dropped that Mark Martin would drive for Ginn Racing, and not for Roush for the first time in nearly two decades. At 48 years old, Mark has said he’d like to race a reduced schedule, and have the opportunity to mentor younger drivers. While racing for Ginn affords him this opportunity, I think Mark also wanted to ride a Chevy around Daytona for once (20 wins to Ford’s 10 all-time, and 14-of-18 from 2006-1989). In the final laps, his Monte Carlo SS had a chance to win the race that had eluded him for so long.

I was stuck at TL East’s current home base, watching the race with my Mom while trying to not show the repercussions one feels from drinking a 12-pack of Milwaukee’s Best Light (cut up limes help, as does sleep) in 3 hours. Obviously, the 2007 Daytona 500 had offered plenty of drama as the sun set. The top 2 cars took each other out for no discernable reason leaving everyone else to fight it out over the final 50 miles (i.e. 20 laps). Finally, the race would be determined by a green-white-checkered.

Two laps remained before my all-time favorite driver might win the fiiiiivvvvvve-hunnnnnnnnnerd. All seemed well until the pack screamed out of turn four on lap 200. Mark was lined up on the low line and Harvick was bouncing off of the wall (his words). What happened next ruined my night, and certainly made a lot of NASCAR fans wonder what they might need to do to get into heaven (seeing as one of the most pious, yet unostentatious drivers on the circuit lost the race). The #29 Shell car beat the #01 Army car to the line by .02 seconds as Kyle Busch, Matt Kenseth and a crapload of other people ended sliding across the finish line with something other than their front fender. A lot of self-proclaimed experts have said NASCAR neglected its own rulebook when it let Harvick and Martin race to the line. As much as I wish Martin would win, I’m glad that the winner was determined under green. I know he agrees. Like Mark says, “Nobody wants to see a grown man cry.”

Frankly, that’s the best part of this whole debacle. As much as anyone might want to bitch about the result, the Five-Hundred ended in the best way possible. The ending involved a lot of relevant teams and featured, among other thing, a car finishing on its roof, on fire. Also, while we all mourn for Mark Martin, I’ve faith for next year. After all, he’s driving a Chevy. And rolling with Hendrick power.