Then he had to break the news to the other half of the bus ticket, which was me. He bought a rose at the Speedy Mart, and took me out to dinner that night. He told me the whole thing over steak kabobs at Logan’s, with Dale Earnhardt glowering down on us from his shrine on the pine-paneled wall. Shane knew that this was a radical departure from our previous wedding plans and he was scared that I was going to start crying right there in the booth, but he kept bouncing in his seat, too, like he wanted to get up and shout out the good news to everybody in the restaurant. After that, I didn’t have the heart to say no, and like I said, the alternative wasn’t Westminster Abbey anyhow, or even the First Methodist Church, which would have been just as good to me. No-the alternative was Mama’s Wiccan fellowship with their vegetarian whatevers and their Cherokee-Druid priestess from Knoxville, so I figured that whatever the Bristol Speedway came up with couldn’t be much worse than that.
And that’s the Brooks and Dunn truth.
Chapter VII
Bristol Motor Speedway
Like a flying saucer on scaffolding, it loomed on a hill across an expanse of grass near the four-lane Volunteer Parkway. Harley Claymore wasn’t used to seeing the outside of the Bristol Motor Speedway from that perspective-that is, from the ground. On race day, most NASCAR drivers traveled to the track by helicopter, ferried over from the nearby Tri-Cities Airport, where drivers flew in for the Saturday evening race.
Some of the prominent drivers owned helicopters which met them at each airport on the racing circuit and transported them trackside in style, but Harley had never been a member of that exalted circle. Once, when he’d had a couple of good finishes in a row and it looked like he might be somebody someday, he’d been given a ride to BMS in Bill Elliott’s private bird. Harley remembered sailing over green Tennessee hillsides, spiraling in on the cordoned-off patch of blacktop that was the fenced-in drivers’ area of the vast parking lot. He had stepped out onto the Speedway helipad, still feeling like he was walking on air from the honor of being flown to the track by Awesome Bill himself. But that high ride had been only one fleeting moment in Harley’s lackluster career. His customary arrival for race day was glamorous only when compared to the world of the average fan: his racing team simply shelled out the $75 for the helicopter shuttle service from Tri-Cities, just as any skybox tycoon could do, but, hey, it was better than crawling along the Volunteer Parkway at five miles per hour with the rest of middle America.
From the bus window, he looked down on the snails’ procession of Fords and Chevys, and even a few non-Detroit models driven by those who did not put their money where their hearts were. Becalmed in this tide of spectators, Harley was surprised by the cold hollow in his chest that told him he cared more than he realized about his fall from glory. It had taken all his life to break into that charmed circle of famous drivers, but only a season or two to be eased out again. It had happened so fast that he’d hardly realized it. Out in a heartbeat. But he was wiser now. He had grown up a lot in these lean years: he was going to find a way back in, and when he did, the only way they’d get him out again would be under the blue tarp.
It was a sweltering, cloudless mid-morning in east Tennessee. Race time was set for 7:30 P.M., but-knowing that the county’s roads were not equal to a one-day influx of 160,000 people all heading for the same place-the crowd had already begun to arrive. The roads to the Speedway were jammed with a succession of cars and pick-up trucks, whose back windows and bumpers proclaimed allegiance to a chosen driver. Some of the more alert Number Three Pilgrims pressed their noses to the bus windows to enjoy the first moments of the spectacle. Terence Palmer, his Winged Three cap pulled over his eyes, was making up for the sleep he’d lost on the red-eye flight from LaGuardia, while beside him, Sarah Nash read his rumpled New York Times.
“Look! A mixed marriage!” Justine called out, pointing to an old white Bonneville with two circular decals at opposite corners of the back windshield. The driver’s side of the window sported a white number 8 in a red circle, offset on the opposite side by a yellow 24.
“So the family favors two different drivers?” asked Bill Knight, leaning over Matthew to see the car in question.
“That’s not it,” said Justine. “It means the couple doesn’t agree on who to root for. See, that 8 on the driver’s side means he’s a Dale Earnhardt, Jr. fan, while over on the passenger side, she likes cute little Jeff Gordon, number 24, who looks like he ought to be on Dawson’s Creek instead of driving a stock car.”
“Ah, factions.” Knight nodded, reaching for his notebook. “The Romans would have felt right at home here. In ancient times, the chariot races in the Circus Maximus were divided into teams: The Reds. Green. White. Blue. And their followers wore flowers or scarves sporting the colors of the faction. Some people based their whole identity on their team affiliation. Even had it carved on their tombstones: ‘Marcus Flavius, beloved father and lifelong supporter of the Greens.’”
“Did they paint their faces?” asked Cayle.
“No,” said Bekasu, looking up from her magazine. “That would be the other supporters of the Green: Packers fans.”
“You should see the camping area.” The older man, whose companion was decked out in the Earnhardt fabric vest, leaned forward to join in the discussion. His name tag said “Jim.” “Arlene and I used to camp there back when we were going regularly to the races. It’s like a big party down there in the Earhart Campground.”
Matthew perked up. “Earnhardt had a campground?”
“Not Earnhardt, son. Earhart. Like Amelia. It’s the name of the family that owns the land.”
“I’ll bet they’re sick of explaining that,” said Cayle.
“That campground,” said Jim with a reminiscent smile. “Oh, my, that’s where it’s really happening. People bring kegs and guitars and tape players. Some folks set up tables and sell the racing-related crafts they spend the winter making. You can buy tee shirts, bumper stickers. Homemade CDs. Keychains. Lots cheaper than the official stuff, too, but just as good. ’Course the track might frown on that, ’cause they don’t make anything off it. And the drivers don’t get their cut, either, but I reckon they’re rich enough.”
“Some are,” said Harley, thinking about Bill Elliott’s helicopter. “Some are.”
“Well, Arlene and me, we loved it at the campground. It’s just one big festival from camper to camper. So many nice people. All the picnics and the things to buy.”
“Who looks after their belongings when they go over to the Speedway for the race?” asked Bekasu, who saw a lot of burglary cases in her court room.
The old man smiled. “Well, the fact is, don’t half of ’em even go to the race. Can’t afford to. Tickets are around eighty-five bucks apiece these days, if you can even get one.”