In the Blink of an Eye (9 page)

At the same time, I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do. Once I got the lead, I wasn’t just out for a Sunday drive. I had to be calculating. I had to be sharp. I didn’t just run with my foot flat on the floorboard, although I could have. I knew that wouldn’t get me the win. I had to recognize what was going on behind me. Going down the straightaway, I’d roll off the gas pedal just a little. I didn’t want to get too far ahead of Dale Junior. If I’d gotten too far ahead of him, it would have given him the room to make a run if he wanted. The gap I would have put on him would have given him the momentum he needed to maybe pull out and pass me. I couldn’t take anything for granted.

I know now that pulling out and making a move was the last thing he was going to do. He was just doing what he was told. He was staying in line. He was pushing me. But I didn’t know all that then. If he’d told me that before the race—or I’d asked him—it would have made my life a whole lot easier. Or would it have? Would I have believed him? It doesn’t matter. Bottom line is, at the time, I didn’t know what he was thinking.

As the laps ticked down, nothing changed. I kept looking in my mirror thinking, Five to go. Dale Junior isn’t making a move. He’s still sitting right there.

My confidence was rising now. Time was running out.

“No one’s made a run yet,” I said to myself. “I don’t think they’re gonna get one now. I don’t think it’s gonna happen. They can’t get to me.”

At a moment like that, you have to keep your concentration no matter what happens on the track. As Dale had proven at Talladega in the fall, no race is over until the checkered flag.

“Okay, just race,” I told myself. “Just race. Do your job. Stay in the present. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I watched the mirror and the track and made sure I stayed right where I was supposed to be, which was down on the bottom of the track. I sat there and played with the gas pedal and kept myself spaced and did everything I was supposed to do in order to be in a position to win the race.

I knew what I was doing. And I was going to keep on doing it. I was in control of what I was doing. I just wished I knew what the guy in the red car was going to do.

CHAPTER 22
CHECKERED FLAG

I
was a mess.

I was so close to winning the Daytona 500. I was out front. Just a few laps to go. And in my mirror, all I could see was red.

It said, “Bud.” Well, actually, technically, from where I was looking, it said, “duB.” It also said that objects in my mirror might be closer than they appeared, but I don’t think this object could have been any closer. This duB was all over me.

Keep pushing, I thought. Keep shoving. Come on, Junior. We’re almost there.

There wasn’t much talk over the radio. Inside my car, all I heard was a word or two every now and then. “All clear,” said Chuck, my spotter. “It’s you and the eight, single file.” The only voice in my head was Scott, my crew chief. He was counting down the laps. “Three to go,” he said as I crossed the start-finish line again. There wasn’t any coaching from anyone. I was in my world, focusing on doing the job Dale hired me to do.

“Two to go.”

In the mirror, nothing much had changed. Dale Junior was right on my bumper. Dale looked like he was back there swatting flies. Next time by, they’d be waving the white. But the white in racing doesn’t mean surrender. It means just the opposite. It means desperation for the other guys.

As we raced off turn four toward the white flag, I liked what I saw out back. I had lifted off the gas entering turn three and timed that lift perfectly. Dale Junior was right on my bumper, right where I wanted him to be. And behind Junior, Dale, Sterling, and Schrader were all in line. As we crossed the start-finish line again, Scott calmly said, “One to go. Bring her home, baby.”

From what I was looking at behind me, I believed I was going to do just that. It didn’t look as if anyone was lined up to make any kind of run. All the chaos of three wide and Dale blocking was gone when we went into turn one for the last time. Just five cars in a line. It wasn’t nutty back there anymore. Was this the calm before the storm? Were those guys lining up to make one last assault?

They would have to make that last run on me off turn two. And when we came off the turn, I didn’t see it. Junior was right on me, and the others were in line too. I thought, There’s no way. There’s no way they’re gonna get me. If I can drive to the end of this straightaway, make two left turns and drive up that other straightaway, and my engine doesn’t blow up and one of my tires doesn’t blow out, I’m gonna win. They can’t get me now.

At that point, it looked like we were playing Follow the Leader. But suddenly, about halfway down the back straightaway with Dale Junior right behind me, Sterling and Schrader made a run on Dale. They split him.

They were three wide when we went into turn three. This was good for me and Junior but not so good for Dale. I was right. I was going to win, and Dale Junior was going to be second, right on my bumper. Junior couldn’t pass me. The three-wide battle behind him meant my win was secure.

However, the storybook one-two-three finish, the one it looked like we were getting ready to celebrate, was in jeopardy. The last time I could see what was going on back there, Dale was in a fight for third.

But I was coming off turn four now, and I was looking for something I’d never seen. I had turned my focus from the black and red cars that were pushing me to the black-and-white flag that was going to be mine. I was so focused on where I was headed, I was paying no attention to what was happening behind.

I didn’t hear Chuck, the spotter, say: “They’re crashing behind you.”

My eyes were looking for that something I’d never seen before in Cup. And it was waving up ahead.

A checkered flag being thrown at me on a Sunday afternoon.

And this wasn’t just any checkered flag. This one would say: Daytona 500.

“There it is,” I yelled. “There it is!”

“Woo-hoo!”

“Yes, winner!”

“Woo-hoo! Yes!”

“Michael Waltrip is a winner!”

Finally, my 0-fer curse was over.

And there was Dale Junior right behind me in second. He hung in behind, just like his daddy said he would.

I noticed the caution lights were flashing. There must have been a wreck back there, I thought. But by then, I was slipping into a mild state of shock. All I could think was, We did it! We won the Daytona 500! Unbelievable!

I was in grade school when I started coming down here, gazing at the high banks of Daytona. Just looking at those banks is how I fell in love with this place. It’s funny how a little boy could fall in love with asphalt. But I did. Now after sixteen years of chasing wins—heck, a win—in Cup, this one was real.

Daytona counts. It counts more than any race. This is the greatest race in the world. I would put this trophy right by the one I won at the All-Star Race. If you’re only ever going to win two races, those were two pretty good ones.

As I continued around the track after the race, I drove right by that wreck Chuckie was talking about. There were crashed cars, ambulances, and safety workers at the scene. But I didn’t notice any of that or pay it any attention. I was just staring straight ahead, trying to get my mind around what had just happened to me.

So many emotions.

I was happy, for sure. I was thankful. I was relieved. My eyes were full of tears. My brain was glazing over. But how could I miss something as huge as the aftermath of that wreck? There were ambulances everywhere down there. Wreckers. And Dale’s car was right up in the middle of the accident.

I remember the cool-down lap clearly. I remember driving right past there. But none of it registered.

I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful for the moments of clueless celebration that followed. I knew I would get a chance to savor the love of my family, my team, and the huge throng of fans showing their appreciation of what we had just achieved, to bask in the celebration of my first win in NASCAR’s greatest race. And that felt awesome.

For a while.

What if I had noticed that crash? What would I have done? Especially if I’d seen who was in it. God only knows. I probably would have stopped, gone over, helped Dale out of his car to get a big hug from him. As it was I just motored on by.

I believe the good Lord protected me from seeing that and sent me straight to Victory Lane.

There, everything would be magical. I would experience first-hand something I had only dreamed of. My family, my team, and friends, all of them, would be there. And none of them would even try to fight back the tears.

Why should they? My eyes were already full of tears. Tears of joy.

It had taken me years to get this party started. And I didn’t have anything to do for a week. That’s when the next race was. I wanted to celebrate till then.

PART 4:
DEALING WITH IT

CHAPTER 26
IT’S REAL

W
hile I was smiling and enjoying my victory, things were going on around me I was totally unaware of. Buffy knew. And she was working behind the scenes, coordinating who was going where when we left Victory Lane. She sent Dana and Macy to the hotel. She told my sister Connie and Connie’s husband, Dave, that the two of us needed to be alone. They all left. So did Buffy’s parents. They took Caitlin with them.

At the same time, someone from NASCAR was telling me it was time to go up to the suites and toast my victory with some NASCAR folks and some more sponsors. But I was getting fed up. Between Schrader coming to Victory Lane and me getting all those blank stares about Dale, I knew that something wasn’t right.

A toast? I thought. I don’t want a toast. I’m going to my bus.

“Buffy,” I said, “let’s go to the motor home.”

The van that was going to take us to the suites took us to the coach lot instead. It was maybe a three-minute ride, the first time Buffy and I had been alone together since we got up that day.

As we settled into the van, I looked at her, and she just shook her head. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

When we got to the motor home, Buffy and I walked inside. It was empty, just the two of us. I had a strong idea what I was going to hear from her. And it wasn’t going to be good.

With the last shred of hope I could muster, I asked, “He’s gonna be okay, right?”

I knew in my mind Dale was hurt. My hope was he at least was still alive.

With that, Buffy began to cry. Through the sobs, she struggled to say the words I dreaded most: “Dale is dead.”

I reached over and grabbed her, and I didn’t want to let go. Then she said, “I’m so sorry, honey. You don’t deserve this. Nobody does.”

With Buffy in my arms and thoughts of how-could-this-be-happening running through my head, we just sat there and cried, thinking about our loss. Thinking about Teresa and the family. What it must be like for Dale Junior. Dale’s mom back home in North Carolina. Everyone on the team, everybody in NASCAR, was going to be devastated by this.

Buffy and I sat together in the motor home where we had started our day. So much had changed in the last twelve hours.

When I woke up that morning, it was all about winning. Winning was all I could think of. Now I didn’t want to think about winning at all. The day was now about a terrible loss. I just wanted to sit there, hold my wife, and cry.

And that’s what I did.

For a long time, we didn’t speak. We just stared off into the distance. What could we say? It was way too early to try to explain or justify. I just kept asking myself and asking God: “Why? Why? Why?”

Back in Bristol, when my dad was there and I wanted to win so badly for him, I blamed God when I didn’t. I questioned why he couldn’t let Dad and me celebrate that night. Then a month later, when we got the big win in Charlotte, I felt ridiculous for blaming God. I promised I would never do that again.

But there I sat a year and a half later, and I was on the verge of blaming God again.

But there is a big difference between blaming and asking. And who else could I ask? Where were the answers? This seemed so unlikely, so unfair.

But no one could answer my question. As I looked around, I realized I had so much to be thankful for, especially all the people who surrounded me. They went to work immediately, making sure I got through this as well as anyone could. Buffy, managing all the information and giving me a shoulder to cry on. Ty helping Buffy come up with a plan. Schrader coming to give me a heads-up like he did. All these people came to me because they loved me, and I couldn’t have gotten through it without them.

As Buffy and I collected ourselves, people began showing up to share their condolences with us. My brother Darrell and his wife, Stevie. My teammate Steve Park. Dale Jarrett. When NASCAR president Mike Helton was able to pull away from the hospital, he too came by.

Lying in bed that night, I was reflecting on the journey I’d shared with Dale. I was also thinking about my dad: how he’d been distant when I was little and we’d grown so close over the years. About his brave battle with lung cancer. About the day in Bristol when I got beat but Dad was still so proud of me. And the big win for my dad in Charlotte. Then at the end, him feeling like I didn’t understand the pain of his illness as he died slowly in my arms.

After wallowing in all that emotion for hours, I reminded myself that I was a Christian. I believe everything does indeed happen for a reason. God does have a plan, although sometimes it’s hard to understand. I decided that I needed to share that with the world, tell a positive tale about Dale’s faith. If I could be positive, it would honor God. In my mind, two things were clear: It was Dale’s day to go. And I was the perfect person to win that race that day.

The more I thought about it like that, the more sense it made to me. If some other guy had won, he would have wanted to grab credit for himself, credit for his team. That would have been completely understandable. He’d have had every right to feel that way. We are talking about the Daytona 500 after all. But I could use my position as the 500 winner to honor Dale. My team was Dale’s team. He was as responsible for me winning as I was.

It was Dale’s time to go, and I was the perfect person to give him credit for what we had accomplished together. I wanted to comfort all those who were hurt by telling them about the Dale I knew. My voice was certainly more relevant after what had happened that day than it had ever been before. So I had to embrace the opportunity to help others.

I had gone to bed that night with the crappiest attitude you could possibly imagine. Why, God? Why me? Again. How unfair it was to Dale! How unfair it was to me! But I fixed all that. I woke up the next day with a fresh view and the most positive attitude anyone could have had in a situation like that.

“I’m gonna honor Dale,” I said to myself that Monday morning. “I’m gonna think of that as my responsibility from now on. To comfort people. To help make others feel as at peace with the loss of Dale as I possibly can.”