A Four Year Old's View Of The Greatest Race Of All Time
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11/18/2015 Jeremiah Thalheimer |
For any race fan, the most important date in their fandom is the day they attended their first race. In my case, the date was November 15, 1992 and the race was none other than the now-famous Hooters 500.
Earlier that summer, I began watching NASCAR when my driver, King Richard Petty, sat on the front row in the Pepsi 400 at Daytona. Later that year when my parents realized NASCAR would be visiting Atlanta Motor Speedway a mere 2 1/2 hours north of our hometown, they decided to get us tickets to see the King race before he hung up his helmet. The day before the race, we hopped in an RV with some family friends and headed to north to take in what would become the greatest race in the history of NASCAR.
As most of you know, the 1992 Hooters 500 was one for the ages. Richard Petty was retiring, Jeff Gordon was making his first start, and Davey Allison, Bill Elliott, and Alan Kulwicki were locked in an epic championship battle. However, all except the first of these was lost on me that day. You see, my four year old mind didn't understand championships or points battles. Heck, I didn't even realize that The King hadn't been competitive all season and had barely managed to qualify for his last race. As a young fan, I approached each race exactly the same way. It didn't matter whether my driver was in top-notch equipment or who was the favorite that weekend. I simply approached each race believing that this would be the race he won.
That November morning dawned cold and bright over the mile and half in Hampton, Georgia, and it was immediately evident that my family and I were unprepared for two things: the massive crowd and the incredible noise. I remember Rick Mast battling for the lead at the start of the race and then later on I remember Richard Petty's car catching on fire close to where we were sitting. After they put The King in the ambulance, my mother took me back to the RV so my young ears could recover. We did, however, make it back to the stands for the end of the race and Richard Petty's final salute to the fans.
In the twenty-three years since that day, I've gone to a race in every season except two. I've lost track of how many I've been to, but the first one will always stand out. It isn't so much for the historic nature of the event, but rather for the way my four year old mind approached it with unbridled enthusiasm. Today, I'm all too aware that on most weekends my driver simply isn't competitive, and it makes me miss the days when my young mind simply approached every race believing that that day would be the day I would see my driver in Victory Lane.
Earlier that summer, I began watching NASCAR when my driver, King Richard Petty, sat on the front row in the Pepsi 400 at Daytona. Later that year when my parents realized NASCAR would be visiting Atlanta Motor Speedway a mere 2 1/2 hours north of our hometown, they decided to get us tickets to see the King race before he hung up his helmet. The day before the race, we hopped in an RV with some family friends and headed to north to take in what would become the greatest race in the history of NASCAR.
As most of you know, the 1992 Hooters 500 was one for the ages. Richard Petty was retiring, Jeff Gordon was making his first start, and Davey Allison, Bill Elliott, and Alan Kulwicki were locked in an epic championship battle. However, all except the first of these was lost on me that day. You see, my four year old mind didn't understand championships or points battles. Heck, I didn't even realize that The King hadn't been competitive all season and had barely managed to qualify for his last race. As a young fan, I approached each race exactly the same way. It didn't matter whether my driver was in top-notch equipment or who was the favorite that weekend. I simply approached each race believing that this would be the race he won.
That November morning dawned cold and bright over the mile and half in Hampton, Georgia, and it was immediately evident that my family and I were unprepared for two things: the massive crowd and the incredible noise. I remember Rick Mast battling for the lead at the start of the race and then later on I remember Richard Petty's car catching on fire close to where we were sitting. After they put The King in the ambulance, my mother took me back to the RV so my young ears could recover. We did, however, make it back to the stands for the end of the race and Richard Petty's final salute to the fans.
In the twenty-three years since that day, I've gone to a race in every season except two. I've lost track of how many I've been to, but the first one will always stand out. It isn't so much for the historic nature of the event, but rather for the way my four year old mind approached it with unbridled enthusiasm. Today, I'm all too aware that on most weekends my driver simply isn't competitive, and it makes me miss the days when my young mind simply approached every race believing that that day would be the day I would see my driver in Victory Lane.