took off. But Ricky shifted into third gear too quickly, then tried to compensate by letting off the brake entirely on a turn, almost hitting the wall. In a few seconds he had dropped to seventeenth, then eighteenth, then twenty-third. At lap 250, Ricky tried to maneuver around the No. 15 car, passing underneath it, and his front end hit the other car's back bumper. Ricky's Ford ricocheted off the top wall. Leaking water and needing a new radiator, the car was sent to the infield, where the crew tried desperately to repair it.
During the race season, Ricky rents an apartment in Charlotte, a three-hour drive from Bristol. He didn't get home from the Nationwide race until 2:30 A.M. , so late, he told me when I called him, that he missed church the next morning. Sunday afternoon he headed over to a friend's house, where they watched supercross, the Sprint Cup race, and bull riding. On Monday he had a 7 A.M. workout at Roush Fenway. He didn't have many days off, and he raced more than thirty-five weekends a year. It was a job, he said, but at least it left him time to play golf and listen to country music and even take the occasional vacation. Soon he would go snowmobiling in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He wasn't too beat up about the Bristol race, about the wreck that busted his radiator. "The spotter felt the 15 came off the wall more than he had to," he said. "It's not that big of a deal. I was just trying to gain a position, and he was trying to keep a position. That's just racin'."
Â
Early on Sunday morning, the day of the Sprint Cup race, the teams were working on their cars out on pit road, portable lights set up around them and generators whirring. Groups of five hovered beside the cars, one or two with a head under the hood, others polishing tires and doors or measuring dimensions or pouring gasoline or standing a few feet back drinking coffee or leaning against the pit wall smoking, looking like they could be just about anywhere. There was no sense of panic. The men consulted sheets of paper affixed to the cars' windows, checking off the list of things to inspect and glue and ratchet. Grills were already fired up in the infield, behind the team haulers, and men ate breakfast burritos and yogurt with fruit.
I wandered onto pit road, walking up and down the line of parked race cars, transfixed by their cartoon colors. They looked almost like township art, aluminum cans taken apart and reshaped into boxy metallic toys, each one emblazoned with its chief sponsor's name and corporate colors. There was the Energizer car, the Cottonelle, the TaxSlayer, the ExtenZe, the Denver Mattress, the U.S. Census, the Prilosec, the Kleenex, the Little Debbie (" AMERICA'S FAMILY BAKERY FOR 50 YEARS " read the ad on the side panel). Dozens of other insignias from secondary sponsors also decorated each car like a smattering of bad tattoos. In their press conferences, some drivers shilled for their patrons. Jeff Gordon, PEPSI writ large on his chest, held a Pepsi can in his hand, logo facing out. Asked how he spent the week between races, Kurt Busch did not neglect to mention that he enjoyed a couple of ice-cold Miller Lites, and he raved about the Dodge Challenger, "the best-looking car out there." It has long been known that NASCAR fans are among the most brand-loyal of consumers, that they are said to be five times more likely to buy products advertising with the sport. Officials from Ford told me on several occasions that of all the people planning to buy new cars in the next year, 40 percent are race fans, and 84 percent of them follow NASCAR. In these lean times, Ford, Chrysler, Dodge, and Toyota all told me they maintained racing programs to sell cars, period.
On pit road, I inched up to the No. 48, the Lowe's-sponsored Chevy driven by the vanilla superstar Jimmie Johnson. Despite fans' numerous frustrations with NASCAR and with Johnson's dominance, everyone I spoke to about the recent decline in popularity firmly believed that the
During the race season, Ricky rents an apartment in Charlotte, a three-hour drive from Bristol. He didn't get home from the Nationwide race until 2:30 A.M. , so late, he told me when I called him, that he missed church the next morning. Sunday afternoon he headed over to a friend's house, where they watched supercross, the Sprint Cup race, and bull riding. On Monday he had a 7 A.M. workout at Roush Fenway. He didn't have many days off, and he raced more than thirty-five weekends a year. It was a job, he said, but at least it left him time to play golf and listen to country music and even take the occasional vacation. Soon he would go snowmobiling in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He wasn't too beat up about the Bristol race, about the wreck that busted his radiator. "The spotter felt the 15 came off the wall more than he had to," he said. "It's not that big of a deal. I was just trying to gain a position, and he was trying to keep a position. That's just racin'."
Â
Early on Sunday morning, the day of the Sprint Cup race, the teams were working on their cars out on pit road, portable lights set up around them and generators whirring. Groups of five hovered beside the cars, one or two with a head under the hood, others polishing tires and doors or measuring dimensions or pouring gasoline or standing a few feet back drinking coffee or leaning against the pit wall smoking, looking like they could be just about anywhere. There was no sense of panic. The men consulted sheets of paper affixed to the cars' windows, checking off the list of things to inspect and glue and ratchet. Grills were already fired up in the infield, behind the team haulers, and men ate breakfast burritos and yogurt with fruit.
I wandered onto pit road, walking up and down the line of parked race cars, transfixed by their cartoon colors. They looked almost like township art, aluminum cans taken apart and reshaped into boxy metallic toys, each one emblazoned with its chief sponsor's name and corporate colors. There was the Energizer car, the Cottonelle, the TaxSlayer, the ExtenZe, the Denver Mattress, the U.S. Census, the Prilosec, the Kleenex, the Little Debbie (" AMERICA'S FAMILY BAKERY FOR 50 YEARS " read the ad on the side panel). Dozens of other insignias from secondary sponsors also decorated each car like a smattering of bad tattoos. In their press conferences, some drivers shilled for their patrons. Jeff Gordon, PEPSI writ large on his chest, held a Pepsi can in his hand, logo facing out. Asked how he spent the week between races, Kurt Busch did not neglect to mention that he enjoyed a couple of ice-cold Miller Lites, and he raved about the Dodge Challenger, "the best-looking car out there." It has long been known that NASCAR fans are among the most brand-loyal of consumers, that they are said to be five times more likely to buy products advertising with the sport. Officials from Ford told me on several occasions that of all the people planning to buy new cars in the next year, 40 percent are race fans, and 84 percent of them follow NASCAR. In these lean times, Ford, Chrysler, Dodge, and Toyota all told me they maintained racing programs to sell cars, period.
On pit road, I inched up to the No. 48, the Lowe's-sponsored Chevy driven by the vanilla superstar Jimmie Johnson. Despite fans' numerous frustrations with NASCAR and with Johnson's dominance, everyone I spoke to about the recent decline in popularity firmly believed that the
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