When Tom’s alarm rang at 5:20am on Sunday April 21, 2024, I thought we might be closer to Thunder Road than Talladega. Not only did I hear the distant rumble of thunder, but I also heard the sound of rain drops as they pelted the windows of our room. Unfortunately, the weather forecasters in northern Alabama were correct – and hopefully their accuracy would continue as they had predicted the moisture would stop around nine o’clock.
My companions didn’t need to pack up their belongings as they decided to spend Sunday night in the same hotel, which the Best Western located near Moody, Alabama. That hotel was in a good location for the race at Talladega Superspeedway, as the track was roughly 30 miles due east of us and just south of Lincoln, Alabama.
We were in the Jeep and on the road shortly after seven – the early departure was due to Tom’s wanting to park close to the racetrack for a couple of reasons. One – he didn’t want to walk very far. And two, Tom had purchased a special ‘Garage Experience’ pass for the three of us and he wanted to make sure we were in position when gates opened. I laughed to myself because my photographer had no problem getting his wife out of bed that morning. After all, it was “Race Day” and the Geico 500, along with all of the extra bells and whistles, was Tom’s Christmas gift to Vicki this past winter.
By 7:45am, Vicki had our Jeep parked in the first row of the VIP Parking Lot, which was in the shadow of the enormous Talladega Superspeedway grandstands. It appeared the sprinkles of rain we ran into during the 45-minute drive to the track were out of the picture – at least for the time being. During the next hour or so, I watched as a countless number of fans of all shapes, sizes, and mental capacities filed past us. It became apparent through my observations that a lot of those people had more tattoos than teeth, and I quickly realized why NASCAR was an acronym for Non-Athletic Sport Centered Around Rednecks.
Talladega Superspeedway opened on September 13, 1969 as the Alabama International Motor Speedway until its name-change twenty years later. In the past few years, Tom, Vicki, and I had visited numerous NASCAR racetracks, and we also attended the night race at Bristol Motor Speedway on August 19, 2017 where we saw our favorite driver, Kyle Busch, drive his M&Ms sponsored Toyota to victory. While the three of us took a tour of ‘Dega in July 2019, this was scheduled to be the first race we’d see in person at the largest and one of the fastest oval tracks used in NASCAR. The driving surface is 2.66 miles in length, the turns are banked at 33 degrees, and Talladega is second only to Daytona International Speedway when it comes to overall speed. While I find the so-called sport fairly boring, as does my photographer, the one aspect I was anxious to witness in person was called ‘The Big One’ – the name given to the high-speed, multi-car crash where all hell breaks loose, and sheet metal and race car parts are strewn everywhere on the track.
Shortly before nine o’clock, my companions and I started the long hike along the exterior of the grandstands in a quest to find a ride to the track’s infield where we’d participate in the ‘Garage Experience’. We got lucky and boarded a shuttle – which was a large golf cart on steroids. My hefty photographer sat on the very back of the cart and at times, I thought I felt the front of the redneck limousine lift off the ground whenever we hit a bump.
Once we had been chauffeured through a tunnel which took us under the track near Turn 3, it seemed as though we had entered another world like I’d never seen before. Due to our early arrival to the garage area of Talladega, we were able to get great views of the race cars. But it didn’t take very long before the entire area became packed with fans who were eager to get close to some of their favorite drivers. At one point, before Tom and Vic stopped for some two-dollar hot dogs, my photographer managed to obtain an autograph from Michael McDowell – the driver who had qualified for the pole position of the race. My companions also had the opportunity to pose for a photo with the Geico 500 trophy that would be eventually awarded to the winner of the race – which the three of us hoped would be Kyle Busch.
Even though Tom kept me safely tucked in the front pocket of his jacket, which meant I wasn’t able to be included in the photo with him and the trophy, it still felt as though the two of us had become Magic Man and El Diablo from the movie Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. It was Shake and Bake time and I was with my trusty camera guy at Talladega Superspeedway.
Then suddenly, it happened – I heard a snap, and my right arm went numb just as Tom sat down at a table to devour several of the cheaper-than-usual hot dogs. When my photographer removed me from his pocket, my right arm stayed inside, once again it had broken off at the elbow. Disappointed, but not surprised by my injury, I knew the ‘Magic Man’ nickname was gone with my arm. From that moment on, I referred to the two of us as “Uno Armado and Gran Panza” – which was ‘One Armed and Big Belly’.
After a couple of hours of meandering around the garage area surrounded by a swarm of rednecks, we headed back to our Jeep to drop off some of the goodies Tom had purchased. Although my cheap photographer didn’t get me anything but a broken arm, he did buy a shirt for himself and limited-edition Geico 500 hats for his brother Bob and Tom’s good friend Earl McCartney – both of whom have teams in his NASCAR fantasy league.
By one o’clock, the three of us were in our seats in the top row of the Moss Thornton Tower, which was just past the start/finish line of the racetrack. Tom selected those seats at the top so he and his wife might have a chance to see the entire 2.66-mile Tri-Oval track.
After a lengthy pre-race ceremony, which included driver introductions, the national anthem, and a fly-over by three Air Force jets, the green flag dropped and the race started. It’s hard to describe the excitement I felt as 38 racecars roared past our seats, even though the noise was deafening to my sensitive resin ears. Tom and Vic each sported headsets, which not only protected their hearing, but also gave them the opportunity to listen to Kyle Busch communicate with his spotters and pit crew during the race.
Roughly two or three laps into the 188-lap race, I saw him; I saw the “Most Annoying Redneck” at the race. That tagline was given to an older guy standing a few rows in front of us by my crabby photographer, who said, “People like that guy are near me at most every sporting event, concert, historic site, or large gathering I attend. They stick out like a large goiter on someone’s neck – you can’t take your eyes or mind off of them.” At first, I wanted to tell Tom that he’s that same guy to a lot of other people when we visit Presidential sites together. However, it turned out this guy was far worse. When I couldn’t ignore him any longer, I nicknamed him Ernest T. Arse (Arse was short for Annoying Redneck & Stupidity Expert). The scrawny redneck sported a black cowboy hat, an orange Martin Truex, Jr. tee shirt, numerous tattoos, and he had at least one beer, and sometimes two, in his hands at all times. To make matters worse, with each lap Truex passed by our seats, Mr. Arse felt it necessary to ‘high-five’ everyone around him while he pointed to the driver’s name on the back of his shirt.
But as much of an annoyance as Ernest was to me and my companions, his antics provided a much-needed distraction from the boring race. I thought the first few laps were interesting because watching 38 cars speed along a narrow track at nearly 200 mile per hour isn’t something you see every day. However, it tends to become same ol’ – same ol’ after a while. The only aspect of the 500-mile race that kept my interest was the anticipation of ‘The Big One’, but unfortunately the cars had completed 499 miles without any major incidents. During the middle portion of the race there were two small wrecks along the backstretch. Unfortunately, both crashes were hidden from our view by the conglomeration of buildings and other obstructions in the infield.
Then, on the 500th mile, while Michael McDowell led the pack of cars around Turn 4 as they headed for the Tri-Oval and checkered flag, it happened – the much-anticipated ‘Big One’ unfolded before my eyes. As McDowell attempted to block the hard-charging car of Brad Keselowski when the two were less than a half-mile from the finish line, the Loves #34 Ford Mustang driving by McDowell went sideways, which always spells bad news when travelling at nearly 200 miles per hour. The multi-car crash ended the race for McDowell and 14 other drivers, while Tyler Reddick passed Keselowski to win the race while the carnage unfolded behind them.
When the long and boring race was finally over at 5:30pm, and Tyler Reddick was awarded the trophy we had posed alongside that morning, the three of us made the long walk back to the Jeep. While the race seemed to take forever to complete, it paled in comparison to the slow-moving traffic snarl we encountered on the route from the parking lot to the expressway and then thirty miles back to our hotel.
At one point, somewhere on the road between the track and Moody, I listened as Tom ordered Papa Johns pizza for their dinner from a place not too far from our hotel. When we finally arrived at the Best Western at 8:30pm, which was exactly three hours after the race had concluded, the three of us made it safely to our room for the night. I stood in my usual place alongside the TV, my right arm was laying alongside my base, and I watched as my two companions opened their box of pizza. At that moment, I recited a prayer in the voice of the legendary driver, Ricky Bobby. “Dear Lord Baby Jesus, or as our brothers in the South call you, ‘Hey-Suz’, we thank you for this bountiful harvest of Papa Johns and Diet Coke. I also hope you can use your Baby Jesus powers to heal my right arm, so I won’t look like Uno Armado in Georgia. Thank you, for all your power and your grace, Dear Baby God, Amen.”
A few minutes after Tom polished-off the last slice of pizza, it was time for my photographer to transform into a highly skilled bobble head surgeon. That meant three things – he needed a bottle of Gorilla Glue; a roll of athletic tape; and a steady hand.
The entire surgical procedure took less than five minutes. After my right arm was reattached and wrapped in tape, Tom placed me alongside the TV set where I rested comfortably for the rest of the night. In the darkness, once my photographer had dowsed the lights at eleven o’clock, I was left alone with my thoughts.
While I did my best to think about Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter, as well as all of the Carter Presidential sites we were scheduled to visit when the three of us travelled to Plains, Georgia in the morning, the only vision I had stuck in my resin mind was of that damned redneck from the racetrack. I had a nightmare about that bastard following us to Plains and stalking us at each Presidential site. But since the former President never drove racecars, didn’t drink beer, had no tattoos, and was likely in no condition to give that skinny bastard a high-five, I think our days of Ernest T. Arse had faded away along with the Talladega Nights.
Now, it was time to Shake and Bake!
