Backstretch Motorsports

A few — well, more than a few — questions after yesterday’s Indianapolis 500, dominated by Dario Franchitti:

What happened to Penske? Everything leading up to the race was the sole property of Penske cars, with everyone else relegated to Happy To Be Here status. However, the moment Jack Nicholson waved the green flag, most everyone and everything under Roger’s command transformed from kingpins to the Keystone Kops. Huge mistakes on pit road; subpar on-track performances. Why? Granted, you would have had to have been perfect to be within shouting distance of Franchitti, whose performance was flawless. But still, an odd off day. Especially on the biggest day of the year. No offense to Kurt Busch, but when he’s the star performer in your stable, something is off-kilter.

Why is there such a performance gap between Ganassi and Penske compared to all other teams? Yesterday (as far as Penske is concerned) notwithstanding, it is a rare occurrence when anyone other than a Penske or Ganassi driver isn’t atop the podium. Why? The car hasn’t changed in years. The cars are identical from team to team. There is no manufacturer advantage. Granted, Ganassi and Penske boast a stellar lineup of talent behind the wheel. But they don’t have a monopoly on this. So why the disparity? It’s not good for the IRL, which right now needs all the competition it can muster in order to get some attention on the national sports scene.

Who will Dreyer & Reinbold put in the #24 car? With Mike Conway sidelined for the year, someone needs to drive the Dad’s Root Beer float. While there are any number of qualified pilots, the best choice would be Ana Beatriz. She’s proven her mettle in both the Indy Lights series and with the big boys & girls. She’s demonstrated genuine potential to be in the upper echelon of open wheel. And there is the instant added publicity offered whenever a woman takes the wheel. C’mon D&R. Do the right thing.

Speaking of such… Yesterday heralded the continued gender integration of open wheel racing, in the same manner as NHRA has been. In the latter, whenever Ashley Force Hood or Karen Stouffer are in the staging area the thought isn’t “oh, there’s a woman.” It’s “oh, there is a top-notch driver.”

The issue facing Simona de Silvestro, as well as Beatriz and, yes, Danica, isn’t their lack of a Y chromosome or lack of ability. It’s not driving for Ganassi or Penske. Should their respective teams pick it up, the novelty will fade as the quality shines.

That said, female drivers will always have an instant edge in popularity over their male counterparts. For some reason, the media fails to grasp this fundamental, reacting in horror whenever slammed for slamming Danica or whoever. In its bleating how all drivers should be judged equally regardless of gender, it invariably overlooks multiple factors such as, oh, the quality of team for which they drive. As an example, has Sarah Fisher ever driven a car capable of winning? No. How, then, can we know what her true driving ability might be? We can’t. All we can do is wonder.

Switching over to Danica, she started at Rahal Letterman — second tier team — and from there moved to Andretti which has been struggling to be in the same ballpark as Penske and Ganassi. Consider her teammate Tony Kaanan. It’s been a long time since he has won. Has he forgotten how to drive? Is he an overrated hack? No. And neither is Danica.

It’s difficult to escape the conclusion that an alarmingly large number of writers covering auto racing do so not from the aspect of sport, but rather from the unholy trinity of entertainment, pop culture and personality. None of which can drive a car or turn a wrench worth a lick. These writers don’t know the sport itself, from either the mechanical or competitive aspects. And it shows.

Bob Dylan said it best when asked about whether he noted what critics said about his work: “You can’t listen to critics.” Listen to those who know by doing, or at the least have obtained genuine knowledge by listening to those who know by doing. Making things personal via obsessing over personality is journalism done on the cheap. Actually, it isn’t journalism at all.

Okay, off the soapbox and back to racing.

About Andretti Autosport… Considering the miserable time all members of said organization had at the cathedral of speed during practice and qualifying, the race results were very positive. Kaanan’s charge from the back was especially noteworthy. However, this alone doesn’t negate the fact that there are issues at AA needing to be addressed. IRL could use someone stepping up to challenge the Penske-Ganassi stranglehold. Who better, from the PR aspect if nothing else, than Andretti?

So what’s next for the IRL? In the immediate future, it’s Texas this Saturday night. This race needs to be a good one. Usually the host to awe-inspiring action and fantastic finishes, last year’s event was a snoozefest with zero excitement. Given how this coming Sunday finds NASCAR at poke-along Pocono, Texas is a golden opportunity for the IRL showcase itself. Here’s hoping it won’t blow it. Long term? To be discussed at a later time.

P.S. A personal note: thank you to everyone for your condolences over my mother passing away last week. Very much appreciated.

A few hopefully salient notes as we wander toward the weekend, preferably not daubed with saline from unnecessary anguished tears. But more on that in a bit.

• Denny Hamlin’s pit crew won the whatever it’s called challenge yesterday evening, thus guaranteeing it will be mentioned in every race going forward whenever the #11 is in for service. Especially whenever said crew makes a boo-boo. Of such is the fate awaiting those who seldom receive notice save when things go very right or very, very wrong.

• One can only hope this week’s adventures in legal beagle land have taught Jeremy Mayfield a couple of invaluable lessons. One, going up against NASCAR in court takes the old adage about bringing a knife to a gun fight to a whole ‘nuther level. Second, and far more important, get the eff away from drugs. Lest we forget, wasn’t that long ago when Mayfield made the Chase in consecutive seasons. Now he’s chasing the dragon. Not good.

• There has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth in Junior Nation over his dismal performance in the past couple of races. Which is how fans of any driver should react when their favorite is struggling. However, the let’s-blame-Lance-McGrew-and/or-Rick Hendrick-for-it-all meme needs to go in the round file. They’re not driving the car, and they’re not the one who since the 2008 Chase have been looking, acting and speaking like a whipped puppy.

  I like Dale Jr. A lot. But in racing, seldom if ever does the responsibility for everything that befalls a driver not doing well rest solely on their team. Or so much as primarily. The fury of the fans flew fast and thick at Bristol this past March when McGrew chided Earnhardt on the radio to not lay down on hIm when a good run turned sour due to Dale Jr. speeding on pit road. However, lately how often have we seen him drive like he did during the last lap of this year’s Daytona 500 when he tore through the field like a man possessed? Not very.

  Winning in NASCAR requires many things. Featured among them is focused anger, the will to win regardless of cost. Mumbled comments delivered with head hung low is not said focused anger’s hallmark. I don’t know what’s eating Dale Jr. It’s not my business to know. What I do know is if he wants to get back to being Dale Jr. he needs to feed it something other than himself. Quickly.

• Today’s video is brought to you courtesy of the mindset that empty sections of stands at Dover are really no big deal because there were a lot of people there anyway. Please stop pretending it’s 2005, kids.

Typing is super-painful this evening. Luckily, or not depending on how you look at it, my vocal chords are still intact. Hence a longer than usual podcast. Had a lot to talk about.

Yes, including the Carl Edwards/Brad Keselowski incident.

The spoken portion of the audio is unedited, so please forgive the occasional clunkers and microphone noise. I recorded it on my iPhone with earphones that have a mic attachment. Cut down on some noise, but picked up on others.

I’ll list the songs later this week.

You can listen to it here, or if you have iTunes subscribe to it here. The RSS feed is here. As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks.

A few assorted thoughts on this soggy Tuesday morning:

• The spoiler’s coming! The spoiler’s coming! Jimmie Johnson will keep on winning anyway! Because that’s what he does.
• Another crew member suspended for violating NASCAR’s substance abuse policy. Have you noticed it’s almost invariably someone on lesser teams who gets busted? Wonder why that is. The power players do a better job of screening job applicants, perhaps?
• Since what happens in Vegas stays on the Internet, about last weekend, starting with Saturday. Somehow, the media managed to insert itself into both the major stories. First, Danicaphobia.

  Over on the political side of things, one of the standard tactics used by the left whenever anyone says anything against President Obama is accusing them of being racist. Which far, far more often than not isn’t the case, as it is an ideological / political / philosophical divide creating dissent. Nevertheless, the charge of bigotry remains a favorite gambit. Using a chess reference, it’s something of a Sicilian Defense approach, one permitting an immediate switch from reaction to action should whoever made the first move falter. It also conveniently sidesteps any effort to actually defend against arguments based on ideology, politics and/or philosophy.

  That all said, ofttimes those speaking against Obama leave themselves wide open to being labeled racist. How? They are unwilling, or unable, to phrase their statements in a logical, factual manner. They use emotion and sarcasm for sarcasm’s sake as their foundation. This invites being tagged as racist regardless of whether it has any part of their argument.

  Now, switch this from racism to misogyny.

  When a male journalist — unlike Bumpdrafts, I’ll name a name, that being Jeff Gluck — endlessly harps on the performance of a driver in their third Nationwide race, obsessing over their every moment and cackling with glee when said driver is something other than instant Jimmie Johnson, it is difficult to not suspect the motivation is based in something outside a dispassionate reporting of the facts. While certainly all are entitled to express their opinion, there is a point when enough is enough. There’s a race going on. In case you haven’t noticed.

  When Danica Patrick and Michael McDowell had a close encounter of the unfortunate kind on the track, many including Gluck tripped over their own fingers in haste to label her as being the one responsible. When after the fact McDowell stated the entire incident was his fault, you never knew there were so many crickets in Las Vegas.

  Whether Gluck and others incessantly snipe at Patrick for reasons other than professional opinion of her driving ability and/or warranting her ride is something known only to those involved. Labeling them sexist is a serious charge. Nevertheless, that is how they’re coming off.

• As to Sunday, about all that can be said is come crunch time Chad Knaus will make the right call eleven times out of ten. Steve Letarte, not so much.

Finally, a personal note of thanks to everyone for your prayers and love during the past several days. It’s been rough. My aunt is now at peace, enjoying the fruits of a quiet life well lived. In a world where so many, not excluding myself in the least, forget to follow Christ’s teachings about doing what we are called to do without constantly calling attention to ourselves, her example is one I know in my heart is the right one to follow.

This weekend, while the truckers continue their post-Daytona nap the Cupsters and claims jumpers make their annual pilgrimage to Las Vegas. The track is located across the street from an Air Force base, this coming in handy as every year team owners quietly inquire whether training at said facility could include using live ammo for strafing runs on any of their employees who try sneaking into town when they’re supposed to be working.

Las Vegas started life as a big flatter track, the kind adored by drivers as it provided ample opportunity to run pretty much anywhere without having to exert much effort save blaming the team for not setting the car up correctly. Alas, exciting racing this made not, so Bruton Smith tore the place up and put in some serious progressive banking. This made the place faster and far fan friendlier in that now you actually could run side by side without one car or the other being swiftly cast aside. It’s not a perfect solution, for nothing can make a mile and a half long track ideal for stock cars. However, it does cut down on the number of laps where a whole lotta nuttin’ is all that’s happening.

Given how we’ve barely dipped our toes in the water as far as the 2010 season is concerned, picking favorites or labeling anything a trend is an exercise in gun jumping. That said, it’ll be interesting to note if certain elements from this past Sunday’s race at Auto Club continue into this weekend. Can the RCR three amigos maintain their momentum? Will the Roushketeers find some at the kind of track they owned until last year? Will anyone from the Hendrick fab four break an axle, in which case someone’s likely to break an ankle… well, have it broken for them. Doubtful the assorted engine woes from the last race will follow anyone across the California/Nevada border.

Favorites? Oh gee, who do you think? Jimmie Johnson, Jimmie Johnson, and did I mention Jimmie Johnson? Plus the usual suspects.

And lest I forget, Danica Patrick will be in the Nationwide race, weather permitting as rain is presently in Saturday’s forecast. This will provide her with more of the vital seat time she needs to become accustomed to NASCAR. And more opportunities for assorted members of the media to beclown themselves with misogynist tirades, all set to the tune of “some of my best friends are women.” But of course.

Enjoy the weekend, everyone.

“Smith, step into my office for a minute.”

“Sure, team owner boss. What’s up?”

“At the moment, my blood pressure. This expense report you submitted.”

“I give you a expense report for the team every week, sir. Just like you require.”

“It’s customary to wait until after the weekend’s races are over and all the expenses are known before handing it in.”

“I know, sir, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, we’ve incurred some extra costs this week that needed to be taken care of right away.”

“So I was informed at four this morning by an employee at the Clark County, Nevada Detention Center. They were quite delighted with all the overtime they’d be incurring while processing a few dozen payments for bail.”

“Um… I can explain…”

“Please do, although I suspect building maintenance will need a pressure washer to clean the floor when you’re done.”

“Why?”

“To get the bull… oh, never mind. All right, let’s go through this report. We normally send what, a dozen or so people to each race? Over the wall crew, couple of mechanics, race day personnel, transport driver and all that?”

“Yes.”

“So why are there seventy-three people at this race?”

“Well… a lot of them had family in the area. You know there are over 1.8 million people living in the metropolitan area…”

“Of Las Vegas. Place is crammed to the gills with Billy Bob’s cousins, I’m sure.”

“People do move, sir.”

“You won’t be able to without bionic limbs by the time I’m through with you. Now, about this hotel bill. An individual suite for everyone at the RitzoMuchoDinero?”

“It… was the only place with rooms available.”

“A city with nineteen of the world’s twenty-five largest hotels by room count and only the most expensive place had rooms available?”

“That one’s on me, sir. I should have booked earlier.”

“The only booking that’ll be happening soon is me trying to dodge the one being thrown at me by a judge.”

“But sir… I was able to negotiate a better rate.”

“$1,699 instead of $1,700 a night. I’m seeing a bright future for you in the Department of Defense procurement division, Smith.”

“I’d be honored to serve my country, sir.”

“We have enough problems. Back to this expense report. $38,000 in meals?”

“Well, with that many people…”

“This was for one day.”

“I can’t help it if the local restaurants charge a lot, sir.”

“Everyone was at a free buffet.”

“Oh. Well, there was a cover charge…”

“Yes, at the Wanda LaLustee and her WowWowGirls revue. $23,000 in tips?”

“The staff worked very hard.”

“I’m sure swinging around a pole is quite exhausting. Now, mind telling me why three-quarters of my employees were arrested in the wee hours of the morning?”

“Um… well, sir, it seems that there was a miscommunication concerning a place of business.”

“And what business connected with anything having to do with a race team is open at three A.M.?”

“Er… well, as you said last week we need to start producing more horsepower in our car.”

“Being consistently outrun by the jet dryers would tend to indicate the correctness of that statement. So naturally, being the devoted employees they are the team decided to fix that.”

“Yes.”

“At three in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“With a visit to what they thought was the Mustang Ranch.”

“It was a simple mistake, sir. They were thinking maybe studying horses would spark ideas on how to generate more horsepower.”

“Now I need to clean the horse plus the bull out of here. They actually are using that as their story?”

“Er… yes.”

“Right. How unfortunate there was the minor detail of said ‘ranch’ being just outside of Reno while my soon to be former employees were just outside of Las Vegas.”

“Well…”

“In Clark County.”

“Well…”

“Where the world’s second oldest occupation is illegal.”

“Well…”

“And the gang that can’t turn a wrench straight brilliantly managed to arrive five minutes before the place was busted.”

“Well…”

“Well what?”

“You should be thanking me, sir.”

“For WHAT?!!”

“For the great publicity we got this morning.”

“Publicity?”

“The Las Vegas City Council gave us a commendation for helping to balance their budget for the year.”

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

Life’s juxtapositions can create quite bizarre scenarios. Such was the case last Thursday morning.

There I was, heading down south to Auto Club Speedway in Fontana, California for my first time as an accredited media member covering NASCAR. Me. Diecast Dude. Accredited. Whodathunk.

Excited? Most definitely. Nervous? You betcha. Determined to do my absolute best? Absolutely. I had dreamt of, prayed for this opportunity. Living the dream? No way to know. Pursuing the dream to see where it may lead? Yes.

Then my brother called.

Our aunt was dead.

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

My brother had taken the lead in tending to our aunt since she had become unable to take care of herself last year. Dementia had set in, robbing her of her dignity even as she was mercifully unaware her mind was going. Now she was gone in body as well.

Throughout, my brother had demonstrated strength by every right he shouldn’t have. Wracked by diabetic neuropathy and the onset of MS, nevertheless he did the work and then some needed. His faith in Christ empowered him. It encouraged me. My brother in every sense of the world; in blood, washed by the Blood, fellow right wing outlaw.

If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

I already had much on my mind heading into the weekend. Now I had even more alongside what had been laid on my heart and soul. Turning back and returning home wasn’t an option. The opportunity laid out before me had to be seized and seized now. I would need to postpone my grief. There were no other options.

I’ve occasionally noted for my own edification that for me, Diecast Dude is more than an oddball pen name. It’s an aspect of my persona. I haven’t been Diecast Dude very often for quite a while. Too busy with other things. Arguably more important ones, such as the book. Still, I rather missed mixing entertainment plus information centered around NASCAR along with sardonic combativeness and digressions into Spirit-desiring sentimentality. Now I needed to be that like never before.

I also needed my right hand to hold up under the ton of typing that awaited as I pounded out blog posts and tweets about the weekends events. Otherwise, I’d be all thumbs. As in writing everything on my iPhone, tapping away with my thumbs since that was the only way to avoid the sharp pains stabbing their way along my fingers. Which is slow going indeed.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

I logged on to Twitter and mentioned my aunt passing away. A few people responded with consolatory messages. To each of you, thank you. To those on Twitter who follow me but missed it because they weren’t logged in at the time, I know you would have said something.

To those on Twitter who follow me but either missed it or ignored it because they were too busy at CPAC…

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Well, it’s on me to forgive you.

It’s also on me to say, “Hey. What are you doing?” There’s nothing that can be done about what happened. Yeah, it hurt, but it’s over and gone.

What about the next time, though? What about the next person who makes public mention of loss? Will you treat that person the same way you treated me, so absorbed in yourself and whatever you’re doing at the moment you can’t take a moment to write a simple ‘I’m sorry’?

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

I had to put all that aside. Friday morning, there I was at the race track, press credentials and garage pass dangling from my neck in an improvised holder attached to a temporary lanyard. I got a real one at the end of the day. But back where I was: there I was, walking into the media center looking at people who before that moment were merely names on bylines. Now I was one of them.

As the weekend unfolded, while there were moments of pure fanboy fantasy (”Jeff. Gordon. Is. Sitting. Three. Feet. Away. From. Me. JEFF!!! GORDON!!!”) for the most part my time was spent doing what I’d come to do: observe, report, interact with other journalists and online with my fellow fans. Which I did as best I could. The hand pain delayed some writing, but it was all completed.

I met a few journalists, some of whom I’d had different levels of contact with online. They were all polite, some far above. Dustin Long is a true gentleman in every sense of the word. Nicole Manske helped me get in close enough to Jimmie Johnson when he was doing a brief presser behind his trailer in a noisy pit area so I could record the conversation. Jorge Mondaca was gracious and friendly during Sunday’s race when we sat next to each other in the press box. Didn’t do as much one on one with drivers or crew chiefs as I would have liked, but I was able to find Robby Gordon and get a scoop.

Fundamental truth of the matter was even with the turbulence that enveloped me, I was savoring the experience of being where I had longed to be for years and finding it did not disappoint. Moments such as this are scarce commodities for most of us. Now I was in the midst of one. Nothing could steal my joy. The sorrows would be there to be dealt with upon my return. This was a time to celebrate.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

During the weekend, something that had been percolating since 2008 came to full brew. Racing news for the thinking unimpaired has returned. I’ve teamed up with my main man Bram Hume at Backstretch Motorsports. Our goal? Beside total world domination, it’s to be THE go-to site for racing news, information and opinion. A major task to be sure, and one that will involve much work. But if I want to pursue this dream, there is no option to doing the work. Bring it on.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

The weekend, of course, had to end. After the frenetic fun of Friday’s press conferences, the Nationwide race on Saturday during which I politely informed one and all on Twitter I’d be more than happy to repeat my defense of Danica Patrick in person, and Sunday’s torrent of tweeting during the race it was over. Time to pack up and head home to office demands and deadlines.

And funeral arrangements.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part,

None of us have a complete grasp on what’s going on, or why. We know as best we can the moment we’re in. But even that knowledge is extremely limited. Everything else may as well be lollipop dreams in a cotton candy sky. We are totally, wholly, utterly reliant on God.

Whether we know it or not.

but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.

I don’t know why everything shook out the way it did this past weekend. I don’t know why this was the appointed time for my aunt to go to heaven, which is where I believe she is for she was a believer in Christ. I don’t know why a beloved online acquaintance went to the hospital Friday. I don’t know why the sister of my wife’s best friend, someone we knew, finally finished drinking herself to death Sunday. I don’t know why all this took place even as I was fulfilling a dream and started work toward making it my daily reality. I don’t know why one day I was in Disneyland and the next was at a funeral home.

I don’t know.

I know God knows, though.

That’s good enough.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

In the days of my youth I was a voracious reader, often reading the same book several times over. One of these was The Runaway Robot by Lester Del Rey. In it, the referred to runaway robot recalls a line he either heard or read once: ‘After a taste of freedom, captivity is no longer the same.’ While referring to my day job as captivity is ludicrous melodramatic bunk, now that I’ve sampled being a full-time NASCAR writer… ‘nuff said.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

It’s ironic that what is most feared in life, namely its conclusion, is in fact our greatest liberator. No one in their right mind wishes to hasten their demise. Yet in death not only are we promised eternity with Christ, we are promised the answers we could never know nor understand during our tenure on this planet. What’s more, we are promised the full embrace of Christ’s love for us.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

There was magic and loss this past weekend. I could have done without the latter. The former, though… the former made the latter a little easier to understand.

Your intrepid blogger dude — that’s me, folks — has teamed up with Bram.

We’re back.