So far, so good, Harley Claymore was thinking. He had managed to get through this much of the tour without losing any passengers to heatstroke, making any egregious mistakes in his racing trivia, or pissing anybody off by voicing his opinions on the new face of NASCAR. He had been trying to decide what to say about the Atlanta Motor Speedway-beyond remarking on the obvious-that it wasn’t actually in Atlanta, but about thirty miles south of the city in Hampton, Georgia. Of course, at the rate Atlanta was spreading-like architectural kudzu-it wouldn’t be long before the city sprawl engulfed the rural areas between city and Speedway, so that it would indeed be in the suburbs. He noticed that a new development-something called “Liberty Square Park” was going up across the road from the Speedway.
The track was located on Tara Road. Harley had thought up half a dozen sardonic remarks to make about that, but discarded them all not only for the sake of harmony but also because he realized that the old NASCAR with its strictly Southern tracks and its mostly Southern drivers had been a low-rent sport, forcing its competitors to work day jobs just to stay in the game. He had to admit: if he ever got a ride again, he’d be grateful enough for the new NASCAR glory days and the chance to make a million dollars in one season.
“Okay, folks,” he said, seeing the S &S Food Mart across from the Speedway-his cue to begin his spiel. “We’re here. Sorry, Bill, but I have this note card that says I have to spout a few stats at you.”
Justine rolled her eyes. “This is like when the stewardess goes through the safety rigmarole. Let us do it. Size of track, somebody!”
“Mile and a half!” said Jim Powell and Ray Reeve in unison.
“Banking? Anybody?”
“Ummm…Almost flat on the straightaways, maybe 25 degrees in the turns,” said Shane McKee. “They can go really fast on this track. They repaved it about five years ago, and the new surface really helped speeds.”
“Anybody want to guess who holds the track qualifying record?” asked Harley.
“Petty!” said Cayle and Sarah Nash.
“Earnhardt!” said a chorus of male voices.
“Geoff Bodine!” said Bekasu.
Harley stared at her. “I thought you didn’t know anything about racing.”
“No, I’ve been observing you,” she said. “And you’re partial to Geoff Bodine.”
Harley sighed. “He is my brother in adversity,” he said. “All work and no damn breaks.”
They turned in at the house-shaped Atlanta Motor Speedway sign, which bore an enormous Coca-Cola sign on its right side-a fitting display, as Justine noted, because Coca-Cola was headquartered in Atlanta.
“This is another speedway with condos,” said Harley, pointing to a soaring modern building that put him in mind of Star Wars. “Tara Place Condos. So if you have a couple of hundred thousand dollars to spare, you can watch the Georgia 500 in style, come October. Some serious money here, I don’t have to tell you.”
The bus came to a stop in the parking lot, and Harley raised a hand to stop his stampeding troops. “Okay, we’re going to be a little rushed on this stop, just because it’s so damn far to Daytona from here. Wreath first. Then tour. Then gift shop. Got it?”
They nodded.
“Whose turn is it?” asked Cayle.
“For the wreath? I’m not keeping track,” said Harley. “Ever who wants to, far as I’m concerned.” He remembered that the newlyweds had not yet had a turn, and he smiled at Shane, inviting him to volunteer.
Shane McKee shook his head. “Daytona,” he said.
“Okay. Ratty. Where is he?”
“Opening the baggage compartment,” said Cayle.
They turned and watched the little man scramble headfirst into the storage area beneath the bus. A moment later, he wriggled out again, like a terrier with a rat, and handed off the cardboard wreath box to Bill Knight, who happened to be standing closest to the bus.
The group gathered around while Bill Knight lifted the lid. White silk lilies, red rosebuds, and a black ribbon which bore the message, “Gone to Race in a Better Place” in white lettering.
“I’ll do it,” said Terence.
“I know just the place,” said Justine. “There’s a wonderful statue of Richard Petty on a pedestal erected over near the condo. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we put a wreath to Dale at the base of that.”
Betcha he would, thought Harley, but since Mr. Petty was unlikely to find out about this bit of memorial favoritism-or at least not to catch him in the middle of it-he voiced no objection to Justine’s plan.
The little procession marched toward the track, with Terence carrying the wreath as if there were a fuse attached.
Harley, shepherding his troops along the road, got back into gear as a tour guide. “Fancy place, isn’t it?” he said, waving a hand toward the sumptuous condominium and the state-of-the-art grandstand and skybox complex. “But never mind the trappings here. When you’re talking about the Atlanta Speedway, there’s one race that stands out above all the rest,” he said.
“Oh, God,” said Bekasu. “Who got killed at this one?”
“No. That’s not what I’m getting at.”
Jim Powell turned to Ray Reeve. “Which race did Dale win here?”
“Well, he didn’t win the one I’m talking about,” said Harley. “But he was in it. And it was a landmark race. The Hooters 400 in 1992.”
“You drove in it, right?” said Justine quickly, before Bekasu could make any scathing remarks on the subject of Hooters Restaurants’ dress code for waitresses.
“I didn’t win it, either,” said Harley, as if that didn’t go without saying.
“Atlanta 1992.” Sarah Nash turned the idea over in her mind. “That would be about the time Richard Petty retired.”
“You nailed it. The Hooters 400 was his last race. Maybe that’s why the statue is here. And it was the very first Cup race for somebody else.”
Ray Reeve’s expression suggested that he had stepped in something. “Not Wonderboy?”
“It sure was,” said Harley. “Very symbolic, don’t you think? The end of the old era of Southern good old boys in a regional sport, and the beginning of the new world of NASCAR as a national pastime with media-savvy golden boys at the wheel.”
“Should’a called that race the Armageddon 500,” said Ray Reeve.
“Well, I agree with Harley about the Hooters 500 being a landmark,” said Jim Powell. He was leading Arlene along by the hand, slowing his steps so that she could keep up. “But not just because of Petty and Gordon. That race decided the championship that year, too, didn’t it?”
“It was a three-way tie going into the race,” said Harley. “Davey Allison was the front-runner, thirty points ahead of Alan Kulwicki and forty points ahead of Awesome Bill.”
“My God,” murmured Bekasu. “I know who all of them are.”
Justine beamed and patted her sister’s arm. “See? I told you this tour would be educational!”