Jim Powell spoke up. “Darrell Waltrip said one time that trying to pass at Daytona without a drafting partner was like running into a brick wall.”
“He’s right,” said Harley. “Sometimes teammates will help you out, or your old buddies. I’ve seen drivers help an old running buddy make that move just because they didn’t like the kid who was otherwise going to win the race.”
“Earnhardt could see the air,” said Shane. “That’s why he was so good on super speedways. He could see the air flow.”
“Well, everybody says that,” said Harley, “but nobody’s ever been able to explain to me how he managed it.”
“One other thing you ought to make clear,” Ray Reeve called out from the back. “Restrictor plates aren’t used on the short tracks, like Bristol and Martinsville, and so on. Just on the super speedways where there’s enough of a straightaway to build up the higher speeds.”
“Never mind all that technical stuff,” said Justine. “I still say this place is haunted. I mean, look where Bobby Allison’s wreck happened. Talladega, which is Bobby Allison’s home turf-he’s from Hueytown, just on the other side of Birmingham. And who won the race that day? Bobby’s son. And nobody got hurt. It’s like the spirits were protecting him, but they were also giving a warning. Kind of a cosmic slap on the wrist. Just like the one Bobby Isaac got back in ’73. I’m telling you, this place is haunted.”
A few silent minutes later, Bill Knight glanced back at the newlyweds. Sure enough, Shane McKee met his look with an unsmiling gaze and a slight nod, as if to say See? I told you so. Miracles. First numbers and now voices on a racetrack telling Bobby Isaac to park it. Bill managed a reassuring smile in return, but he hoped that Shane wouldn’t want to continue their earlier discussion of miracles in motor sports. He didn’t want to destroy the young man’s faith-even if it wasn’t a faith he personally subscribed to-but he could not in good conscience encourage such unorthodox beliefs. He sighed. He used to worry what to tell High Church-inclined believers about Lourdes and Joan of Arc, and now-this! Angels in the driver’s seat. He hoped he wouldn’t be called upon to voice any opinions in the matter.
“Speedway exit coming up!” Ratty sang out from the driver’s seat.
Bill Knight looked out the window expecting to see a suburban sprawl of hotels and fast food joints but the intersection of state road and Interstate was much less cluttered than he expected. It was odd that so many racetracks were set out among green fields in unspoiled countryside. Oh, the place would be a zoo on race day, he was sure of that. Eighty thousand cars and twice that many people would turn this bucolic country road into a nightmare of ozone and noise, but since the next big race was weeks away-at the end of September, the great empty Speedway and its pastoral surroundings lay as empty and silent as Pompeii.
It was a beautiful setting. The Speedway, encircled by low wooded hills in the distance, was painted bright red and blue like a child’s toy, and its sheer size invoked awe in the beholder. The longest grandstand in the world, Harley had told them earlier, reading from a printed card. Bill had forgotten all the specifications-how many spectators the place would hold, how long the track was-somewhere around two miles long, he knew-and all the other bits of numerical trivia. Staring at it in the distance he was reminded of a twentieth-century Stonehenge or Machu Picchu, some monument to human ingenuity, obscure of purpose, but magnificent in scale and ambition. A great steel temple that had been built in the wilderness and then left to the elements. It was an automotive cathedral, and while he did not entirely endorse the purpose for its existence, he did acknowledge that it was an impressive architectural achievement.
The broad entryway that led into the Speedway was lined with lampposts, topped by lights in a swirling metalwork design that seemed quite artistic for so prosaic a place as a racetrack, he thought. The place was built in 1969-Jesse Franklin had mentioned that-but it seemed to be well maintained and state-of-the-art. Well, they could afford it, of course. A hundred thousand people or so, times at least a hundred dollars a ticket, that ought to pay for as many gallons of paint as you’d need to keep the structure looking new.
Were they going to get out and walk the track, Knight wondered. On an afternoon in late August, the Alabama sun would be too intense for old Mrs. Powell, and perhaps too much for Matthew as well, though the boy was game for anything. He would probably enjoy himself immensely.
Harley thought it was a shame that such a nice kid was so ill. After so many days of sitting still, cooped up in the bus, over hundreds of miles of Interstate, it would be good for all of them to spend an hour or so stretching their legs.
Harley reached for the microphone. “Those who want to walk around the track for a bit and take some pictures are welcome to do it. That building over there houses the gift shop and the International Motorsports Hall of Fame.” He looked at his watch. “Couple of hours do you, and then lunch at one-thirty?”
“Shall I get out the wreath?” asked Ratty.
Harley looked at the great canyon of a Speedway, empty and silent in its cradle of hills. “No,” he said. “If it’s all right with everybody, I’d like to make a small change of plans here, and put the wreath in a somewhat more intimate place a few miles down the road. More fitting, I think.”
The Talladega Texaco Walk of Fame and the Davey Allison Memorial was a small park set one street back from the main street of the small town of Talladega, maybe ten miles south of the Speedway itself. It was a pretty little Southern town, with a red brick courthouse, and an old-fashioned main street lined with storefronts that could have been a movie set for a heartwarming film. Bill Knight, who had been admiring the scenery, hadn’t noticed any signs directing visitors to the park, but perhaps the people who would come here knew where to find it: turn left on the little street beside Braswell’s Furniture Store. The memorial park was on the street between Talladega’s main drag and the hill on which the police station sat. Facing the side street stood a fieldstone marker, inset with a granite tablet, inscribed with three lines of tombstone lettering:
Talladega Texaco Walk of Fame
Davey Allison Memorial
Talladega, Alabama
Harley noted that the Number Three Pilgrims had turned solemn at the prospect of visiting this shrine. Even Justine was more subdued that usual, and he was pleased that they were approaching the memorial in the proper spirit. Sure, he was skeptical about the veneration of the Intimidator, but the idea of a memorial park for fallen heroes of motor sports appealed to him. He had pretty much given up the idea of being there himself one day, but he was glad to see the great ones remembered: Fireball Roberts, Neil Bonnett, Tim Flock.
“You know why it’s here, don’t you?” he said softly into the microphone. He didn’t need his notes for this part of the tour. This was his era in racing, and he knew it like a family story. Most of the passengers did know why the park was in Talladega, but for form’s sake he had to tell them anyway, because he was the guide, and guides never assumed that everybody knew anything. “Well, for one thing he was from around here. Davey was one of the Hueytown gang, like his father and uncle-The Allisons. Hueytown is a little place over there west of Birmingham. So Davey was a native son, and one of the best drivers ever.