Driver #8: Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

(Page 5: In the Race)

You just can't grasp what a great feeling it is. Not just an entire winter of working and worrying—it's a lifelong dream for me and my crew. It's like the weight is lifted off my shoulders, just like that, in a single moment. We are in the race. Mission accomplished!

I'm gonna see my first Daytona 500 from the outside of the fourth row. That's my first thought when I wake up in the morning.

The hour prior to the start of any race is electric: everyone's nerves are on edge, and each of us still believes that he is going to win the race. Once the green flag falls, a huge dose of reality may be dealt to many of us, but for now, nervous, jittery optimism reigns supreme. The crowd begins to fill each of the 170,000 seats in the gigantic complex; thousands more will watch from the infield from atop their own recreational vehicles. The infield at most NASCAR events is like a campground with a full-time spring-break tailgate party mixed with standing- room-only viewing. The Speedway is more than a sports arena; it becomes a medium-sized city on race day. The complex covers more than 480 acres, with a 44-acre lake in the infield.

After the drivers' meeting, I slip into the team transporter to change into my work uniform. The uniform (red with black stripes, just like my race car) is equal parts fireproof safety shield/embroidered sponsor billboard (logos cover the chest, collar, sleeves, back, and even the Velcro-equipped "belt")/formfitting jumpsuit. (The ladies say the suit looks sexy. Something about the way it makes my butt look. I pretend that that embarrasses me.)

I lace up my custom, thin-soled driving shoes with the silver coating like a space suit. The coating prevents my heels and the soles of my feet from being broiled by the heat of the 750-horsepower engine. The final piece of the uniform is a Budweiser hat. While the hat is a sharp-looking new design, I'm just not happy with the comfort.

"It feels like I'm wearing a damn cardboard box on my head," I complain to no one in particular. But I have to show the logo of the company that writes the biggest check and makes it financially possible for me to do what I love to do.

My helmet, goggles, and fireproof gloves already rest inside the race car, awaiting my arrival.

When the race starts, Dad and I will join four other father/son combinations to race together in the 500 since it began in 1959. The others—legends all—were Lee and Richard Petty, Richard and Kyle Petty, Buck and Buddy Baker, and Bobby and Davey Allison.

After I'm introduced, I stroll to the car and begin the intricate process of strapping myself into my office. The world now moves in slow motion. Everything is quiet. I'm focused totally on the job ahead and I'm oblivious to the colorful prerace activities. National anthem. Prayer. Military jet fly-over. Crazed cheers from the stands. I don't notice any of it today.

I kneel down to strap on additional heel protection, a soft pad that insulates my feet in addition to the silver shoes. The floor of the car transfers much of the heat that is rushing through the exhaust pipes that run underneath my ass. The cockpit air temperatures can reach to 140 degrees Fahrenheit or more. How's that for working conditions for the next four hours?

I lift my right leg and slide through the driver's-side window (no such thing as an opening door on these hand-built machines) and into a seat crafted for my support, safety, and comfort. Driver comfort is essential when you have to drive five hundred miles without a restroom break or a chance to stretch your legs. The Budweiser cap comes off, and I slide it down the gearshift knob. It will ride along with me until the race ends. I can grab it and put it on quickly when I jump out. I put my custom-designed sunglasses in their own holder on what would be the passenger side of a street car.

I strap myself in with the help of Brian Cram, the crew member responsible for my comfort and safety. The seat belt is much more than a simple lap belt and shoulder harness. It is a five-belted system that wraps through the seat, with one harness over each shoulder, one across each side of my torso, and the fifth coming up between my legs (the "crotch belt") to prevent me from sliding forward out of the harness in a head-on collision. All five belts meet in the middle near the center of my belly, connecting with a deceptively simple latch. The connector is designed with a quick-release latch just in case I need to make a quick exit. Once I'm fully strapped into this harness, I feel as if I'm part of the car—almost as if I'm the heart and brains of this machine.

Communication is essential once the race is under way, and I will talk with every member of the team and my spotter via a two-way radio system. (The spotter is usually located somewhere high above the circuit with a clear view of the entire track. He helps me keep track of the traffic and avoid accidents.) To block out the extreme noise, I use form-fitted earpieces. I put them in before I slide on my old-school-style bubble goggles, just like Dad wears. The day is bright and sunny, so I choose goggles with a dark lens. Then the openfaced helmet goes on (also old school). It's painted with some cool-as-hell skulls and eight balls. It's badass! The radio is connected to a cable and microphone on the right side of the helmet, my chinstrap is secured, and I'm ready.

"Gentlemen . . . start your engines!!"

The huge crowd roars, drowning out forty-three rumbling, snarling engines as we roll down the pit lane. At the end of five hundred miles, forty-two drivers will come back losers, and one driver will place his name into racing history as the winner of the 2000 Daytona 500. I'm usually pretty calm once I'm inside the car, but today I'm unbelievably anxious.