This Sunday is the Daytona 500 and the 25th anniversary of the death of Dale Earnhardt. No. 3. The Man in Black. The Intimidator. He died on the last lap of the Daytona 500 on February 18, 2001. I was at that race. Up there in one of the top rows in the backstretch grandstands, I watched and cheered that final push of the lead cars gunning for the checkered flag, right before they reached Turn 3 and then the fateful Turn 4. I remember that last lap very clearly considering that it was half of my life ago.
I was at the race with my parents and my girlfriend at the time. My dad had been a rabid Nascar fan for years, and his sons inherited his crazy passion. He had annual tickets for four reserved seats at the 500 and was religious about renewing them each year, despite probably not being able to afford it, because if we were to lose access to those seats, there was no chance in hell of getting new ones. I had followed in his footsteps by purchasing annual passes for the Bristol Night Race in Tennessee and I renewed them for multiple years. As far as Nascar races went, we held tickets to the badass ones.
This race was geared up to be one for the books for me and my family of Dale Earnhardt diehards. Back then, you were either a fan of Dale or of Jeff Gordon, but never both. You may have respected the other one, but you certainly didn’t cheer for him. We were Team Dale. And of course, we were crazy about his teammate and son, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Little E. In the No. 8 Budweiser Chevrolet. Seeing those two on the track together was worth the price of admission alone (which was not cheap, even back then), but adding to the excitement was that it was the first race where they’d be driving with their new teammate, Michael Waltrip. Little Mikey. In the No. 15 NAPA Auto Parts Chevrolet.
I don’t recall too much about the other 199 laps. It was many years ago, and that “regulation-sized” cooler full of Bud Heavies I had tucked away under my seat also didn’t help with locking in all the details. But I do recall that my dad and I were wearing our headphones plugged into our scanners. For those not familiar, serious Nascar fans back then would have a radio scanner that they’d tune to the frequency that their favorite driver and his crew used for in-race communication. I assume now you can access all that stuff through your phone, but back then, when you threw on your big ass cup headphones and started twisting the knobs on your scanner, you were a fan to be taken seriously. I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure I was listening to Rusty Wallace in the No. 2 Miller Lite car. My dad was listening to Dale Earnhardt.
I remember that last lap like I’d just watched it today. The lead three cars were all team DEI (Dale Earnhardt Incorporated). Mikey was leading the pack, followed by Junior, followed by Dale Sr. in third place, who was not trying to out race the two cars in front of him, but to protect them. He was aggressively blocking the drivers immediately behind who were angling for any opportunity to make a pass.
It was looking like we were going to experience the most epic ending ever with The Intimidator fending off the rest of the pack so his two teammates, one who was his son, could cross the checkered flag as number one and two. Holy shit, man.
There was not a single ass still on a seat in that entire colossal racetrack. Everyone was standing, jumping, screaming. It didn’t matter if you loved the Man In Black or you hated him (and he had his share of haters), you wanted to see it end this way. It was just too damn storybook.
And then the pack drove into Turn 3. And then Turn 4. And then Dale Earnhardt and the car behind him made contact, and Dale’s car went straight into the outside wall, pretty much head on. It sucked to see, but it just added to this balls-out once in a lifetime finish. Plus, it was just a car hitting the wall, not one of those wrecks where the car becomes an airborne fireball. How bad could it be?
Mikey took the checkered flag, Dale Jr. right behind him. It was absolutely crazy. We were all losing our minds at that thrilling finish. Almost all of us. Elated, I turned to my dad and yelled over all the noise, “Can you believe that finish? Amazing!” My dad had a spooked look on his face, and his headphones still over his ears, and he simply replied, “That wreck was a bad one.” What he had heard on Dale’s scanner, and what he was continuing to hear, told a much darker story than the one we all were joyously participating in.
Every race fan knows the rest. That seemingly insignificant crash into the wall killed The Intimidator. And we all became educated later into how these seemingly insignificant crashes are exactly the ones you need to worry about. Those massive multi-car wrecks with cars flipping through the air and landing in the infield? The drivers crawl out of those. But back then a wreck like Dale’s, head on into the wall, could be lethal. It was for Dale.
In the stands, we didn’t know any of this, but we were realizing something was up. All the personnel around Dale’s car. Dale not pulling himself out. The vibe was changing quickly. Shortly after, we were among the thousands of race fans slowly flowing out the exits of the track in a solemn procession. We still didn’t know exactly what had happened or how bad it was, but we all knew not to celebrate anymore. That’s how I remember it anyway.
I think it was during the drive from the track to the condo where we were staying when the local radio station reported that Dale had died. I don’t recall us talking much for the rest of the drive.
My girlfriend and I went out for a beer later that evening. We left my parents back at the condo, my dad on the phone, recounting the story to someone in a quiet, somber voice. That same heavy vibe hung over the bar where we sat, and all over Daytona that night, like a shroud. It truly felt like the entire city was collectively mourning, and I’m not being hyperbolic. It was shitty and sad, and not to mention, weird to have been in the stands during the darkest moment in Nascar history.
If you’re not familiar with how the rest of the story goes, it’s a doozy. July 7, 2001 was the Pepsi 400. A night race. The first race back at Daytona since the tragic 500.
Little E’s first return to the track that took his father.
He kicked its ass.
Junior won the race, taking the checkered flag with teammate Micheal Waltrip right behind him in second place. An unforgettable finish. The image of Junior pulling his winning No. 8 Budweiser car into the infield, yanking himself out the window and up onto the roof of the car, and then standing up there with his arms up in a “V” while the crowd lost its mind… it was legendary, man.
I wasn’t at that race. Pretty sure I was just watching it on TV at home. But I might have gotten a little teardrop in my bottle of Bud Heavy.
Anyway, at some point in the years to come, my love of Nascar started to wane and I lost touch with it. Same with my brothers. Not really sure why. But just this previous year, we started watching it again, maybe not with the same vigor that we did when we were in our 20s, but the excitement is growing. It’s been great to pop a race on the TV and relive those old days when we would spend a race weekend camping outside a track, or pacing among the endless rows of merch trucks in search for that special Die Cast, or just sitting at a bar around a pitcher cheering for our favorite driver. And as the cars hit lap three in every race following that 2001 Daytona 500, holding up three fingers in solidarity with every fan in the stands, in honor of the Intimidator.
Raise Hell and Praise Dale. It was one helluva ride.
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