I have always been enthusiastic about my ability to drive.    I agree with Dr. Matthew Crawford (UVa), who penned the book,  Why We Drive.   His premise is that driving is a domain of skill, freedom, and individual responsibility.   (In other words, driving is a means to test our skill at being free.)

One of the best vignettes in the book was his description of a discussion he had with a judge.  His argument- exceeding the speed limit by 30 mph did not manifest reckless driving per se.  It mirrored one such plea I rendered a few decades ago.  While traveling to North Carolina, a policeman turned on his lights ‘for me’ (+30 mph compared to the speed limit would be a major understatement). I immediately pulled over;  the policeman could not do so and overshot- and skid- to a stop well beyond me.  My question to the judge was who was the reckless driver here?  Yes, I managed to quash the reckless driving sentence, but did receive a rather substantial fine for speeding.  Fair enough.

To understand that scenario, I need to provide some history.

I had started driving when I was very young- long before doing so would have been  legal. Since my folks would sleep late on Sunday, I could commandeer the car, driving some 25 miles (each way) to visit my cousins.  Being out early on a Sunday morning, no one ever accosted me.

The summer of my 16th year, I managed to take driver ed at a local high school. My instructor knew something was wrong;  I was way too comfortable behind the wheel. (I had been driving for at least 3 years by then.) One day, Mr. Mosur actually followed me after class- which meant I had to abandon my car and walk some 5 miles before he finally gave up. (Yes, I had to walk the 5 miles back to retrieve my car.)

On the last day of my driving class, I had arranged to take my driving test. And, I passed- but the State (and the county) wouldn’t rush to issue my license- because I had to be 17 to legally drive in Nassau County.

On my 17th birthday, I acquired four new tires for my car. Except the idiots didn’t tighten the lug nuts. So, driving away from the shop, the tires (and rims) literally rolled off the car and I ended up plowing into a parked car- thankfully missing the kids playing in the street.

And, the policeman who ‘investigated’ the crash was highly accommodating. He issued me a ticket for driving without a license, but chose a court date two months down the road. In case I failed my driving test- he told that I would be able to take it again and still bring in my license. (I never did figure out why the judge wouldn’t realize that the license was issued AFTER the accident, but I was too shook up to argue with the cop.)

Thankfully, later that same day, when the mail came, so did my license. Yes, I skated on that.

Except, about 6 months later, while driving on the Cross Island Parkway (going to work), I got pulled over by two NY City cops. For doing 52 in a 50, while driving in the right lane, passing no one and being passed by all. To say I was apoplectic would be an understatement. Especially since back then speedometers would be unable to discern 54 from 50- if not miss even larger discrepancies.

At court, the judge cared not. He actually told me that the cops probably did me a favor writing down I was doing 52 when I was probably doing 60 or more.  (NOT!)  And, held me guilty. I told the judge that he can be sure that from that day forward, I would never drive close to the speed limit. I’m sure the moron thought that meant I would go really slow- when I meant that speed limits henceforth would simply be an advisory as to the low end of my travel velocity.

So, it shouldn’t surprise you that when one of my best friends suggested, decades later, that I take a course in racing at Summit Point, I jumped at the chance. We both had a great weekend learning how to handle a car at speed. It felt totally natural.

Shortly thereafter, Gary then suggested we buy a 5th generation Howe- a car that looked like a Camaro, but had a gazillion horsepower under the hood and none of the routine accoutrement you’d find in a car.  No, I am not talking about a radio (it didn’t have that, for sure)- but things like comfortable seats, air conditioning, etc.

We began racing the car at some of the local tracks. And, we got really good at it.

Since we were living in the South (and Gary was a ‘good ol’ boy’), we knew a lot of folks who were in the racing scene.  Gary introduced me to mechanics who maintained our Howe, souping it up further, as well as the bootleggers (known to you as NASCAR drivers) who maneuvered their vehicles away from Smokey to deliver their wares (kind of like how Gary and I would hide our cars from Sheriff George Bailey as he chased us around Albemarle county).

Over the years, I had managed to survive more than a few death defying incidents. So, I was positive that Hashem had no desire to take me yet. Which meant when those bootleggers volunteered to help us join the circuit (NASCAR was a family affair back then), Gary and I jumped at the chance. And, it was a great deal of fun.

We got good enough (after a few years) to even find a sponsor. We were flying high!

Except it was time for me to stop. I had the distinct feeling that my pass from Hashem had been withdrawn. Of course, Gary kept racing and I watched and helped him- from the racing pit. Until I met my second wife and I no longer had time for such endeavors.

I thought of all this when NASCAR brought sports back to America a few weekends ago. Letting the drivers traverse the Darlington Race Track at ridiculous speeds. (You should know that Darlington has a bunch of very interesting turns- it’s really an oval that’s been squished.) With nary a spectator watching.  But, somehow there still were Confederate flags around.

That’s really why I had this recall. Because even when I raced on tiny tracks, the stands were packed. Sometimes, the noise of the crowd was louder than the cacophony of all those cars hugging each other at  minimum speeds of 150 mph round the ovals.

When one of my friends who went to a NASCAR race last year, he complained that it wasn’t the same. Folks in the stands weren’t really  the race aficionados as they had been decades earlier.

My  mental response was to consider how bizarre it would be to watch a Phillies game at home (that means Citizen’s Bank Park, not my real house)- without folks intensely into the events on the field.  (You do know about Phillies Phanatics, right?)

But, the NASCAR crowd has been changing- I think for the better.  Because when I raced (it’s been true as recently as last year), the Confederate flag was ubiquitous.  It was disconcerting to me- but that flag also flew all over Charlottesville, Virginia, where I was living at the time.

Another thing about those flags- the corporate sponsors were not fans of these banners at all.  So, given the cash needs of NASCAR, it’s not surprising that these banners extolling slavery have finally bid their last at NASCAR.  At the suggestion of an up-and-coming race driver, not the sponsors.  Kudos to Bubba Wallace.

The real indicator of the change coming to NASCAR came a few days later.  When someone found a noose in Bubba’s garage (it actually had been there for some time, but undiscovered), the response of the NASCAR family was amazing.

The crews from all the race cars accompanied Bubba’s 43 to his position at Taladega.  Where Bubba and the car were met by racing great Richard Petty.  (Wallace is racing for Richard Petty’s team, which is why he gets to use Petty’s number.)

If NASCAR can change like this, there’s great hope for America.  This inflection point can bring great things for America- and the world.