tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55398406844105560272024-03-04T21:26:34.486-08:00Just RickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-74459725439543275222016-12-08T07:43:00.000-08:002016-12-09T11:04:50.258-08:00TomA year ago today, my cell phone rang. It was 11:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.<br />
<br />
On the other end of the call was my mother-in-law Jean, and she was crying. Although it was hard to make out exactly what she was saying, when I heard her say something about not being able to wake Tom, my father-in-law, I didn't ask any questions. I threw on a pair of old running shoes ... I have no idea when I'd worn them last ... and flew out the door just a few seconds after ending the call with Jean. <br />
<br />
I prayed hard during the five, maybe six-mile drive to their home. Surely, he was just really tired and when I got there, he would be barking at Nanny for waking him up. I considered not calling Jeanie, who was in court in Yadkinville.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5g-AouvOddTAp-vf54p4JvBSjrRVUrDBdJ_b6bvB8FddGNdlgNvJKstxNdAgzFVxSy_ZsH7EUZfcM3YylGE18fSTtJuQKzIlAa-C0bfjDbCLc9h-KIVkr7DfFBpTFuUDZMrhr5ZD/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5g-AouvOddTAp-vf54p4JvBSjrRVUrDBdJ_b6bvB8FddGNdlgNvJKstxNdAgzFVxSy_ZsH7EUZfcM3YylGE18fSTtJuQKzIlAa-C0bfjDbCLc9h-KIVkr7DfFBpTFuUDZMrhr5ZD/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom and I on the day Jeanie and I were married. Just before we left the church, Tom gave Jeanie some cash. He'd carefully placed a $1 bill on the outside of the roll to disguise the $501 total amount. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a short consideration. We have something of a code. When it's important, we say call me NOW. Otherwise, it's just call me when you take a break and get a chance. This was a call me NOW situation if ever there was one. She called ... I answered ... and she, too, was out the door.<br />
<br />
Jean was watching for me, and later said that she saw me coming into the driveway on two wheels. I ran to the door, entered their house, saw Tom ... and knew he was already gone.<br />
<br />
The 911 operator asked me if I wanted to try CPR. I had to do <i>something</i>, so she told me to start chest compressions. I knew how to do them from my training at the Y. Just do 600 compressions until help arrives. I was on maybe 300 or so when the first sheriff's deputies arrived. They jumped in.<br />
<br />
I went outside, breathless and my legs quivering. I called Jeanie. I didn't know what to say, other than I was sorry. Her dad was gone.<br />
<br />
EMTs arrived. Somebody had helped Jean to a back bedroom. I took over compressions at some point, and whilst I did, I both felt and heard at least one of Tom's ribs break. I paused a split second and mentioned it, but was told to keep going.<br />
<br />
Even today, a year later, I can still remember the sound and feel of the crack of that bone. Tom, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. <br />
<br />
Honestly, though, it didn't matter. Tom was already on the other side of his life's journey. What remained was merely his Earthly shell, and he didn't need it any more.<br />
<br />
As hard as that day was, it is remarkable how everybody involved was exactly where they needed to be. Jeanie, the boys and I were supposed to start the journey to Houston, Texas by car the next day. I cannot begin to imagine what Jean's phone call would've been like had we been somewhere in Mississippi when it came.<br />
<br />
I'd run that morning, and had already showered. Jeanie was in court in Yadkinville. Her sister, Angie, was working from home. <br />
<br />
Tom was a lot of things to a lot of people. He could be cantankerous. It didn't take long to figure out that you did <i>not </i>want to talk politics or the Rapture with Tom, because he had set opinions about both and was not about to be swayed on either. <br />
<br />
The one thing I will always remember about Tom was the lengths he would go to for his family in general, but especially his grandchildren. There was nobody in the world quite like Denver, Jesse, Adam and Lauren to Tom.<br />
<br />
That's the man I want to be. Rest well, Tom. We'll see you soon. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-41617137663829944412016-06-20T11:35:00.000-07:002016-06-21T08:14:37.301-07:00My Captain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div align="left">
I can't say that I knew Robert Peterson very well.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We were both members of the 1984 DuPont Senior High School Bulldogs football team. He was a co-captain, and I was basically not much more than a dummy holder in practice and just lucky to be there. Yet I have one very distinct memory of Robert for which I will always be grateful.</div>
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<br /></div>
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New to the team, I had gone through some relatively minor hazing incidents. No, I was not physically brutalized or anything close to it. What's the best way to put this? It was just ... stupid stuff that I had to endure. That I know of, Robert was not involved in any way, shape, form or fashion. He certainly didn't seem to be the type. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The head coach asked me to lead the team in a pre-game devotional one Friday night. Who? Me? I was scared to death. Was this going to make things worse? </div>
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<br /></div>
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In the end, I decided I didn't care. </div>
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<br /></div>
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What I said that night is gone, lost to the more than three decades that have passed. What I do know is this. Robert Peterson ... <i>the </i>Robert Peterson, <i>co-captain </i>of the team that I'd wanted so badly to be a part of ... came to me afterward, patted me on the back and said that I'd done a good job. That was good enough for me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Robert was a defensive tackle, the same position at which I was listed in the program. That meant that I almost <i>never </i>got to play. He was tough and tenacious, a ... well ... bulldog on the football field if ever there was one. If he was ahead of me on the depth chart, I was okay with not getting into many games. He deserved it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Pxk-ub5zjExbCMCxO-WxwZXjsQ9TQdiq-jTDXbZp02K8lqXtP7uQVzSpVUu0xjhNezgmVu5hi-D_ZQgSIfedYXiyldNa90y2z7371K377vLqyXeyU9Zfh7KeHhXVtlKZ2jjuvs2H/s1600/1984+dupont+bulldogs+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Pxk-ub5zjExbCMCxO-WxwZXjsQ9TQdiq-jTDXbZp02K8lqXtP7uQVzSpVUu0xjhNezgmVu5hi-D_ZQgSIfedYXiyldNa90y2z7371K377vLqyXeyU9Zfh7KeHhXVtlKZ2jjuvs2H/s400/1984+dupont+bulldogs+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's Robert, Number 60, third from the left on the second row. I'm Number 73, same row, second from the right, and trying to look tough ... or squinting into the sun, whichever the case might actually have been.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
From what I understand, Robert went on to med school after high school and became a physician in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Living life the way we were all supposed to, he was married and had two beautiful daughters. <br />
<br />
Then came that awful Facebook post the other day from Kenny Hunt, another member of that long-ago football squad. Robert had lost his life, and if subsequent comments to Kenny's post were accurate, he had become yet another victim to that God-forsaken killer ... cancer. <br />
<br />
I completed my first sprint triathlon on May 22. As I crossed the finish line, I had no way of knowing that Robert had just two days to live. I wish I'd been aware of the situation. I would've done the race for him, and at the very least have worn my trusty DuPont Bulldogs T-shirt in his honor. <br />
<br />
Although I had not seen Robert since that night in June 1985 that we graduated, his passing has hit me hard. I lost my mom to cancer when she was just 47. Robert was 49.<br />
<br />
I'm 48. <br />
<br />
So here's the deal. I have an humble request. Let's call it the Robert Peterson Memorial Bulldog Challenge. Do something ... anything ... to take better care of yourself. <br />
<br />
Quit smoking. <br />
<br />
If you've never done a 5k, commit right now ... this very second ... to doing one. It doesn't matter if you walk every single step and finish dead last. Just do it. <br />
<br />
If you've done a 5k, step up to a 10k. <br />
<br />
If you've completed a 10k, go for the gold and do a half marathon.<br />
<br />
If you've done a half marathon ... forget it. I would <i>never </i>suggest that anyone compete in a full marathon. Uh-uh. No way. No how. So ... if you've done a half ... do a sprint triathlon. <br />
<br />
Then try a longer one. <br />
<br />
Whatever you choose to do, just keep putting one foot in front of the other and <i>... do ... not ... quit.</i><br />
<br />
I have no idea if Robert ever ran ... or visited a gym ... or continued to play sports of any sort ... after high school. But the sad and terrible fact is that he no longer <i>can </i>do any of those things, so let's do it for him. <br />
<br />
This is for you, my captain. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-32945015841863592002015-07-15T10:34:00.003-07:002015-07-15T10:34:38.900-07:00Staying StartedA strange and wonderful thing happened this morning when I logged on to Facebook.<br />
<br />
A friend had tagged me in a post, saying that I'd helped inspire her to start training for a 5k. I don't feel like an inspiration. I'm ... well ... just Rick. I'm just a guy who started walking one day and hasn't stopped.<br />
<br />
And here's the thing. If I've said it once, I've said it a million times ... but I very truly and very deeply do believe it.<br />
<br />
<i>If I can do it, anybody can.</i><br />
<br />
I don't have any super-secret diet or workout plan that's going to somehow make me a billionaire, but what I do know is that I've learned several things along this journey that might help you in yours.<br />
<br />
EXERCISE<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
*First things first. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and don't stop. Yes, it's going to hurt. Yes, you're going to be sore. But trust me. It hurts a lot worse when you quit. <br />
<br />
*Have a fixed distance that you want to walk or run and then go out and do it. If you wind up having to crawl, then so be it. If you're having a heart attack or break a leg, you can stop. Otherwise, keep going.<br />
<br />
*This one's easier said than done, and I'm the world's
worst about it, but try not to compare yourself to the success
anyone else may or may not be having. I read a quote early on in this
process that has stuck with me ever since. It said basically that when
you're in a race, the competition isn't actually with other runners.
It's with that small voice in the back of your head telling you to
quit. Ignore what the hardcore super jock pretty boys and girls are doing and keep ... moving ... forward.<br />
<br />
*Find someone who will hold you accountable. You can absolutely fool yourself into believing that you're doing all you can when in fact you're not. There will be moments when you hate the person who's keeping your feet to the fire ... you might curse them under your breath ... or even to their face. Yet, suddenly, you'll realize that they've pushed you infinitely further than you ever thought possible.<br />
<br />
*Challenge yourself. If you went a mile yesterday, go out and do a mile and a half today.<br />
<br />
*Learn to spit in the eye of disappointment. The road you're on is extraordinarily tough, and there will be days when things just don't go very well. That little voice that's telling you that it would be easier to stay on the couch or in your recliner? It's not lying. It <i>would </i>be easier ... but tell the voice to shut the heck up any way and head back out the door for more. <br />
<br />
*Do not make laps of a track if at all possible, because every single time you get back to the point at which you started, you'll come up with all kinds of excuses to stop. Concentrate instead on walking or running on sidewalks. That way, you <i>have </i>to keep going to get back home or to your vehicle.<br />
<br />
*Rain is your friend when you walk or run, not an excuse to skip it this time around. There are lots of reasons why, really. It's cooler during summer months. You concentrate on the weather and don't think quite so much about what's hurting. Maybe most importantly, you're doing something a lot of other people aren't willing to do. Running with a light snow falling is the absolute best of all! <br />
<br />
DIET<br />
<br />
*Forget about this diet plan or that. Yes, they can work ... but when it comes down to it, eating better is nothing more than common sense. You <i>know </i>you're not supposed to eat a Wendy's double cheeseburger with biggie fries. You <i>know </i>a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts aren't good for you. You <i>know </i>there are better choices than Reese's Peanut Butter Cup eggs and Oreo cookies.<br />
<br />
*When your meal arrives in a restaurant and it's a big portion, do <i>not </i>take a single bite before placing at least half of it in a to-go box. Take that first nibble before doing so, and it's far too easy to keep right on going until the whole thing is gone.<br />
<br />
*That tip on learning to cope with disappointment? It applies to your eating habits, too. There will obviously be times when you slip up, and they're literally the fork in the road where you can choose to go one way or the other. Take the road less traveled. It's worth it. I promise.<br />
<br />
SAFETY<br />
<br />
*If you listen to music, audiobooks, podcasts or anything of the sort when you walk or run on those sidewalks, use the speakers on your smart phone instead of ear buds or head phones. That way, you can hear oncoming traffic, dogs and potential attackers that may or may not be headed your way. Be vigilant.<br />
<br />
*Get shoes that are as bright and flashy as possible. Not that you're trying to make a fashion statement, but you <i>do </i>want to be seen by oncoming traffic.<br />
<br />
The bottom line is this. The first step of this journey is the easy part.<i> </i>It's what takes place when you're tired ... and sore ... or mad ... or sad ... or disappointed ... that determines whether or not you're going to be successful. Will those kinds of things stop you in your tracks, or do you keep going?<br />
<br />
It's all up to you. Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-73323734555623758272015-06-28T11:25:00.000-07:002017-06-06T04:44:34.880-07:00Dear Younger Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
High-school reunions have a strange way of making you look back on the past.<br />
<br />
I've grown up a lot in the three decades since I graduated from DuPont Senior High School in Hermitage, Tennessee, and I've stayed the same in a lot of ways. Given the chance, what would I have done differently?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZYmfl1Umb7CQzVHnIUO-rkQQcpJ1alC9j27r4A1VJuW7ZaRGWclWOuUD7wM7OONwvJZORBPPdlk1_J0rQg3CaUk9PnqWXiLFrzOqi7vNcELH9r3bCs2fXPDto0jVZYM3m37crPMe/s1600/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZYmfl1Umb7CQzVHnIUO-rkQQcpJ1alC9j27r4A1VJuW7ZaRGWclWOuUD7wM7OONwvJZORBPPdlk1_J0rQg3CaUk9PnqWXiLFrzOqi7vNcELH9r3bCs2fXPDto0jVZYM3m37crPMe/s400/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DuPont Senior High School, Class of 1985</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That's a good question, and one I've asked myself probably a little more than what was actually good for me. I worry about stuff that I can't change far too much. And you can't change the past. I know, because I've tried. It doesn't work.<br />
<br />
I was in Nashville this past weekend for our thirty-year reunion. On the way to dinner with Joe, Sandi and Jennifer Estep Friday night, I spotted the case for MercyMe's new CD and checked it out. If I wasn't already in a contemplative mood because of the reunion, the title of one of the songs hit me like a sledgehammer.<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Younger Me </i><br />
<br />
I had to hear the song. As soon as I did, it was hard to hold back the tears.<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Dear younger me </i><br />
<i>Where do I start</i><br />
<i>If I could tell you everything that I have learned so far </i><br />
<i>Then you could be</i><br />
<i>One step ahead</i><br />
<i>Of all the painful memories still running through my head</i><br />
<i>I wonder how much different things would be</i><br />
<i>Dear younger me, dear younger me</i><br />
<br />
What would I have changed first about my high school years? I wouldn't have worried so much about what this person or that thought about me. I would've just been me, and if that wasn't good enough to be one of the cool kids, tough.<br />
<br />
There's a line from "Freaks and Geeks," one of my favorite television shows of all time, that perfectly encapsulates my high school career. <br />
<br />
<i>She's a cheerleader. You've seen </i>Star Wars <i>twenty-seven times. You do the math. </i><br />
<br />
Yeah. That was me, big time.<br />
<br />
I would've worked far, far harder than I did in my classes. I cruised through high school, making grades good enough to pass, but I could've done so much better. I would've majored in journalism in college. I would've sat down with my mom to watch the Christmas tree lights more than I did.<br />
<br />
<i>Dear younger me</i><br />
<i>I cannot decide</i><br />
<i>Do I give some speech about how to get the most out of your life</i><br />
<i>Or do I go deep</i><br />
<i>And try to change</i><br />
<i>The choices that you'll make 'cause they're choices that made me</i><br />
<i>Even though I love this crazy life</i><br />
<i>Sometimes I wish it was a smoother ride</i><br />
<i>Dear younger me, dear younger me</i><br />
<br />
I would have been the kind of father to my son Richard that I am to Adam and Jesse. To the day I die, that will be the single greatest failure of my life. I love him every bit as much as I do them. I hope he will someday realize that.<br />
<br />
<i>If I knew then what I know now</i><br />
<i>Condemnation would've had no power</i><br />
<i>My joy, my pain would've never been my worth</i><br />
<i>If I knew then what I know now</i><br />
<i>Would've not been hard to figure out </i><br />
<i>What I would've changed if I had heard</i><br />
<br />
<i>Dear younger me</i><br />
<i>It's not your fault</i><br />
<i>You were never meant to carry this beyond the cross</i><br />
<i>Dear younger me</i><br />
<br />
The only other really important thing I would change about the last twenty years of my life is that I would've fought harder. If you already know with whom, you're family. If you don't, it's none of your business. I wouldn't have covered the Busch Series. I wouldn't have kept to myself so much while on the road with NASCAR. I wouldn't have gone out and partied, but I would've been more outgoing.<br />
<br />
Forget about NASCAR. I would be more outgoing, period.<br />
<br />
Joe, Sandi and Jennifer would live closer. We'd all own homes on Booger Swamp Road. <br />
<br />
<i>You are holy</i><br />
<i>You are righteous</i><br />
<i>You are one of the redeemed</i><br />
<i>Set apart a brand new heart</i><br />
<i>You are free indeed</i><br />
<br />
<i>Every mountain, every valley</i><br />
<i>Through each heartache you will see</i><br />
<i>Every moment bring you closer</i><br />
<i>To who you were meant to be </i><br />
<i>Dear younger me, dear younger me</i><br />
<br />
The fact is, I am who I am and my life is what it is, nothing more, nothing less. And I'm okay with that. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
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Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-8247412320550989472015-06-21T15:26:00.000-07:002015-06-22T10:25:02.770-07:00Five Years<span id="goog_964921068">Five years ago today, I enjoyed one of the greatest opportunities of my life. </span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_964921068">Five years ago today, I was in complete agony. </span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_964921068">Five years ago today, I did a run on board the Space Shuttle motion-base simulator at Johnson Space Center. Alongside me was astronaut Doug Hurley, who had already flown STS-127 and who would go on to fly STS-135, the last Space Shuttle mission ever.</span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_964921068">Five years ago today, the safety harnesses of the simulator would not fit because of my oversized belly. I've written and talked about the experience before, so I won't go into the gory details here. The fact is, I was devastated in a way unlike I'd ever been devastated before that day. </span><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_964921068">And I'm glad it happened. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVlpcA5_4g9nObzYHWEBKOIPbBZkHcki9xFU0-ubz464pbJSXTLVIuY-om2eDCGnxaR38wPYPoDGCZfHVyLfrNs3aA3nUSMZRrIxbmqgymp1hehagR8Gv8nHOvU4tCmmGwjBwy4C0/s1600/IMG_0280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVlpcA5_4g9nObzYHWEBKOIPbBZkHcki9xFU0-ubz464pbJSXTLVIuY-om2eDCGnxaR38wPYPoDGCZfHVyLfrNs3aA3nUSMZRrIxbmqgymp1hehagR8Gv8nHOvU4tCmmGwjBwy4C0/s400/IMG_0280.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five years ago, I might have been smiling on the outside, but inside, I was a broken mess. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span id="goog_964921069"></span><br />
Since that day, I've walked and ran somewhere in the neighborhood of 2,500 miles and lost approximately 110 pounds. I would've never thought it possible, and maybe it wasn't. But I did it anyway.<br />
<br />
I've lost count of the 5k races I've done, to go along with four ... or is it five? ... 10ks and three half marathons.<br />
<br />
I've been chased by dogs ...<br />
<br />
Darn near run over by more cars than I really care to count ...<br />
<br />
Peed behind an abandoned convenience store ...<br />
<br />
Pooped in the woods ...<br />
<br />
Run in the snow ...<br />
<br />
And rain ...<br />
<br />
In 28-degree weather ...<br />
<br />
And in the high 80s ...<br />
<br />
Run in groups ...<br />
<br />
And completely alone ...<br />
<br />
Been beaten to a 5k finish line by a woman carrying a purse and wearing a pair of Uggs ...<br />
<br />
And finished second in my age group ...<br />
<br />
Gone through five pairs of running shoes ... <br />
<br />
Been asked for my autograph ... <br />
<br />
Smiled as people honked ...<br />
<br />
Been flipped off ...<br />
<br />
And, on one occasion, did the flipping off ...<br />
<br />
Had my compression shorts fall to my knees during a race ... <br />
<br />
Amassed one whale of a race T-shirt collection ... <br />
<br />
Conquered hills that looked absolutely impossible ...<br />
<br />
Along the way, I've given up Oreo cookies, Reese's Peanut Butter Cup eggs and Diet Pepsi. I'm still not skinny. I'll NEVER be skinny. And, to be honest, I've not actually lost any significant amount of weight in two or three years now. I can <i>kind of </i>eat like I want to, within reason. Here's a line I never thought I'd be able to say.<br />
<br />
I'm happy with where I'm at. <br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-26471468464783074132015-05-12T07:46:00.001-07:002015-05-12T07:54:09.906-07:00The Rest of the StoryFifteen years ago today, I laughed and told Adam Petty that I hated skinny people.<br />
<br />
Two hours later, he was gone.<br />
<br />
It was the kind of thing you didn't expect to happen at a track like New Hampshire. Talladega? Yes. Daytona? Absolutely. Atlanta? Maybe. But not at New Hampshire. It just wasn't supposed to work out like that.<br />
<br />
To this day, the rest of the weekend remains a blur of memories.<br />
<br />
The look on Andy Santerre's face.<br />
<br />
Calling Jeanie in chambers and once she got to the phone, breaking down in tears.<br />
<br />
The memorial service in the scoring stand that afternoon after the garage closed.<br />
<br />
Nobody, but nobody, wanting to be there.<br />
<br />
Not wanting to write a story more than any other story I've ever not wanted to write, but having to any way.<br />
<br />
Until that day, working for Winston Cup Scene had been a giddy dream. Afterward, it became a job. I still loved it, but I experienced first hand what could happen on any given weekend.<br />
<br />
I may be wrong, but I believe Jeff Green won the race. He won everything else that year, so it stands to reason ... or was it Tim Fedewa? Honestly, racing that weekend ... just ... didn't ... matter.<br />
<br />
That was on a Friday, the worst Friday of my life. The worst Wednesday followed just five days later. I'd just sat down at my desk in Charlotte when the phone rang.<br />
<br />
I heard Jeanie say, "Now, don't freak out, but ..." Immediately, I freaked out. No good can possibly come from a sentence that begins that way. And then ... then she said this ... and the tears are welling in my eyes as I write it.<br />
<br />
<i>I found a lump this morning in the shower.</i><br />
<br />
It was straight up 9 a.m., and even though seventy two miles separated Scene's Charlotte office and our home in Hamptonville, I was in our driveway at 9:50 a.m. I lost my mom to breast cancer when she was just forty-seven years old ... and now my wife has found a lump?<br />
<br />
My God, no. Please. No. <br />
<br />
The rest of the day was a kaleidoscope of bad memories, just like the previous Friday had been. Jeanie had a biopsy done that day at the breast clinic in Winston, but they didn't get enough to tell for sure. Can you possibly come back tomorrow?<br />
<br />
We'd been trying for two long and disappointing years to have a child, and had an appointment scheduled for the "baby doctor" the next day, on Thursday. We'd been there before, but nothing had happened. Jeanie had always been on edge walking into the office, wanting so desperately for it to happen. I was on edge, too, because I wanted it for her. <br />
<br />
Jeanie called and told the baby doctor's office what was happening, to see what we could possibly work out. Incredibly, they said they'd stay open late, just to work us in. So Thursday, Jeanie had the second biopsy ... it was benign, hallelujah of all hallelujahs!<br />
<br />
Afterward, we flew over to the baby doctor's office, rolled in on two wheels and almost literally ran inside. And that was the day two little boys were conceived, less than a week after the tragedy at New Hampshire.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvexpgaJf9IkUr6ZZ-X1RA4n3WZKfXr2kl4tYB5TlWFnmGPHfYMGt6_3wgCzynSSmw31d6o3DrjS9y_WHPdj7h4tF2qSVrA4E0rzlOesrajFoxB5xPEzIqbgSGrVheqx3TW1-_F8A/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvexpgaJf9IkUr6ZZ-X1RA4n3WZKfXr2kl4tYB5TlWFnmGPHfYMGt6_3wgCzynSSmw31d6o3DrjS9y_WHPdj7h4tF2qSVrA4E0rzlOesrajFoxB5xPEzIqbgSGrVheqx3TW1-_F8A/s400/19.jpg" width="343" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adam Houston, wearing his namesake's cap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
We named Adam in memory of Adam Petty, and it's funny today to see just how much they're alike. Neither ever met a stranger. Both had a personality as big as all outdoors. Adam Petty was evidently a handful as a child, and Adam Houston's mouth sometimes has a way of getting him into trouble. Both had good hearts.<br />
<br />
I miss Adam Petty, but in a lot of ways, he's still with us. There's the Victory Junction Gang Camp, of course. And there's a fourteen-year-old boy who lives at my house, carrying on the tradition of living large every day of his life.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-18763089866108984482015-02-18T05:33:00.001-08:002015-02-18T06:36:56.115-08:00'Like It Just Happened Yesterday'<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12639">
The weather broke brightly and beautifully over Daytona
International Speedway on the morning of Feb. 18, 2001.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
In the hours leading up to the 43<sup>rd</sup> edition of
the Daytona 500, an event that had long been known as the sport’s biggest and
most important race, the chamber-of-commerce sunshine lent itself to a mood
that was beginning to once again, very slowly, creep toward a cautious sense
of optimism. Another season was about to
start, and this would surely have to be a better year than the previous one had
been.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12470">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12476">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
All three of NASCAR’s top-drawer touring divisions
experienced agonizing fatal accidents in the year 2000. First came the loss of
Adam Petty during a May Busch Series practice session at New Hampshire. There
was Kenny Irwin’s Winston Cup mishap at the same track, same turn, just a
couple of months later. Finally, Tony Roper’s crash during a Craftsman Truck
Series event at Texas in October was the final tragedy before the campaign's sad and
none-too-soon end.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12477">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12478">
That was then. This was a whole new deal, a fresh start. Those
involved in the three-ring circus known as NASCAR had regained an expectant
spring in their step as they made their way this way and that on the morning of
the season opener. Every team in the garage had a shot at making a run at the
championship. Every driver had a chance to be become the stuff of legend in
that afternoon’s race. How else would you explain Daytona 500 Cinderella
stories like Tiny Lund in 1963, Pete Hamilton in 1970 or Derrike Cope twenty
years after that? </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12479">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12480">
Cope. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12481">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12482">
More than a decade later, the memory probably still stung
Dale Earnhardt. He was leading easily on the last blamed lap when a cut tire
handed the victory to Cope, a virtual unknown. That it was still so raw an
emotion, even after Earnhardt finally did win his first Daytona 500 in 1998,
was testament to just how important each and every edition of the event had
become.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12483">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12515">
That 1990 Daytona 500 made history. Then again, <i id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12514">every</i> Daytona 500 made history. Win this
race and it would be remembered forever.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12516">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
PRE-RACE</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12517">
Three months later, Ward Burton was still ticked off.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12518">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12519">
At Homestead the year before, Earnhardt kicked Burton and
Ricky Rudd into separate accidents. Rudd and Earnhardt had a history of
run-ins, so really, Homestead was just another chapter in a long-running … if
you want to call it a feud, then so be it. Certainly, Burton had mixed it up
with Earnhardt on a number of occasions since coming onto the scene full time
in 1994. Yet most of their dust-ups could ultimately be chalked up as “one of
them racin’ deals.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12520">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12521">
But not Homestead. Not this time.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12522">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12558">
“I’ve never said this on an interview before, but Dale
had wrecked me because he was frustrated at Homestead,” Burton remembered. “I
was still quite perturbed with Dale at Daytona, and he knew it.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12559">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12560">
Just before they were presented to the teeming crowd, Burton
issued a subtle reminder to Earnhardt that all had not been forgotten.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12561">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12562">
“I can remember getting ready to get introduced,” Burton
continued. “He was still waiting, and I purposely hit his shoulder with my
shoulder. I felt like he’d really done me dirty. I’ve always felt kinda
remorseful for that. But at the time and in the heat of the battle, the way you
handled Dale Earnhardt was really on the race track. But I was just letting him
know before the race started that I still had not forgotten it.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12563">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12564">
Burton’s Bill Davis Racing Dodge was on the outside of
the starting grid’s fifth row in 10<sup>th</sup> place, while Earnhardt started
seventh on the inside of the row just ahead of the Virginian. To this day, the
image of Dale and Teresa Earnhardt saying what would turn out to be their final
goodbyes is firmly etched in Burton’s memory.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12565">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12566">
“When my wife [Tabitha] was giving me hugs as I was
getting in the car, and I can remember vividly [Earnhardt] giving Teresa a last
kiss,” Burton said. “Dale … he didn’t seem very comfortable at that moment. I
don’t know why. I guess we’ve all got a few butterflies getting ready to start
that race, because we know what <i>can</i>
happen.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12569">
Andy Houston qualified ninth, lining him up directly
behind Earnhardt. Three days before, Houston finished fourth in the first of Daytona’s
two qualifying races, a spot back of Earnhardt. On pit road just before the
500, the seven-time Winston Cup champion took the opportunity to poke some fun
at the young man he called his “cousin in law.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Houston’s father, legendary Busch Series driver Tommy
Houston, and Teresa Earnhardt’s father, Hal, are brothers.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12570">
“Early in the qualifier, Dale got into the back of me and
got me all sideways up through the middle of turns three and four,” Houston
said. “I thought I was gonna crash. I mean, I was <i>way</i> out of control. Well, when we got down there for pre-race for
the 500, he come up and grabbed me around the neck like he always does and
kinda squeezes you half to death. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12571">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“He said, ‘You were bad out of shape in that qualifying
race, wasn’t you?!?’ I said, ‘Yeah, because you had my back wheels off the
ground.’ He kind of snickered a little bit, and said, ‘Yeah … I knew you could
handle it.’ I told him, ‘You weren’t the one in there swattin’ at that steering
wheel.’ We kinda laughed about it for a few minutes.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Moments later, Earnhardt, Burton, Houston and 40 other
drivers climbed into their cars, ready for battle. Forty-two of them would
climb back out.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12572">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
THE BROADCASTER</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Up in the television broadcast booth, Darrell Waltrip was
struggling to get used to his unfamiliar surroundings.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
A Daytona 500 was about to take place without ol’ D.W. in
the field. Not since way back in 1972, a full 29 years previous, had that last happened.
What was he supposed to do? Where was his family supposed to go? There was no
team to hang out with in the garage and no pit stall to watch the race from
once it started. For the first time in his and wife Stevie's married life and
for the first time <i>in the lives</i> of their daughters Jessica and Sarah,
Waltrip was not going to be behind the wheel of a race car.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Waltrip, the self-assured and, yes, at times, very cocky
race car driver was now a fish out of water. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“I felt really lost,” Waltrip admitted. “I didn’t feel
too bad the early part of Speedweeks. I had a lot to do, production meetings. …
But then I’m doing a pre-race show when everybody else is doing driver
introductions. I was just doing things I’d never done before. It was all new to
me. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“It was exciting to be doing something new and different,
but it was also sad to think that I had turned a page. I wasn’t gonna be on pit
road any more. I wasn’t gonna put my helmet on and get in the car like I’d done
my whole life. I was gonna put a suit and a tie on and go stand in a TV booth.
It was the end of one long, long story and then, of course, the start of a new
one.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Stevie Waltrip was also learning to cope with a new
reality. For quite some time, she had shared Bible passages with Earnhardt that
he would in turn tape to the dashboard of his race car. Should she still do so?
She wasn’t going to be at every race and she felt a little out of place making
her way to pit road without her husband, but they both knew how much the
exchange had come to mean to Earnhardt.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Dale Earnhardt had been in more on-track incidents with Darrell
Waltrip than either one of them could possibly have remembered. Yet in 1998,
when Waltrip’s career was at an all-time low, he was hired by Dale Earnhardt
Inc. to fill in for several races early in the year. It seemed to re-kindle a
fire within the three-time Winston Cup champion, something that he and his wife
would never forget.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
She delivered the Scripture to Earnhardt on pit road,
just before the race. The passage was from the 18<sup>th</sup> chapter of
Proverbs, 10<sup>th</sup> verse.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<i>The name of the
Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.</i></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
THE POLE SITTER </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Few drivers have ever been more closely associated with a
manufacturer than Bill Elliott was with Ford in the 1980s and ‘90s. For legions
of his fans who had voted him the sport’s most popular driver 15 times to that
point, Elliott <i>was </i>Ford Motor Co. in
NASCAR. The Thunderbird that he once drove was not so much a race car as it was
a dang bullet.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Twice, he won the Daytona 500. That placed the red-headed
country boy amongst NASCAR’s elite, to be sure, but he’d also taken his beautiful
red, white and gold trimmed Ford from almost two laps down under green to win
at Talladega in that magical season of 1985. Two years later, he laid down a qualifying
speed of 212.809 mph at the same track. It’s a record that will never be
approached, much less topped. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Elliott, Ford. Ford, Elliott. For what seemed like
forever, no other combination seemed as rock-solid certain. Yet there Elliott
was, on the pole for the 2001 Daytona 500 … in a Dodge, of all things, that was
owned by Ray Evernham.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Dodge was making a splashy return to NASCAR after an
absence of more than 20 years, and one of the focal points of its strategy was
luring Evernham away from his own legendary gig as Jeff Gordon’s crew chief at
Hendrick Motorsports. For the brand-new organization, to sit on the inside of
the front row was huge.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“We put a lot of effort into it,” Elliott said. “Most of
the guys we had were very, very good at that sort of stuff. It was important
for a lot of us. I’d made a switch from Ford to Dodge, and Dodge kinda stuck
their neck out there with Ray. Ray moved over, started his own deal and worked
hard. A lot of guys put a lot of effort into it, and it all worked out.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
The green flag was dropped by NFL legend Terry Bradshaw, who’d
been chauffeured around the track the night before by Earnhardt. Elliott held
onto the point for all of one lap before he was swallowed up by Sterling
Marlin, also in a Dodge, this one fielded by Chip Ganassi Racing with Felix
Sabates. Although he ran a very solid, very Bill Elliott-like race, he did not
lead again the rest of the afternoon.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“I just kind of hung out, rode around, bided my time and
saved my stuff,” Elliott remembered. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
THE BIG ONE</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
All went well for Burton for more than three-quarters of
the race. Nine times, he jockeyed himself into the lead. In all, Burton was at
the front of the field for a total of 53 laps, 14 more than Marlin.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
For all that effort, Burton walked away with nothing more
than a wadded-up race car. On the 174<sup>th</sup> tour around Daytona’s
2.5-mile layout, almost within shouting distance of the end of the 200 lapper,
he was caught up in the genesis of a multi-car wreck on the backstretch. It was
The Big One, with half the field the remaining field – 19 cars – sustaining
damage. Tony Stewart flipped wildly in the melee, at one point landing squarely
on the windshield of Joe Gibbs Racing teammate Bobby Labonte.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“It was going how a Daytona 500 might go,” Labonte said.
“One time, you’re up front and then in the middle, in the back and in between.
We situated ourselves, just making laps. I don’t remember what position we were
in, but we were gonna be far enough back that if they had a wreck, we were
gonna miss it.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
The plan didn’t work out so well. Not for Labonte, who
entered the 2001 Daytona 500 as the defending Winston Cup champion, and not for
many other teams.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“Lo and behold, Stewart’s upside down, flipping,” Labonte
continued. “I just got landed upon. There’s not a lot of time to react. There’s
a lot of smoke. There’s a lot of decisions that have to be made on gut instinct
in that moment. There’s a lot of other things out of your control. The guy that
was there is no longer there, and oh, by the way, there’s three more that’s got
involved in a split second.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
A decade later, Burton’s recall of the incident is
instantaneous. There is no need to sift through the haze of ten years’ worth of
memories. This one is right there at the forefront.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“I can tell you <i>exactly</i>
what happened,” Burton added. “I know it like it just happened yesterday. We’d
had a green-flag stop, and we came out running fourth or fifth. I was sucking up
to the 20 car, which was Tony Stewart, in the middle of turns one and two. I
was going to the outside of Tony … that’s just how strong my car was.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“Robby Gordon had not been in the picture all day. He hit
me one time in the right rear … I was a little crossed up, but was gonna save
it. He hit me again, and then I was going toward the pond [Lake Lloyd in the
Daytona infield]. My left front hit Tony’s right rear, and that’s what caused the
whole melee.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
It’s what Burton says next that gives one pause to consider
the “what ifs.” Burton doesn’t blame himself. He doesn’t blame Gordon for
getting into him. There’s no blame whatsoever … only a monstrous “what if.” </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“I <i>know </i>if that
incident hadn’t happened, Dale Earnhardt would not have been killed that day,” Burton
said. “That set the chain of the rest of the events [in motion] … who was up
there and who wasn’t to have the situation going on later in the race. I say
that in a literal way, but not blaming an individual for Dale’s death. But that
moment, when the wreck started on the backstretch, is what created the event
later in the day.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
The race was red-flagged for 16 minutes and 25 seconds as
crews cleared battered car after battered car from the backstretch accident
site. Burton came back from the crushing disappointment of 2001 to win the Daytona
500 the very next year.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
THE FINISH</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Michael Waltrip first took control over the 2001 Daytona
500 just after the halfway point, when Burton gave up the point during a cycle
of green-flag pit stops. The younger Waltrip, winless in the first 462 starts
of his Cup career, went back to the top of the leaderboard when he wrestled the
top spot away from DEI teammate Dale Earnhardt Jr. on lap 167.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Either Waltrip, Earnhardt Jr. or a third DEI driver,
Steve Park, were at the front until Marlin broke the hold for a single circuit,
lap 182. The senior Earnhardt led what would unimaginably be the last circuit
of his storied career on lap 183. It was Michael Waltrip’s race to win or lose
thereafter.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Those last laps were something to see, both in person and
on television. Darrell Waltrip’s excitement over his younger brother’s run was
building by the moment … this was very nearly as good as driving. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“One of the things I’ve really struggled with, even 10
years later, is that I’m still a race fan,” Darrell Waltrip said. “I still get
excited. I love the action on the track. It’s been hard, because you have your
brother out there and he’s about to win the Daytona 500. Here I am, I’m his
brother, I’m doing the telecast, millions of people are watching and I’m
pulling for my brother. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with that, but
there are people who think you should not show any favoritism.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
“I was excited. I just can’t hold back my emotion, and
that’s the way I was in that situation with my brother. I knew how that was
going to be for him. Dale had taken a chance on Michael to put him in that car,
because Dale knew that he could get the job done. I was just so proud of my
brother and for what Dale had done with that team. It was just snowballing. It
was hard to hold back. As the race wound down those last few laps, it became
more and more clear to me that Michael was going to win. I let it all hang out,
and I’m not sorry for it. I’d do it again.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Then came that last forsaken, unspeakable lap.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
No other single circuit in the history of NASCAR has been
so closely dissected as that afternoon’s final 2 ½ miles. As they flashed under
the white flag, Michael Waltrip led the Earnhardts, Junior and Senior, in that
order. Marlin and Ken Schrader were next in line, the five cars single file for
a moment. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
Veterans Marlin and Schrader had made runs on Earnhardt’s
famous black No. 3 Chevrolet in the closing miles, Marlin ducking well below
the yellow line going into turn one at one point and Schrader peeking to the
high side. None of their moves worked, but they had to give it one last shot. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12626">
“Coming to the white, I’d been all over Dale trying to
get by,” Marlin said. “I kinda let off a little bit going down into turn one to
get a run at him, and I got under him coming off two. Schrader was with me, and
I said, ‘Well, we’re probably gonna run third. I can’t get to Michael and Dale
Jr.’ Schrader was pushing me, and all of a sudden, Schrader disappeared. I
looked in my mirror and said, ‘Where’d he go?!?”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12625">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12624">
All bets were off. Schrader left Marlin’s draft to grab
what he could for himself on the very last lap.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12605">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12604">
“I don’t remember s*** about [the race in general], but I
remember the end,” Schrader said. “We came off turn two, and I thought, ‘We’ve
got a chance to run third,’ and then all Hell broke loose.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12606">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12590">
That it did. Schrader went to the high side on the
backstretch, and very nearly got around the elder Earnhardt, who tried to dart
to the inside in an attempt to block Marlin’s progress. With absolutely no help
up top, Schrader was all but defenseless. But, really, he’d had no other choice
than to go where he did.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12589">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12602">
“Going down the backstraightaway, I went up to the top
because they <i>were</i> … <i>not</i> … <i>gonna</i> … <i>get</i> … <i>under</i> … <i>Dale</i>,” said Schrader, his voice thick with emphasis. “It’s just not
gonna happen. He <i>ain’t</i> <i>gonna</i> let us get under him. That’s why I
went around Dale. My thinking was, ‘OK, once we get down to turn three, <i id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12601">somebody’s</i> gonna realize that we’re not
all getting underneath Dale. They’ll come to the high side, and I’ll already be
there.’”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12603">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12588">
Some would later insist that Earnhardt was blocking in
order to help the two cars ahead of him that he just so happened to own, one of
them driven by his own son. It made for a good story, regardless of whether or
not it was actually the case. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12587">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12586">
“I figured that was no different than any other time he
went down a straightaway,” Schrader said matter-of-factly. “The race was
decided already. No one was gonna beat those two guys [Waltrip and Earnhardt
Jr.]. The race was decided, but I believe if [Earnhardt] had been [in position
to do so], he’d have done anything he could on the last lap to beat ‘em. But
right there when everything happened, he was worried about finishing third versus
fourth or fifth.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12585">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12612">
The fuse was lit going into the third turn as Earnhardt
tried to hold off the rest of the field. Waltrip and Earnhardt Jr. were free and clear to decide the checkered
flag between them, while everyone else closed into what seemed like a single
hurtling mass of furious energy. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12584">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12607">
“When we got to turn three, Dale was crowding me down and
I guess Schrader was crowding him down to where we got three wide,” Marlin
continued. “It just slowed us down 10 miles an hour, and here come the whole
field, three wide behind us.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12608">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12583">
The traffic jam in the final turn of the final lap
included Earnhardt a nose or so ahead of the pack in the middle with Rusty
Wallace on his rear bumper. Marlin was to the inside of Earnhardt and Schrader to
the outside. In all, no less than eight cars were separated by a split second …
less than that, even. </div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12609">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12620">
“When we drove off into [turn] three, Sterling had gotten
under Dale,” Elliott said. “I mean, we were all right there together … I mean,
we were <i id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12619">all </i>right there, just all
over each other. Dale tried to root down back in front of him.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12613">
Marlin’s right front made contact in the scramble with
the left rear of Earnhardt’s car, shooting it up toward the wall and directly
into Schrader’s path. Earnhardt’s right front slammed hard into the outside
retaining wall. Many other accidents in many other races had appeared far more
serious – Stewart’s just a few laps earlier, for instance.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12614">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12582">
“Rusty got pretty close to Dale,” Marlin said. “That
looked like it got Dale loose. Dale kinda come down, crowded me down, got into
me. The whole thing started from there.”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12615">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12616">
As Schrader discusses it, he pulls up a YouTube clip of
the accident.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12581">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12580">
“I’m a foot or two away from him,” described Schrader, almost
as if he were a disassociated spectator. “I was right there. When he came up,
he just took us with him. My front bumper was in the middle of his door when he
came up. I’m in the middle of the race track, and Rusty and Sterling are inside
us. Everybody’s just in that pile, you know?”</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12579">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12577">
Schrader first wound up pinned against the wall by the
right side of Earnhardt’s car, and the two remained in contact as they slid to
a stop on the apron of turn four. The world NASCAR once knew had ended.</div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12577">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5651413558MsoNoSpacing" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1424265785974_12577">
<i>This story was first posted on NASCAR.COM February 10, 2011.</i> </div>
Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-69698907917266081252015-01-27T05:49:00.000-08:002015-01-27T05:52:13.661-08:00Dear Jeanie ... Nineteen years. I simply cannot believe that it's been nineteen years since we were married.<br />
<br />
I've never been so nervous in my life as I was that day at the church. You were my second chance to share my life and my love with someone, and I was scared to death. I shouldn't have been.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQF-Xxm6Aga_V6RXt5dTQ2fWYuQ99llzTGTHcVsnRcWAMwXGmPstJ5OKOomuGLtuIUuPFK9V00JZ8IA8UlDdWM29xX99Q_k5NvB53EY0SHzOEyp1LwBLK_y5QsSJ8kohEvXrkou2rb/s1600/scan0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQF-Xxm6Aga_V6RXt5dTQ2fWYuQ99llzTGTHcVsnRcWAMwXGmPstJ5OKOomuGLtuIUuPFK9V00JZ8IA8UlDdWM29xX99Q_k5NvB53EY0SHzOEyp1LwBLK_y5QsSJ8kohEvXrkou2rb/s1600/scan0004.jpg" height="400" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then (and yes, that's a Mickey Mouse vest) ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I used to think that I moved to North Carolina to get into NASCAR. Now, I understand that God moved me to North Carolina to someday find you, fall in love and then be a dad to Jesse and Adam. NASCAR's long gone now. You and the boys ... you're still here. I thank God for that every day.<br />
<br />
I remember the exact moment I fell in love with you.<br />
<br />
You showed up that afternoon on the doorstep of my apartment in Mooresville, ready to take care of me. It was then and there that I knew that you had my heart.<br />
<br />
A bad case of food poisoning sent me home from work early that day, and when you found out, you headed to the grocery store for chicken soup, crackers, Sprite and all the other things people get for a person praying to the porcelain gods. I hadn't had that in a long, long time, and I loved you for it. I still do.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine my life without you. I don't even want to think about it. Life before you seems like a bad dream -- it <i>was </i>a bad dream in a lot of ways.<br />
<br />
We disagree on a lot of things, and they're important things, too. The spoons and forks go handle <i>up </i>in the dish washer, dang it. The couch in our den is brown, brown, brown and browner than brown. It could be none more brown.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphEFncNGLb3wo9wEzW8Kjmkq1eYX8oWNMNAQYAGzzeGOglZrE4jQ-nH42OeRbhFe_TmSsadQV20TMNLtzH-nmdu_HZSxtfQI767GY0ubkqfPvR1Ho63Q0fHuc8tkQYz9II-XrPTXP/s1600/FullSizeRender+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphEFncNGLb3wo9wEzW8Kjmkq1eYX8oWNMNAQYAGzzeGOglZrE4jQ-nH42OeRbhFe_TmSsadQV20TMNLtzH-nmdu_HZSxtfQI767GY0ubkqfPvR1Ho63Q0fHuc8tkQYz9II-XrPTXP/s1600/FullSizeRender+(2).jpg" height="400" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and now. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not green, or any shade thereof. Thank goodness we agree on the all-important issue of toilet paper going over the top instead of down under, or who knows where our marriage might have wound up.<br />
<br />
We've fought, but Lord knows I gave up actually trying to win a fight with you long ago. I'm a writer. I have to have time to compose my thoughts and you ... argue ... for ... a ... living. It's not fair.<br />
<br />
There have been plenty of bad times. A miscarriage ... an adoption that fell through after the last minute ... the loss of my job with NASCAR ... your thyroid cancer ... the entire year of 2008 ... but I can honestly say that out of every single one of those crushing disappointments has come a blessing beyond measure.<br />
<br />
We've both talked about how the miscarriage and adoption led directly to Adam and Jesse. NASCAR shoving me out the back door meant time with you and the boys that I never would have taken for myself. 2008 ... well ... 2008 was just a bad, bad year all the way around. But we got through it, and we got through it together.<br />
<br />
There's nobody I would rather have shared the last two decades of my life with. As completely opposite as our personalities might be, we're a pretty good match. We sometimes take different approaches to the same issue, but we almost always arrive at the same place at just about the same time.<br />
<br />
Where do we go from here? I don't know, but I can only hope that the next nineteen years will be as good as the first nineteen years. God willing, I'll be here.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rick<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-38504658537165829172015-01-16T15:34:00.000-08:002015-01-16T15:48:57.183-08:00Broken HeartedThe only picture I have of myself and Gary Whitaker is out of an old church directory. There we are on the back row, behind the ladies, in a shot of the choir.<br />
<br />
There are a lot of memories in that one snapshot. All those choir practices, me the new guy who'd never sung in front of people and completely ignorant about reading music. Gary would point to a note and raise his thumb or lower it, indicating that my voice should probably try to follow. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvGTWvy0IvcUqQBfilH_aFLRk7VudUkTwFz72wbZ7tsRNXwpvYWbdttN50tP9ilw65fEtA1SRttElFNtK69boDVCjFFqEkDT5skCPJxJqEVQOQfxYGe1smAbnT0uKwyH88d6Z8lq-/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvGTWvy0IvcUqQBfilH_aFLRk7VudUkTwFz72wbZ7tsRNXwpvYWbdttN50tP9ilw65fEtA1SRttElFNtK69boDVCjFFqEkDT5skCPJxJqEVQOQfxYGe1smAbnT0uKwyH88d6Z8lq-/s1600/scan0001.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gary Whitaker (back row left) and I.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On those many, many occasions when my warbling would wander off into some unknown dimension, Gary never fussed. He never made fun of me ... maybe he did once or twice, but it wasn't harsh criticism. We'd laugh about it and I'd try to follow along.<br />
<br />
I tried to follow along with Gary in a lot of things. I was ordained as a deacon in our church in October 2003, and during the service, he leaned over and whispered something in my ear.<br />
<br />
<i>Don't ever let 'em get you down.</i><br />
<br />
I didn't exactly know what he meant then, but I do now. I left the choir at one point, and while Gary never asked me why, I think he understood. I hope he did. He approached me one day after church and said that he had something he needed to say to me. <br />
<br />
<i>I figured something out about church a long time ago. When you go to church, you need to come in, worship with all of your heart and when the service is over, you need to just get the hell out of the building as soon as possible. </i><br />
<br />
I couldn't help but laugh. It was Gary's way of telling me not to worry about the stuff that sometimes goes on in a church and to focus on what really mattered. It was good advice. I've tried to follow it ever since, with varying degrees of success.<br />
<br />
Less than a year ago, we had a fundraiser at church for my mission trip to Costa Rica. It was a success, raising every cent needed. Gary bought a bake-sale cake that night for $100. Later, he approached Jeanie and handed her an envelope. He told it wasn't for the cake -- he'd already paid for that -- but wanted for us to have this as well.<br />
<br />
Don't look at it, now, he said. He told Jeanie he knew we'd be having various incidental expenses for the trip and this was to take care of some of those. Inside were ten $20 bills. I used the money to pay for my passport and photo and kept the change and receipts in the same envelope he'd given us. <br />
<br />
Honestly, I'd meant to give him back the change and the receipts. I'd meant to, but never did. And now ... I can't.<br />
<br />
Gary died yesterday, the result of an accident while on a cruise with wife Susan and some buddies from their Honda Gold Wing club. I'm in shock, hurting from the kind of loss I haven't felt in a long time. It's nothing, of course, to the pain that Susan and their daughter Shelley are experiencing right now.<br />
<br />
The thing to know about Gary is that he was a bearded bear of a man, the very essence of a good ol' country boy. I can't imagine what Heaven must be like tonight, with Gary singing in that rich, full voice of his.<br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to hearing it again ... <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-60513700089750337542015-01-06T06:16:00.000-08:002015-01-23T09:33:09.846-08:00Pay It ForwardThe gentleman sat on the back row of the small conference room, and as soon as I entered and saw him, he looked vaguely familiar.<br />
<br />
I couldn't quite place the guy, but I <i>knew </i>I knew him. Then, I heard him speak. I'd heard that voice before, but still couldn't put my finger on when or where. It's a gentle voice, a slow Southern-tinged drawl. Maybe that was at least part of the problem. In North Carolina where I live, slow Southern drawls aren't exactly uncommon.<br />
<br />
A couple of minutes passed, and he spoke again. I turned in my seat and quickly stole a glance at the name tag on his credential holder, hoping to somehow get this thing figured out. My heart almost stopped.<br />
<br />
<i>Gordon West.</i><br />
<br />
I was instantly transported back twenty-one years or so in the past. Gordon and I were sitting in his office at Sparta First Baptist in North Carolina's beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, and I'd just asked him for $20 in order to buy some groceries. More than two decades later, it's hard to suppress the emotions the memory conjures up.<br />
<br />
I was working as the sports editor at <i>The Alleghany News</i>, a small weekly newspaper. The gig didn't pay much ... I was bringing home $150 a week. The "bedroom" in my tiny efficiency apartment was nothing more than a wide space in the hallway. I could lay on my box spring and mattress -- there was no room for a frame -- and place my feet flat on one wall and touch the other with my head.<br />
<br />
Even then, I could barely afford the place. I got behind on rent, but when I got caught up, I <i>always </i>fell behind on another bill. The head of the local telephone company had a daughter who played basketball for Alleghany High School, and he gave me $10 off my phone bill every time her picture appeared in the paper.<br />
<br />
So ... yeah ... Mary McMillan's picture wound up in <i>The Alleghany News</i>. A lot.<br />
<br />
Still, my phone got shut off a time or two. So did the electricity. Paula Hampton, the office manager, allowed me to leave IOUs in petty cash. Co-worker Lynn Brooks invited me to eat with her family, knowing I didn't have much. You know you're on hard times when soup beans are the kind of blessing you remember two decades latter.<br />
<br />
The Reynolds family ... James, Lib, Jamie and Amy ... we still laugh once in a while about the race Jamie and I attended on something far less than a shoestring budget. I was worried about the glowing red light on the gas gauge miles from home while Jamie fretted about being hungry. Momma Lib had pizza waiting on us when we finally made it back to Sparta, and it was the best pizza I'd ever eaten. <br />
<br />
Ends never met, and more often than not, didn't even come close. That's ultimately what brought me in to speak with Gordon, the pastor at Sparta First Baptist. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. More than just financially broke, my spirit had also been broken. This wasn't supposed to be happening to me, not here. Not now. Not ever.<br />
<br />
I felt like I had nowhere to turn and tried as best I could to explain my situation to Gordon. Although it was the most humbling thing I'd ever done in my life, he didn't try to send me to a benevolence committee. Instead, Gordon gave me the money out of his own pocket. Relieved, I headed straight for the local Food Lion and stretched that $20 bill as far as it could possibly go.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYKMr3w9pPYQupU_oB4lroVcOwxC4iv_d3ptWZIRQxc62QUnhmatXeijlMLDFjihd1SK1_Tf0HDFzxgYPlTbsQO0PQdg2ZNO5I3nFfOLGgRVtKP2CVaOLxxO-nEgUdAxR25iU2X86/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYKMr3w9pPYQupU_oB4lroVcOwxC4iv_d3ptWZIRQxc62QUnhmatXeijlMLDFjihd1SK1_Tf0HDFzxgYPlTbsQO0PQdg2ZNO5I3nFfOLGgRVtKP2CVaOLxxO-nEgUdAxR25iU2X86/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="400" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks, Gordon. I'll pay it forward. I promise.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not long afterward, Gordon took another pastorate and we lost all contact. I thought of him often over the years and tried searching for him on the Internet, but nothing ever turned up until he actually did, right there in front of me in that conference room.<br />
<br />
As soon as the meeting ended, I stood up and turned to him. I stuck out my hand in greeting, not knowing exactly what to say.<br />
<br />
<i>Gordon, I don't know if you remember me, but I was a member of your church in Sparta about twenty years ago.</i><br />
<br />
Clearly, he was having as hard a time placing me as I had him at first. I continued, still searching for the right words.<br />
<br />
<i>You helped me out and gave me $20 for groceries one time, and I just wanted to say thank you. </i><br />
<br />
The words caught in my throat. It was awkward standing there in front of him, admitting a long-ago weakness and getting as emotional as I seemed to be getting. He asked me my name and when I told him, my identity seemed to dawn on him. He smiled and asked how and what I was doing these days.<br />
<br />
I told Gordon, who is now the senior pastor at Dudley Shoals Baptist Church in Granite Falls, North Carolina, about some of the books I've written and about speaking at the Life Lessons From Mayberry conference in Ridgecrest. I told him about Jeanie and the boys. I thanked him again.<br />
<br />
Our reunion lasted maybe five minutes before the next session of the conference we were attending was scheduled to begin. Ever since that day, I've thought about the role Gordon played at such a critical crossroads in my life's journey. He was there for me at a time when I needed help the very, very most. So were James, Lib, Jamie, Amy, Paula and Lynn. It's left me with this question, and it's a big one.<br />
<br />
<i>How can I be a Gordon West for somebody else? </i><br />
<br />
I could've attempted to repay Gordon his $20, but I'm sure he wouldn't have taken it. That's not the kind of repayment he'd want. Gordon would want me to pay it forward, to give to someone else who needs a helping hand.<br />
<br />
This isn't a New Year's resolution, either. Those tend to come and go, completely forgotten by the end of the first week in January. No. I'm going to figure out a way to give back, with interest. <br />
<br />
That's my goal for 2015 and beyond. What's yours? How are <i>you </i>going to pay it forward? Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-37507755929433272822014-12-17T10:30:00.000-08:002014-12-17T10:30:48.458-08:00Jeanie's Barbie Doll ChristmasThe first Christmas Jeanie and I spent together as an engaged couple was one of the most memorable of my life. <br />
<br />
I'm sure it doesn't exactly come as a shocking surprise to those of you who know me that I'm a big ol' kid at Christmas. I'm a big ol' kid for most of the rest of the year, too, but that's completely beside the point. When I was growing up, Christmas was absolutely magical.<br />
<br />
Yes, I sneaked to see what presents were coming into the house. My brother, Doug, did, too. As soon as we saw the tail lights of my mom and dad's car leaving the driveway, we both raced to their closet to start the holiday scavenger hunt. It was fun, the kind of fun that only a child could have at Christmas.<br />
<br />
Very strategically undoing the tape on the end of a wrapped package took work, but by gosh, I was up to the challenge. Was I spoiling the surprise? That <i>was </i>the surprise, the joy of it all. There were things we all wanted, and everybody else in the family would move mountains to make sure everything showed up on Christmas Day. <br />
<br />
The remote-control R2-D2 I got for Christmas in the late 1970s is on a shelf no more than a few feet away as I write this. It couldn't have cost more than $20, but it remains one of the most special Christmas presents I've ever received. Why? Because I wanted it so desperately at the time, and my mom made it happen.<br />
<br />
What time did we get up on Christmas morning? Well before sunrise. I can remember times as early as 4:30, maybe 5 a.m. What was the point? That <i>was </i>the point. Christmas was exciting, and who could possibly contain themselves and wait until daylight?<br />
<br />
Oh, yeah. I was about to find out. <br />
<br />
Fast forward to Christmas, 1995. Jeanie collected Barbie dolls, and she needed a certain one to complete a certain line. It was pretty expensive ... I could well see paying that much for a set of baseball cards, but a doll? I wasn't so sure. Whatever. She wanted it, and I was determined I was going to surprise her. I couldn't wait to give her that stupi ... that doll. <br />
<br />
Now, remember. We were already dating the year before, but I wasn't exactly a part of the family yet. I didn't know their way of doing things at Christmas, and they didn't know mine. I just thought everybody got up in the wee early morning hours of Christmas to begin the celebration, and to make the day last as long as possible.<br />
<br />
Not so. Not so at all. I was living in a trailer we'd bought right next door to her mom and dad, and since I had a key, the plan was to place the doll under the tree in secret ... just like Santa Claus.<br />
<br />
I made my way over and quietly let myself in early on Christmas morning to make the drop. Very early. Like, say, maybe 6 a.m. Yet that was long past the time I had been used to getting up on a Christmas morning. I was pumped, and looking forward to seeing the look on Jeanie's face when she got her Barbie doll. It was 6 a.m., and surely everybody would be up in a few minutes.<br />
<br />
Then 6:30 a.m.rolled around.<br />
<br />
And 7 a.m. <br />
<br />
7:15 a.m.<br />
<br />
7:45 a.m. <br />
<br />
Was there something wrong? I slipped back across the yard and peeked in the window. Every light in the place was still off, no signs of life whatsoever.<br />
<br />
8 a.m. <br />
<br />
8:04 a.m. <br />
<br />
8:11 a.m.<br />
<br />
8:11 a.m. and a few seconds.<br />
<br />
8:11 a.m. and a few seconds more. The clock started to look like it was actually moving back in time.<br />
<br />
By about 9 a.m., I absolutely could not stand it any longer. I called, and when Jeanie answered, it was obvious she'd been sound asleep ... and it wasn't some sort of mistake. It was by design. She and her parents both were sleeping in.<br />
<br />
On Christmas morning.<br />
<br />
<i>Go back to sleep</i>, she told me. <i>I'll call you when we get up. </i><br />
<br />
It was right about then that the ringing started in my ears.<br />
<br />
Finally, at a little past 10 a.m., Jeanie called. Everybody was out of bed. I almost literally ran out of the house, across the yard and into her house. At last ... at last ... at last ... Jeanie was going to see her doll. Or not.<br />
<br />
Breakfast was being prepared, and we're not talking about a quick bowl of Cap'N Crunch, either. This was eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes with all the fixings and then some. This was going to take ... some time.<br />
<br />
<i>C'mon, Jeanie</i>, I told her. <i>I think Santa Claus has been here. </i><br />
<br />
Her response wasn't exactly what I was looking for.<br />
<br />
<i>After breakfast. </i><br />
<br />
What kind of heathen family had I gotten myself into? The fact is, I hadn't seen anything yet about the Reavis way of doing business on Christmas.<br />
<br />
I gulped my food down, and stared in disbelief as everybody else -- Jeanie and her mom and dad -- took their sweet, ever-lovin' time. When they were done at long last, the table had to be cleared and the dishes washed. After that was time for presents, right? <br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
<i>But ... but ... breakfast is over, isn't it? C'mon. I think there might be something special for you under the tree. </i><br />
<br />
Jeanie's nephew, Denver, was just short of his second birthday at the time ... and let's just say he was the star of the show. Angie, my future sister-in-law, would be along directly with Denver. We'd wait until they got there at 2 p.m.<br />
<br />
At 2:30 p.m., they weren't there.<br />
<br />
They hadn't shown up by 3 p.m., either.<br />
<br />
I was past the point of spun out and half turned over. I sat on the sofa, as forlorn as I could've possibly been. What was wrong with these people? By the time Denver showed up at long last around 4 p.m., I was ... I was ... well ... just take the dang doll and let's be done with it.<br />
<br />
To this day, the Barbie sits in her doll case. I couldn't pick out which one it might be. I think it might be the one with the green dress or something like that, but it doesn't really matter.<br />
<br />
I see a Barbie, any Barbie, and it's Christmas of 1995 all over again. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-77591640482992235362014-11-05T06:58:00.000-08:002014-11-05T08:50:45.909-08:00With All Of My HeartToday is my son Richard's 25th birthday, and in the last six years, two months and four days, he's spoken to me once.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart. <br />
<br />
His mom and I separated when he was less than a year old, and divorced several months later. Richard has never known what it's like to have his own father at home, but with God as my witness, I tried to be the best dad I could be from 430 miles away. The memories of having him with me at several of the NASCAR events I covered are some of the very best of my life.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFhInZCJ1cMNXEPslXebGdk3RUmBlB9UXAwcYi810f8ac7KXTDcBPUE3F6hBgnXANqQcEKYGZ81qZ2Gmgk31F0VMKMURJZRnUFZKAceTNQAqpcHvsw3v_SmFWqKGYyOydIQ99QTA6/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFhInZCJ1cMNXEPslXebGdk3RUmBlB9UXAwcYi810f8ac7KXTDcBPUE3F6hBgnXANqQcEKYGZ81qZ2Gmgk31F0VMKMURJZRnUFZKAceTNQAqpcHvsw3v_SmFWqKGYyOydIQ99QTA6/s1600/scan0001.jpg" height="381" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Richard didn't much care for football. It didn't matter, though. I loved him with all of my heart.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A <i>Winston Cup Scene </i>reader once asked me for my autograph in Richard's presence, and for sure, I thought it would impress the kid. Nope. Richard just looked at the guy and shrugged his shoulders.<br />
<br />
<i>Whaddya want </i>his <i>autograph for? He's not famous. </i><br />
<br />
There was the time he wanted to drive back through the parking lot of a restaurant in the <i>Scene </i>company car. The vehicles had the paper's logo plastered on both doors, and he enjoyed the attention it drew when a race was in town. We once stayed at the same St. Louis hotel as the Colorado Rockies, and he <i>loved </i>Larry Walker and Vinny Castilla. We got off the elevator one morning, and there stood Larry Walker <i>and </i>Vinny Castilla. Richard was in awe. As we left to go to the track, I asked if he wanted to go back and try to get their autographs.<br />
<br />
<i>No. It was good enough just to get to see them in person.</i><br />
<br />
December 26 had always been the worst day of the year as a child because it meant that the next Christmas was a full year away. Later on, however, it became my favorite day of the year because that's the day Richard always came to North Carolina. Nearly two decades later, the $40 bicycle and the Go-Kart I was able to give him remain my best Christmases ever. <br />
<br />
Despite all that, our relationship obviously wasn't the same as it would've been had we lived in the same house -- or even in the same town, for that matter. More than the loss of my job in NASCAR ... more than struggling with my weight for so many years ... this is the single greatest failure of my life. <br />
<br />
It didn't matter, though. I still loved him with all of my heart.<br />
<br />
God knows I've wondered and fretted and worried and prayed over why things went so horribly wrong between us. The young man is smart, far smarter than I'll ever hope to be. He picked up philosophies in high school that were completely foreign to me, and we had an exchange or two because of that. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81l8fmySI7Jd_9L30VC1wsUMVMesfPdgJq8sCDILDNCVlTRm63QFAEhu-1nbKEQ2DZyw3PpCD5AAuEEsaqoeiGTnaFjlkWBaSqbTjJtHvu2e50Ior0qjKwgcvXtCnKjMdpmv6oKZl/s1600/1934626_1048554930399_397197_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81l8fmySI7Jd_9L30VC1wsUMVMesfPdgJq8sCDILDNCVlTRm63QFAEhu-1nbKEQ2DZyw3PpCD5AAuEEsaqoeiGTnaFjlkWBaSqbTjJtHvu2e50Ior0qjKwgcvXtCnKjMdpmv6oKZl/s1600/1934626_1048554930399_397197_n.jpg" height="315" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My boys. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
He got off the airplane one year in North Carolina with hair down his back. <br />
<br />
It didn't matter. I still loved him with all of my heart.<br />
<br />
He met us for dinner one night in Nashville sporting a ring in his nose. <br />
<br />
It didn't matter. I still loved him with all of my heart. <br />
<br />
The last time I saw Richard in person was on September 2, 2008, a couple of days after my father -- his paternal grandfather -- passed away. Richard didn't make it to the funeral.<br />
<br />
I was upset over that, and I let him know about it in a long e-mail a few days later. I tried not to be ugly. Jeanie read it before I pressed "Send." Other than one brief 30-minute call a couple of years later, that's the last communication we had. <br />
<br />
It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.<br />
<br />
The last I heard, he's tending bar in Portland, Oregon.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.<br />
<br />
He evidently has some additional piercings.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.<br />
<br />
And some tattoos.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7hfgvxhCJs_IA_Qzrj0GRyNQOD6gx87dCnH9rsNvL6sA7MOJZ8D-q8rC1DSYvOwAGgN-OgGTmbpUixvZF6u3DKjaTTtdDCltTzGTCnF7OLCfzMoQGYtfgm3ckctnotJhxBV0pU7d/s1600/1934626_1048554890398_6517851_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt7hfgvxhCJs_IA_Qzrj0GRyNQOD6gx87dCnH9rsNvL6sA7MOJZ8D-q8rC1DSYvOwAGgN-OgGTmbpUixvZF6u3DKjaTTtdDCltTzGTCnF7OLCfzMoQGYtfgm3ckctnotJhxBV0pU7d/s1600/1934626_1048554890398_6517851_n.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was Adam's favorite spot with his big brother. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.<br />
<br />
I understand that he's lost his faith.<br />
<br />
That <i>does </i>matter and it matters more than anything he'll ever face, but it's a struggle between Richard and God. My faith isn't hereditary. It's a decision he has to make for himself. All I can do is pray more earnestly for him than I have about anything in a long, long time.<br />
<br />
The bottom line is this. I love my oldest son, and I love him with all of my heart, every bit as much as I love Adam and Jesse. I'd very gladly give my life for him, because that's what a father does for his son.<br />
<br />
About a week ago, I got a call on my cell phone from a number originating out of Oregon. My heart nearly stopped. Was it Richard? Was there anything wrong? I answered with a hitch in my voice. It wasn't him, and I hung up without saying a word to the salesman on the other end of the call.<br />
<br />
When and if Richard ever does call to say that he needs me, I'll leave a great big Rick-sized hole in the wall to get to him. It matters that much, for no other reason than he's my son, my flesh and blood. I'd heard Luke 15:20 a million different times in a million different Sunday School classes and sermons, but never paid the kind of attention to it that I do now. Now ... it means everything. <br />
<br />
<i><span class="text Luke-15-20" id="en-NIV-25609"><span class="woj">So he got up and went to his father.</span></span><span class="text Luke-15-20"><span class="woj"> But
while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled
with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him
and kissed him.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
I ache for that day.<br />
<br />
<i>God, please. I love Richard. He's my son, and I love him with all of my heart. Bring him back to us in one piece, safe and sound. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-44418725389945118472014-10-29T13:10:00.001-07:002014-10-29T13:35:27.429-07:00The IncidentIf you're a parent, you know the moment.<br />
<br />
Your kids have misbehaved in some shape, form or fashion, and what they've done has left you momentarily speechless. Your jaw drops, and maybe your eye twitches a time or two. There's a ringing in your ears that won't go away. You don't ever recall being this ... this ... "angry" isn't even a good enough word to fully encompass it. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2Mt1iyMU2MFcW6Xv0FdQs4b8K49_5QurgKiG2pf0JUB3RWBoAlQx8__BZZkoWKEi7SNtlKkFUqtAtXc2ZhPdWie58bpIkXBzjjRFk3r-NhfaToIl5tSETn6Pknd8ZnA6n6H41nSF/s1600/scan0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2Mt1iyMU2MFcW6Xv0FdQs4b8K49_5QurgKiG2pf0JUB3RWBoAlQx8__BZZkoWKEi7SNtlKkFUqtAtXc2ZhPdWie58bpIkXBzjjRFk3r-NhfaToIl5tSETn6Pknd8ZnA6n6H41nSF/s1600/scan0003.jpg" height="400" width="327" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom and one of the many, many cakes she decorated over the years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That kind of thing doesn't happen very often around here, but there are times when I can't help but wonder what could possibly have crossed Adam and Jess's minds ... or if they were even thinking at all. <br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Adam turns a blind eye to any basket of freshly laundered socks and underwear that happens to enter the room. Place it in "his" seat in our den, and he'll sit in another without saying a word. Plop it in front of the door to their bedroom, and he'll step over, around or quite possibly right in the middle of it. Situate it on his bed, and he'd sleep in the floor. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Say anything about it, and he's got his alibi ready.<br />
<br />
<i>I didn't see it.</i><br />
<br />
Drumming his fingers ... oh, man ... that's another Adam specialty. He's actually got great timing and rhythm, but one solo is followed by another. And another. And then an encore worthy of every great drummer in history. I honestly don't think he's even fully aware that he's doing anything.<br />
<br />
Adam ... stop.<br />
<br />
Stop what?<br />
<br />
Drumming your fingers. <br />
<br />
Oh ... okay.<br />
<br />
<i>Peck ... peck ... peckedy ... peck-peck ... </i><br />
<br />
Adam ... <br />
<br />
What?<br />
<br />
Please. Stop it.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry.<br />
<br />
<i>Peck ... peck ... peckedy ... peck-peck ... </i><br />
<br />
ADAM!!!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGVj0IJFaAuiPN2ymUerbxOkE8BJwTX59B13eYDVew8jRZzl4mvA6XbZu_j0slvBNrQBctKiGQroch8XsGE8UrccqDHIq3pSozzVLBSgBLn13CZWaALl-n59C7kToU2hh3Tl5FRTp/s1600/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjGVj0IJFaAuiPN2ymUerbxOkE8BJwTX59B13eYDVew8jRZzl4mvA6XbZu_j0slvBNrQBctKiGQroch8XsGE8UrccqDHIq3pSozzVLBSgBLn13CZWaALl-n59C7kToU2hh3Tl5FRTp/s1600/scan0002.jpg" height="400" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My 17th birthday cake, right after football practice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And then there's Jesse. Born three minutes before Adam, it was the first race Jesse ever won and it will most likely be the last. Jesse has only one speed, and that's Jesse Speed. Whether it's a personality trait or a function of his Asperger's, the kid is never in a hurry.<br />
<br />
Ever.<br />
<br />
The good thing is that he'll never have to deal with any stress-related issues, because he simply does not concern himself with moving any faster than he already is. Jesse is perfectly content to get where he's going in his own time, moving at his own pace all the while. That's just Jesse being Jesse. <br />
<br />
While Jesse may never be stressed, the same can't be said for me when I'm trying to get him on the move. Counting to ten causes him to speed up sometimes, but only by a little bit.<br />
<br />
Throw in the fact that both Adam and Jesse are just beginning their journeys as teenagers, and life can often seem like one small battle after another. Just when I think I've had it up to <i>here </i>with one or the both of them, though, I remind myself that while Adam and Jesse might not be perfect, they've never come close to the dumbest, stupidest, most misguided, ill-advised, ignorant and childish thing I've ever done.<br />
<br />
My brother Doug and I just call it The Incident.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
Our mom baked and decorated cakes. It was her outlet, a way of expressing herself in a way that others tended to appreciate. I seem to remember a formal wedding cake or two, but her specialties were kids' birthday cakes with as many bright colors as possible. <br />
<br />
The occasion escapes me, but Mom had spent most of a Friday night on a cake. There were bowls of colored icing everywhere in the kitchen, and when she and Dad left to deliver the masterpiece, both the bowls and several nearly full tubes of icing were left behind. Because of that, I've got to think that what happened next was actually their fault, not mine and Doug's.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mPxjmw7Vdk45jCryt_6JZvZC4Wbxfguli-nVOQNYVoi8EN8h2C94BLD-Mem6A22V0XWZMxLAaGyDg4dohZtnP8YlHUegzcaP8A8YgPnRE_9lAEzTr1NuGs8T7ohVtt-Nhss9jdnO/s1600/scan0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mPxjmw7Vdk45jCryt_6JZvZC4Wbxfguli-nVOQNYVoi8EN8h2C94BLD-Mem6A22V0XWZMxLAaGyDg4dohZtnP8YlHUegzcaP8A8YgPnRE_9lAEzTr1NuGs8T7ohVtt-Nhss9jdnO/s1600/scan0004.jpg" height="320" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother and co-defendant in The Incident, with one of HIS birthday cakes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I honestly don't remember who struck first, whether it was me or my younger sibling, but one of us picked up a tube of icing and tried to squirt the other with it. That, of course, elicited retribution with another tube. It was on from there.Two squirts of icing became ten, and then twenty. There was not the slightest pause when one tube was emptied, because we had plenty more in our arsenal.<br />
<br />
If only we'd limited our battle to the linoleum-floored kitchen that would've been relatively easy to clean ... if only ... if only ...<br />
<br />
Not content with the destruction of one room, we began chasing each other through the house with the icing tubes. There was icing everywhere ... on furniture, in the carpet, smeared on the walls ... <i>everywhere</i>. If it had just been red icing, it would've looked like the goriest murder scene in the history of crime, but this had been a special cake with lots and lots and lots of colors.<br />
<br />
You know that scene in <i>The Wizard of Oz</i> where the black-and-white Kansas scenery is suddenly replaced by the mind-blowing Technicolor of Oz? Yep. That was our house that day. <br />
<br />
There came a point when I realized the gravity of what was taking place, and what was going to happen when Mom and Dad got home. It didn't matter, because the damage -- literally -- had already been done. We kept right on going, right up until the very end. I vaguely remember the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and the front door opening, but not much after that.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsBNFieLaikNj88_ibEBJNO5ZwsxdR9E4wvXBKfVixdhEYZIBq1pA31JRNe46rR925RH8qIIf70SIg6MI0AWVjOQPIzf1gdG9640CeTXbR_j6laQLbiMPKL_8qs4rolHGwI6qEd8sM/s1600/scan0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsBNFieLaikNj88_ibEBJNO5ZwsxdR9E4wvXBKfVixdhEYZIBq1pA31JRNe46rR925RH8qIIf70SIg6MI0AWVjOQPIzf1gdG9640CeTXbR_j6laQLbiMPKL_8qs4rolHGwI6qEd8sM/s1600/scan0005.jpg" height="400" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first R2-D2 birthday cake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Let's just say that Mom and Dad believed in corporal punishment, and practiced it to its fullest extent that day. They tag-teamed Doug and I ... when one of them got tired of wearing our hind-ends out, they tagged out and allowed the other to take over.<br />
<br />
And, really, who could blame them? They were the closest to being perfect Christians that day than they ever were, and that's simply because they didn't kill us. <br />
<br />
Tony Rankin was my role model growing up -- he still is, for that matter -- and he was getting married that day to his fiancee, Amber. I didn't get to go to the wedding, which is probably for the best. If either of my parents had dropped me off anywhere that day, they almost certainly would not have returned to pick me up.<br />
<br />
What's all the more shocking to me today is that the date was June 4, 1983. I was fifteen years old, and it was the summer before my junior year of high school. I was old enough to know better, for crying out loud, but did that stop me from taking part in The Incident?<br />
<br />
Noooooooooooooooooooooooo ... <br />
<br />
So, yeah, we can deal with some unsorted laundry and a little slowness afoot. Adam and Jesse have absolutely nothing on their old man and uncle. <br />
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<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-24911962839751078682014-10-23T08:32:00.001-07:002014-10-24T05:59:04.866-07:00Say GoodbyeThe photos are like a kick in the gut.<br />
<br />
Jeanie and I took the boys on a road trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame back in 2009, and on the way back, we stopped in Gettysburg. I've always been a baseball fan and a Civil War buff, so it was the ultimate vacation for me and the boys. I had a blast. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFBfZ3c-x7dw9Y5h9Afz8BiUE4Lk1lbMxPjhh_xBAlgIRdEqxlGqza5uR4fENVdt3daKzvgtULHczr7kj01avOU08q11A1AIxDgWXrSNOEW8v2qiKjlsnwygO8RhURSDHUZYvAlrb/s1600/spring+break+007+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFBfZ3c-x7dw9Y5h9Afz8BiUE4Lk1lbMxPjhh_xBAlgIRdEqxlGqza5uR4fENVdt3daKzvgtULHczr7kj01avOU08q11A1AIxDgWXrSNOEW8v2qiKjlsnwygO8RhURSDHUZYvAlrb/s1600/spring+break+007+-+Copy.jpg" height="320" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Babe Ruth's locker in the Baseball Hall of Fame ... and Adam's in front.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The problem is, I can barely stand to look at photographs from the trip. In almost every single one in which Adam, Jesse and I appear, I've very carefully placed one or the both of them in front of me in an attempt to cover up my belly. I look at the pictures, and then I look away because they break my heart. <br />
<br />
More than a year would pass before I seriously started trying to lose weight. Deep down inside, I knew I had to do something but couldn't conceive of how to actually begin. It wasn't that it was going to be difficult. It was something far worse than that. It was going to be very nearly impossible. I'd tried too many times before, only to fall flat on my flabby face.<br />
<br />
There was the time I stormed out of the Y because a group of uber-jocks refused to include me in what was evidently a private game of Wallyball. I didn't go back for nearly three years, regained the few pounds I'd lost and then some. And then some more. I really showed them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBp6LhRKbkSZKEymkbcR4PMdRj3ZzxdDnpFA-pOyz2ufaQvsVNHRWiJu58dXsv1yaDuGqFFnDywQNqGzZbFMq-ME47du0M-_vCIporS5eawrsIZiDYgk785YFazGdXl_oXGPJCGUkI/s1600/spring+break+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBp6LhRKbkSZKEymkbcR4PMdRj3ZzxdDnpFA-pOyz2ufaQvsVNHRWiJu58dXsv1yaDuGqFFnDywQNqGzZbFMq-ME47du0M-_vCIporS5eawrsIZiDYgk785YFazGdXl_oXGPJCGUkI/s1600/spring+break+010.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With a display honoring the Big Red Machine Cincinnati Reds ... and Jesse's in front.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The images are also a reminder of how hard it has been to lose weight. Even today, I still sometimes feel like a complete fraud. If people only knew how badly I want to dive into a Chinese buffet ... an extra-large super supreme Papa John's pizza ... a six-pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cup eggs ... a bag of Oreos, regular, double-stuff, Reese's Peanut Butter Cup-flavored or what have you ... they would know that all this is nothing but a smoke-and-mirrors show.<br />
<br />
What would people think if they knew that I don't actually get a kick out of working out or running? I enjoy the sense of accomplishment, but only when it's over. I don't like pain. I'm allergic to it. Rolling out of bed in the mornings, especially on Saturdays, and going for a run is hard. It's especially difficult when it's cold ... or hot ... or when I plan on running a longer distance ... or when I'm still sore from my <i>last </i>run or boot camp workout. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFIbidC5lZa6rYdnz5eQvKCnA5rb8X87Kqg92gCHs_27Anj9LpaFkr2BGFxfsNV2KiXi1YNggOMCX5IY6nn-nxQIfIONVwyhycJaUC-EAW4mx1Vs6opqfZxveIqSCzWkczvFu1fBu/s1600/spring+break+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFIbidC5lZa6rYdnz5eQvKCnA5rb8X87Kqg92gCHs_27Anj9LpaFkr2BGFxfsNV2KiXi1YNggOMCX5IY6nn-nxQIfIONVwyhycJaUC-EAW4mx1Vs6opqfZxveIqSCzWkczvFu1fBu/s1600/spring+break+020.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Little Round Top at Gettysburg with the 20th Maine monument ... and both are in front.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It just seems like all this should be getting easier ... not easy ... just ... easier.<br />
<br />
I'm not giving up, though. I've come too far to let a little thing like discouragement turn me back into the man I used to be. That. Ain't. Gonna. Happen. It's one of the reasons I've come to love the music of contemporary Christian music artist Mandisa so much. When she was on American Idol, Simon Cowell made some incredibly insensitive remarks about her size and weight.<br />
<br />
Mandisa knows.<br />
<br />
Mandisa knows, and she's recorded several songs just for the two of us. "Overcomer" is one. It comes on when I'm running, and I fix in my mind how far down the road I'm going to be when the song finishes. A lot of times, I make it. Sometimes, I don't. But I try, and I try hard. <br />
<br />
As close to home as "Overcomer" hits, it's another song that has come to be my anthem in this journey. "Say Goodbye" is everything I wish I could say in song.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1QUpP78jKa-DN571sVywmdakvxSVnbkkbiKHvCu847AhMkr9kPgcYNnGJMVD8V-HCGi8zrA1q3rQ88LbrHXZGoLlc4mQ9RBBVzBkmaKN8r-R02uLiMwydm0G1uWrQml9jh6m-68u/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1QUpP78jKa-DN571sVywmdakvxSVnbkkbiKHvCu847AhMkr9kPgcYNnGJMVD8V-HCGi8zrA1q3rQ88LbrHXZGoLlc4mQ9RBBVzBkmaKN8r-R02uLiMwydm0G1uWrQml9jh6m-68u/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="400" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mandisa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>To the voice/To the liar in the mirror/ Saying you can't ever change/To the guilt that's sittin' on your shoulder/Always keeping you wrapped in chains ... </i><br />
<br />
These photos were taken years ago. That's not me any more. Don't give up. Keep going.<br />
<br />
<i>Say goodbye/Say goodbye/To the one that used to be/Say goodbye/Say goodbye/Every day is a brand-new mercy ... </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>My legs are hurting and I've got a couple more miles to go, but I'm not going to stop. I've got to keep going. <br />
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<i>This is where it starts now/Everything can turn around/In a moment, here's your moment/You can say goodbye ... </i><br />
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As bad as it hurts to run and work out, I'm so desperately thankful that I'm not in the place I used to be. Keep going.<br />
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<i>There is grace that you can't imagine/There is love that you can't outrun/There is peace you can hold onto/When your world is coming undone ... </i><br />
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<i>You don't have to give into the fear/Don't have to let your story stop here/When the hand tries to pull you back/You don't have to go back/You don't have to go back ... </i><br />
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<i>To everything that breaks you down/It doesn't have to define you now/Jesus can take it all away/Say goodbye/Say goodbye/You're not the one you used to be ... </i><br />
<br />
Amen. Thank you, Mandisa. You'll never know how much I appreciate you.<br />
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<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-71150159926558807132014-10-14T08:17:00.000-07:002014-10-15T10:15:53.842-07:00The Most Sincere Prayer I've Ever PrayedRock bottom came for me on October 2, 1992 in the media parking lot of North Wilkesboro Speedway.<br />
<br />
There was nothing left to lose back home in Nashville. I'd gone through the agony of a divorce, and after my ex-wife remarried, my son Richard was calling another man Daddy. That was a pain unlike anything I'd ever experienced, even more than the breakup of my marriage, and my job prospects were going nowhere fast. I was working as a telemarketer, a "profession" I absolutely despised with every ounce of my being.<br />
<br />
I'd moved back to North Carolina a few weeks before, trying once again to find my way into the wondrous world of NASCAR. I had no job, no money and very nearly no home. I was being paid nothing for the stringer work I was doing for the newspaper in Columbia, Tennessee -- nothing for the stories I filed, no expenses, no nothing. The only thing I got out of the deal was a press pass. <br />
<br />
Having covered a race at Martinsville the week before, I wound up sneaking food out of the press box for dinner and sleeping in my car. The plan was to do the same the next weekend in North Wilkesboro, but when I arrived, it didn't take long to figure out that meals wouldn't be provided to the media until race day on Sunday. <br />
<br />
It was Friday morning, and I had not a cent to my name. Panic set in. I was devastated. Scared. Hungry. And worst of all, completely alone. There was nowhere to turn. More than two decades have passed since that day, and even now, I can smell the personal-sized pizzas other reporters were able to buy from the concession stands.<br />
<br />
I'd met fellow reporter Jerry Lankford in the Bristol press box several weeks before, and I asked him if I could borrow a quarter to make a phone call. I had not told Jerry anything about my circumstances, but I guess he sensed them. Jerry gave me two dollars, and that's what I used to buy my dinner that night ... a small bag of potato chips and a Baby Ruth candy bar.<br />
<br />
After practice and qualifying that day, I waited until every other media member had left the grassy parking lot behind the frontstretch grandstands. No way did I want them to see me setting up shop for the night in my car, and in <i>that </i>car in particular.<br />
<br />
The next twelve hours or so were the longest -- and emptiest -- of my life. I ate the potato chips slowly, one at a time. After they were gone, I chewed every bite of the candy bar until there was nothing left to chew.<br />
<br />
I cried that night, not knowing how things were going to turn out. I was more than 400 miles away from anybody I knew well enough to ask for help, and I was more than 400 miles away from my son. I tried to pray, but had no eloquent words. There weren't even any complete thoughts ... all I could manage was the same basic phrase, over and over again.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, God ... </i><br />
<br />
I was scared and saw no way out of the fix I was in.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Oh, God ...</i><br />
<br />
Chips and a candy bar are no way to live. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Oh, God, please ... </i><br />
<br />
Sleep was next to impossible. As soon as day broke, I washed off, changed shirts and walked to the garage. Not long afterward, I ran into Deb Williams, the editor of <i>Winston Cup Scene. </i><br />
<br />
In the NASCAR world, <i>Winston Cup Scene </i>reigned supreme. It was <i>The New York Times</i>, <i>Washington Post</i> and <i>Sports Illustrated </i>of NASCAR, and its writers were the best of the best. They were, in many ways, my rock stars -- Deb, Steve Waid, Joe Whitlock, David Green, Gary McCreadie, Gene Granger, Ben White and even the folks who freelanced for <i>Scene </i>like Mike Hembree and Ray Cooper.<br />
<br />
More than two years had passed since I first contacted Deb and Steve about the possibility of writing for them, and for more than two years, they'd put me off. They'd finally consented to let me file a story on Robert Callicutt, a gasman for Richard Petty's team who'd been badly burned during a pit stop. Filing a story is one thing, but actually seeing it in print is another matter entirely. <br />
<br />
Deb told me my story was going to run in the next week's issue. It wasn't a full time job, it was just one story, but it was at the very least an opening. Maybe I did belong. Maybe. I headed to the press box overlooking the track, and it was there that I again saw Jerry.<br />
<br />
"Rick, I don't know why I didn't tell you about this yesterday," he began. "The family that owns the paper I work for owns another one not far from here, and they need a sports editor. Would you be interested?"<br />
<br />
Before I could stop myself, I bellowed, "YES!!!" I didn't ask about the details, because they didn't matter in the least. I didn't ask where the paper was located -- it turned out to be in a little town in the mountains called Sparta -- or how much it paid. All I cared about was that it was a job, and even better, it was a job with an established newspaper.<br />
<br />
Just a few days later, I drove from Gastonia to Sparta to interview for the gig. By the time I made it back "home" to the motel, I had a call that I'd gotten the job. It was mine. I was officially the sports editor for <i>The Alleghany News</i>. I started on October 15, 1992, twenty-two years ago tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Amen.<br />
<br />
Some would call it a simple coincidence that I'd learned of my story running in <i>Winston Cup Scene</i> and the job possibility on the morning after such a terrible, dark, lonely night. No. No way. God heard the simple prayers I prayed that night, and He honored them. I'd heard the words of Psalm 30:5b many times before, but that day, I lived them.<br />
<br />
<i>Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.</i><br />
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<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-71354128770030066112014-10-06T13:17:00.000-07:002014-10-06T13:40:49.290-07:00My Bucket List Over the course of my career, I've been fortunate enough to do some really cool stuff. I've driven a race car at Talladega, and got so jacked up by an adrenaline rush in the process that I literally could not dial my cell phone more than thirty minutes later. My hands were still shaking that badly.<br />
<br />
I've shot the breeze over a two-hour dinner with Dale Earnhardt Jr., and stood in Dale Sr.'s pits as he crossed the finish line to win his first and only Daytona 500. I've whacked Buckshot Jones in the face with a whipped-cream pie as he was being interviewed on ESPN, and laughed myself breathless as Buckshot's arch-rival Randy LaJoie explained in great detail the things you can and cannot do with a TENS nerve-stimulating pain-relief unit.<br />
<br />
I've watched as Sandi Estep -- my best friend's mom and the woman I call my godmother -- rode in the pace car at Daytona, and then listened as Sandi told me all about it hours later, still as giddily excited as a young schoolgirl. Come to think of it, I've actually driven the pace cars at Homestead and the Madhouse, Bowman Gray Stadium. Several times, I've watched as the sun came up over breakfast at Junior Johnson's shop. <br />
<br />
I've stood on the flight deck of two
honest-to-goodness Space Shuttles, and peeked in the hatch of a third. I've practiced for two
launches and five landings on the Shuttle's motion-base simulator. I've
sat alongside former flight controller Bob Carlton at his console in an
otherwise empty MOCR as we listened to audio of him helping land <i>Apollo 11 </i>on the surface of the moon. <br />
<br />
I watched from just three miles away as a Shuttle rose to orbit for the final time, and stood by on the runway as <i>Endeavour </i>landed to bring an earlier mission to an end.<br />
<br />
There's no doubt that my life on the job has been pretty doggone amazing at times. Still, there remains one adventure that's far and away the Number One item on my bucket list.<br />
<br />
I would dearly, dearly, <i>dearly </i>love to fly with either the United States Navy's Blue Angels or the U.S. Air Force's Thunderbirds. Take your pick, because beggars can't be choosers. Strapping into either one of those blue-and-yellow or red-white-and-blue birds
and soaring off into the wild blue yonder would immediately go to the very top of the list of everything I've ever done in my career, hands down, without a
doubt.<br />
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<br />
Why would a guy like me who absolutely detests flying on board a commercial airliner want to do such a crazy thing? The first reason is also the most obvious. I want to be, for once in my life, That Guy ... the one walking across the tarmac in his flight suit, fully rigged up and ready to climb into his jet fighter, the <i>Top Gun </i>theme music playing in the background. <br />
<br />
As silly as that sounds, there are other, more subtle reasons.<br />
<br />
Flight was a big part of my dad's life before he got sick with lung cancer, the result of coming in contact with Agent Orange during his service in Vietnam. He told countless stories over the years of the flights he took in the First Cav's Bell UH-1 "Huey" helicopters, and after making it back to the States, Dad took to flying remote-controlled planes.<br />
<br />
After my mom passed away, he got his private pilot's license and bought an interest in a small plane. We never really talked about it -- we never really talked about a lot of things -- but I think it was his way of dealing with the hurt of losing my mom. He proudly took me for a ride in the machine he'd nicknamed "The Vomit Comet."<br />
<br />
When he got sick, he lost his license and could no longer fly. What he could do was return to his hobby of the early 1970s and began building remote-control airplanes with a vengeance. Rarely, if ever, did he take a chance on flying them, but instead contented himself with very patiently building the intricate models.<br />
<br />
A yellow Piper Cub he put together had to have had a wingspan that stretched upward of four feet or more. That sucker was <i>huge</i> and the engine in it <i>expensive</i>. I teased him about spending my inheritance, but I actually couldn't have cared less how much it cost. He loved it, it took his mind off what was happening to his body, and that was good enough for me. <br />
<br />
So, to fly with the Thunderbirds or the Blue Angels ... yeah ... it would be for Pops. Dad was Army through and through, but I don't think he would've minded me hanging out with these particular Navy or Air Force guys too awfully much.<br />
<br />
Then there's the fact that I'm now far closer to being physically able to fly with either team.<br />
<br />
Five years ago, I weighed nearly 400 pounds and couldn't possibly have squeezed myself into a flight suit, much less the cockpit. I'm reminded of that day in the motion-base simulator, the day that began my weight-loss journey when I was unable to fasten one of my safety harnesses. I'm reminded of the searing pain in my ribs when I tried in vain to suck in my gut enough for the latch to finally snap shut.<br />
<br />
It never did, and it broke my heart and very nearly my spirit. I'm reminded of virtually every step of the nearly 2,000 miles I've walked and run since that day, and how badly so many of them have hurt. I've planked, squatted and lunged, Body Pumped and boot camped more times than I could ever count. Walking a 5k led to running one, then running a 10k, then doing both a 5k and a 10k on the same day and last but not least, a half marathon, the mother of all hurts.<br />
<br />
The strange thing is, a Blue Angels or Thunderbirds flight would <i>not </i>make all that effort worth it. It was worth it just to get into better shape, to hopefully put myself in a better position to be there for my wife and kids later in life. It would not be a reward, because nobody owes me anything for trying to improve the quality of my own life. <br />
<br />
What the Thunderbirds and Blue Angels have done, however, was serve as inspiration. Whether it was some foolish Quixotic quest or not, I've talked myself up many a hill and onward toward many a mile by imaging myself in a Blue Angels F/A-18 or one of the Thunderbirds' F-16s.Would I keep going up this hill or for another few miles if it meant the chance to fly with those folks?<br />
<br />
You'd better believe it.<br />
<br />
So ... Thunderbirds or Blue Angels, Blue Angels or Thunderbirds ... call me. I'll be here. <br />
<br />
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<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-82294564632110871772014-10-01T08:08:00.001-07:002014-10-01T13:07:19.730-07:00Chapter Two: The Moon Rises!Before I'd taken 10 steps in the 10k, I knew I was in trouble.<br />
<br />
This was it, the big rematch with my arch-rival and friend Bob from the Y. I'd won the first round, and had to defend my honor over the course of 6.4 long miles in the second. Like before, though, I didn't really expect to beat Bob. Could our first race have been nothing more than a fluke?<br />
<br />
We were about to find out. <br />
<br />
The gun sounded to start the race ... I took one step ... and felt my brand-new compression shorts shift. I took another, and they started to shimmy downward. Another few steps, and those suckers were in an all-out southbound retreat. By the time I made it out of the parking lot which marked the earliest stages of the event, the shorts were completely to my knees.<br />
<br />
How did it happen? I don't know, and didn't particularly care at that point. All I knew was that I was suddenly ... and there ain't no other way to put it ... going commando. I had a decision to make. Bob was a few yards ahead of me, and I couldn't let him gain too much ground on me. I was going to keep running, compression shorts or no compression shorts.<br />
<br />
It was at about that point, however, that I saw a police officer directing runners at the first turn. He was laughing ... and he was laughing at me.<br />
<br />
But why? I looked down and it dawned on me what I was wearing. My running shorts were made of sheer fabric, cool, lightweight ... and in the right light ... almost completely see through. And with my compression shorts down around my knees ... awwwwwwwwww, man ...<br />
<br />
I was determined not to stop. If you can picture this, I ran/waddled/stumbled/shuffled maybe twenty yards with both arms reaching inside my running shorts and down to my compression drawers, desperately trying to tug the blamed things back up.<br />
<br />
It didn't work.<br />
<br />
Finally, I stopped at some bushes on the side of the road. I threw the gloves and hydration belt I was wearing to the ground, reached back inside my running shorts down to the compressions and pulled them back up to where they were supposed to be. I threw my belt back on and took off, putting my gloves on as I ran.<br />
<br />
And as I did so, the compression shorts fell right back down again. !@#$%^&^%$#@!<br />
<br />
Maybe a mile into the race, and it was all over. Bob was gone. Bob was history. Bob, by this point I was sure, was already back at the finish line waiting on me. I was never going to hear the end of it, and it was all because of these forsaken shorts. <br />
<br />
A patrol car from the local sheriff's department was up ahead. I had no choice. I had to stop again. As other runners made the turn, I went straight to the car. They asked if I was okay, and physically, I was. Mentally? That was another matter entirely. I was ticked, and I was ticked big time.<br />
<br />
I ran behind the car and again tore off my gloves and hydration belt. This time, though, there was no awkward reaching down under my running shorts to get to my underwear. Nope. This time, I dropped 'em altogether entirely ... and in the process mooned Rural Hall, North Carolina. At that point, I just didn't care. <br />
<br />
I took hold of the compression shorts and gave them a monstrous yank. I pulled them up very nearly to my chest, and in so doing gave myself the mother of all wedgies. Back up came my running shorts. Back on went my hydration belt and gloves. Why, I didn't know. The race with Bob was over, and I had to consider my options. I could quit then and there, or keep going.<br />
<br />
By that point, I was so angry that I was all but in tears. Bob was nowhere to be seen, and neither were very many other people in the race, for that matter. The only ones around were a couple of ladies walking, one of them pushing a baby stroller. Forget about not beating Bob. I wasn't going to beat <i>anybody</i>. <br />
<br />
I took off, up three small hills within the next mile or so. After that, the course was as flat as anything I've ever run before. I saw a runner I thought might possibly be Bob, but the figure was so far away, I couldn't be sure. As the course doubled back on itself, I began to meet runners heading in the opposite direction. <br />
<br />
No Bob.<br />
<br />
No Bob.<br />
<br />
No Bob.<br />
<br />
No Bob.<br />
<br />
At last, he was there. He was probably a little more than a half mile ahead of me, with about three miles remaining. I was never going to catch him, ever. But still ... I picked up my pace.<br />
<br />
Once I made the turnaround myself, I could see who I thought to be Bob. I wasn't completely sure it was him, but still ... I picked up my pace a little more. Bob came into focus. As soon as I was certain ... I picked up my pace a little more still.<br />
<br />
Four and a half miles in, two miles to go. Pick it up. <br />
<br />
Five miles in, a mile and a half or so left. Pick it up. I can see Bob. It's him. It's definitely him.<br />
<br />
Five and a half miles in, a mile left, and I was at as close to a sprint as I could've possibly been after running that far. I'm gaining, but I'm not going to catch him. But still ...<br />
<br />
Bob turned back into the parking where all this had started. I was a hundred yards back. Bob crossed the finish line, and then so did I. I finished in an hour and five minutes, my best ever time in a 10k <i>by far</i>. Jeanie made the comment that if it hadn't been for my problem at the beginning of the race, I would've made it in less than an hour.<br />
<br />
That's not necessarily the case. If it hadn't been for those problems and trying to catch back up to Bob, there's absolutely no way I would've ever pushed myself that hard. Bob beat me by several seconds, fair and square. No excuses.<br />
<br />
Except maybe for ... <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-64561595855749032502014-09-29T08:01:00.002-07:002014-09-29T08:01:30.328-07:00Chapter One: How In The %^&@ Did You Get Here?!?There's a guy just like him in every gym in every town across the country.<br />
<br />
Bob ... in order to protect the guilty, that's not his real name ... is the older gentleman who'll spend an hour on the stair climber and then move to the treadmill following his warmup. He's closing in quick on 70, but he's a rock star when it comes to staying fit. <br />
<br />
Bob's also the guy in your gym who's never had an unexpressed thought. He's going to say what's on his
mind and he's going to say it at the very top of his voice ... not in a confrontational way ... just ... very loudly. <br />
<br />
That's where I come in. One day a couple of years ago, Bob turned his attention to me.<br />
<br />
"Rick," he bellowed at or very near the top of his lungs, "you need to lose some weight!"<br />
<br />
I'd already lost 90-some-odd pounds at that point, and I told him so. He evidently didn't believe me.<br />
<br />
"No, you haven't!"<br />
<br />
Yes, I have.<br />
<br />
"No, you haven't!"<br />
<br />
Bob, really. I have.<br />
<br />
"No, you haven't!"<br />
<br />
I took out my smart phone and showed him my "before" picture, and that finally convinced him. Still, he wasn't finished.<br />
<br />
"Well ... what you need to do now is start running so you can tone up!" <br />
<br />
But ... Bob ... I've already done eight or nine 5ks and one 10k.<br />
<br />
I should've known what was coming.<br />
<br />
"No, you haven't!"<br />
<br />
Yes, I have.<br />
<br />
"No, you haven't!"<br />
<br />
Yes, I have.<br />
<br />
"No, you haven't!"<br />
<br />
Finally, I had an idea. There was a 5k scheduled for the very next weekend here in Yadkinville, and I told Bob to sign up. It wasn't a challenge, because there was no way I was ever going to beat him. Not a chance. Not the way he could spend hours on end on the cardio machines. No way, no how. The best I could hope to do was maybe impress him by just finishing. <br />
<br />
Come that Saturday, the race started and I saw Bob ahead. I passed him within the first quarter mile or so, but that didn't mean anything. I always start out too fast, and there was a lot of traffic to negotiate. Surely, as the race wore on, he'd come roaring back by me.<br />
<br />
That never happened, but again, it didn't necessarily mean anything. I tend to get tunnel vision during a race, not fully knowing everything that's going on around me. It's part concentration, part exhaustion. <br />
<br />
Jeanie and the boys were at the finish line, which <i>always </i>means the world to me. Adam and Jesse went off to find me a bottle of water while Jeanie and I headed for a seat in the shade. I still didn't see Bob. <br />
<br />
He. Wasn't. There.<br />
<br />
Three or four minutes later -- I'm gonna call it four! -- I saw Bob approaching the finish line. A smile stretched across his face, right up until the moment he saw me. Suddenly, the smile was gone. What he said -- bellowed -- next would forever be the highlight of my athletic career.<br />
<br />
It was mo' better than anything I ever did in Little League baseball, high school football or church softball.<br />
<br />
Bob saw me sitting there, already finished with my race ... his smile vanished ... and he announced for all the world to hear.<br />
<br />
"How in the %^&@ did you get here?!?" <br />
<br />
In the soundtrack of my life, that's pretty much where the theme songs from <i>Rocky </i>and <i>Rudy </i>and, just because it's me, <i>Forrest Gump </i>would all start playing. How in the %^&@ did you get here?!? Yes! <br />
<br />
It wasn't long until we'd agreed on a rematch ... a 10k in Rural Hall. A wardrobe malfunction helped decide the outcome.<br />
<br />
Check back soon for Part Two: The Moon Rises!<br />
Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-63677491779352053022014-09-16T18:02:00.000-07:002014-11-06T12:02:59.379-08:00No. 66 -- Jesse Houston, Backseat StalkerYou know those moments in movies where somebody gets behind the wheel of their car, and when they look in the rear view mirror, there's an intruder looming in the shadows of the backseat? You know how it always scares the living bejeebers out of the driver? <br />
<br />
Yeah ... that happened to me tonight.<br />
<br />
Jeanie left the house early to pick Adam up at football practice, and I <i>thought </i>Jesse had gone with her. After checking a couple of quick e-mails, I headed out to my car so the four of us could meet in a few minutes for dinner. <br />
<br />
There's nobody in the passenger's seat. I put the key in the ignition ... look up into the mirror ... see the outline of somebody I did <i>not </i>know was in the car ... and at that split second ...<br />
<br />
Hey, Dad! <br />
<br />
Jesse always sits directly behind me when we're going somewhere, and more often than not, will start to sit there even if it's just the two of us. That's what he did tonight, and the thing is, he did <i>not </i>mean to intentionally frighten me. If he had, surely, it would not have worked nearly as well.<br />
<br />
My car very nearly became a convertible when I jumped, trying to escape the "danger." I guess I should be proud, because I neither cussed nor peed in the floor in the process! Jesse couldn't stop laughing once he was sure that I was not, in fact, having a heart attack. <br />
<br />
Me? Not so much. Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-71505394177017648182014-07-18T21:57:00.000-07:002014-10-01T05:36:43.691-07:00No. 65 -- Blue Moon <span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Adam just ran through the house in his drawers, happened to bend over ... and just like that, we discover a huge and strategically placed hole in the drawers that show for all the world to see that, yes, he is in fact most definitely a boy. <br /> <br /> Me, Jeanie and her mom and dad are laughing so hard we're all crying, which of course just eggs him on. There's nothing that kid won't do to get a laugh, which Jeanie says will make him the perfect frat boy someday.</span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><i>Hey, y'all. Watch this.</i> </span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Jesse is also laughing hysterically and starts yelling, "My eyes! My eyes!" This is what it's like to live at my house.</span>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-72952005573805128292014-07-18T21:54:00.000-07:002014-10-01T05:36:43.701-07:00No. 64 -- Jesse's Untold Tales of the ER<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">The boys and I came across one of those television shows where kids who've gotten in trouble get taken to jail to see if it will possibly turn them around. Jesse watched a few minutes and said that if he ever got in that much trouble, he would probably wind up on television but it wouldn't be on something like Scared Straight.<br /><br /> He's a man of few words, so it kind of got my attention. When I asked him why, he said, "If I ever mess up that bad, I'll have to go on Untold Stories of the ER so they can remove your foot from my butt."<br /><br /> Yep ... and I'm thankful he knows that.</div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-29879542834745894032014-06-27T09:44:00.000-07:002014-10-01T05:36:43.713-07:00No. 63 -- Crash. Reset. New AircraftEvery time I pick up the control box for my RealFlight RC flight simulator, I think of my dad.<br /><br />When he was sick, he passed a lot of time by working on a HUGE RC Piper Cub. This sucker was massive, and while I'm pretty sure he never actually flew it due to his health, he tried to do the next best thing and use RealFlight to simulate the experience.<br /><br />My dad and I never had a lot in common, but that was something over which we could connect. When I visited him, it never took long to make my way to the computer to open the RealFlight program. Both he and my brother Doug made fun of me for not being able to land a plane ... and flying a helicopter? That was absolutely out of the question. Within seconds, I would always crash.<br /><br />While Dad and Doug gave me a hard time about not being able to land, I absolutely gave it right back to my father.<br /><br /><i>Hey, Dad</i>, I would begin. <i>Remember that time you demolished that plane you spent so much time and money on?</i><br /><br /><i>Yeah? What about it?</i><br /><br />I would start a new journey on RealFlight and right away spiral it into the ground.<br /><br /><i>Watch this.</i><br /><br />Clicking the reset button on the control box, a brand-new aircraft would immediately appear on the screen.<br /><br /><i>Crash. Reset. New aircraft. </i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Crash. Reset. New aircraft.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Crash. Reset. New aircraft.</i><br /><br />He laughed. <br /><br />After picking up a copy of RealFlight for my own computer, I'm now able to land an airplane on the runway ... most of the time. And helicopters? I'm still no pro ... but for your viewing pleasure ... I present to you the results of <i>a lot</i> of practice.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/xNJMj5aGZ5Q?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />I typically fly a Huey, because that's the bird on which Dad flew so often in Vietnam. This isn't the prettiest flight you'll ever see, but ... hey ... I didn't crash.<br /><br />This one's for you, Dad.Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-79540871640644492262014-06-26T07:16:00.002-07:002014-06-26T07:16:34.304-07:00Never Give Up It was two months ago today that I did the half marathon in Nashville ... or, more accurately ... when the half marathon in Nashville did me.<br />
<br />
Ever since then, I've been in a funk when it comes to running. I haven't missed a single day, and I don't intend to, but the motivation just hasn't seemed to be there. I find myself worried when I run, tentative. <br />
<br />
<i>Is this an ordinary pain that I can push through ... or am I about to pass out? </i><br />
<br />
I logged a little over three miles this morning, and the hill that I usually motor up without a problem got to me and I wound up walking a little bit. The long homestretch ... yeah ... I walked some more. My legs felt like concrete.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. Yes, it's been a lot warmer in the mornings than before I did Nashville. I've been taking a class at the Y that's left me wrung out, and we walked EVERYWHERE at church camp last week. That includes going up and down Mount Everest twice a day to chapel.<br />
<br />
I'm tired, and I'm a little timid after Nashville. But I'm not giving up. Ever. That ain't gonna happen. Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-83355220090943952582012-08-13T15:34:00.000-07:002014-10-01T05:36:43.726-07:00No. 62 -- Don't Look BackWe've had a little bit of an event today, and I'm not sure Jeanie has recovered yet.<br /><br />The boys started sixth grade last week, and Adam's homeroom teacher is also the head soccer coach at the local high school. He gets kids from his class to serve as ball boys, so, of course, Adam was the first to sign up. He was allllllll over it.<br /><br />Jeanie took him to the high school for the varsity and junior varsity games ... and he promptly took off for the field, without ever once looking back. He left Jeanie standing, and not only that, but he left her standing <i>at the high school</i>. <br /><br />Ouch. I don't think Adam and Jesse are little boys any more.Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5539840684410556027.post-40147592882775107132012-07-26T06:17:00.002-07:002012-07-26T08:02:09.123-07:00301 MilesMove over, Tommy Houston. I have now run a Nationwide Series race myself ... literally.<br />
<br />
This morning, I ran 4.15 miles in 50 minutes. I didn't set any speed records or anything like that, but that's OK. That's not what I was trying to accomplish.<br />
<br />
But here's the kind of cool thing, at least to me. I use an app called MapMyRun to track what I've done, and today's run put me at more than 301 miles since I started using it. That's a Nationwide Series race at Charlotte Motor Speedway!<br />
<br />
All total, I've been on the move for sixty hours, 37 minutes, 13 seconds.That's an average of about five miles an hour ... give or take a few hundred feet.<br />
<br />
My first recorded run was on 3 October 2011, when I did 2.05 miles at the park in Yadkinville. The longest run I've done was 10.49 miles -- that's the one where I felt like my left knee had been severed from the rest of my body -- and the shortest was a mile last month in Houston, Texas. I didn't know the neighborhood!<br />
<br />
I had done three 5k races before I started using the app, so I'm gonna conservatively say that since I started trying to lose weight, I've walked and run maybe 100 miles more than what the MapMyRun total shows. That's a Sprint Cup race at Michigan.<br />
<br />
Next stop ... the Daytona 500!<br />
<br />Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08885650708540496515noreply@blogger.com1