So it all started when we (Brent and I) decided to go see my friend Roy/Rory at the Red Bull suite.

After the race: You won’t believe it anyway

I met Roy/Rory the Red Bull rep at Bonnaroo and called him Rory for three days. So when I got a random e-mail from some guy after the festival named Roy I was like, “Who the heck,” and then was like “Uh. Yeah. Ok.”

But, I like the name “Rory” better, so for the purpose of this story, let’s call him Rory.

So we walk from suite 108 to 180, which doesn’t seem like that big of a deal until we’ve walked around the track—again—and up some stairs and end up in the nose bleed section of the suites where the lights flickered and the security (for whatever reason) is ultra tight. Maybe it was because we were on the wrong side of the track (quite literally).

So here’s where Brent takes over the story for a while.

The easiest way to describe the Red Bull suite is to envision a shady dance club: dimly lit and lots of young dudes. Apparently Red Bull is totally operated by a bunch of 30 year-old ex frat boys. Somehow, that seems appropriate.

Don’t get me wrong, the people at Red Bull were incredibly cool. Rory/Roy and his posse took care of us, probably because Candice was the only girl to visit the suite all night…whatever. Apparently, the race ended while we were up there but thanks to the generosity of the boys at Red Bull, I don’t think Candice or I even noticed. 

Candice back.

So Rory joins us and we take off to show him what a “real suite” looks like. So when we get back to the News Channel 11, TriCities.com and Bristol Herald Courier suites, everyone looks just about right.

We pull up a few chairs and some of the higher ups take notice, saunter over and another cup is resting in our hands. Next thing I know I’m staring up the rungs of a yellow ladder with Brent, Rory and some other shady character.

We’re headed to the roof.

It was great. We sat up there, watched the crews break down and the transporter trucks drive off. I think everyone sat there in silence for about 10 minutes until someone commented about their fear of heights.

We established that we all shared that phobia and climbed down from the roof pretty quickly. Back to the suite—only this time, it was empty when we got there.

Brent again.

After seeing the track from its highest point, we figured it was finally time to make our decent back to the tricities.com camp. Unintentionally, we made the trip back from the track unnecessarily complicated. If you thought we could find our way back easily because of our week of experience walking between the track and our campsite, you would be wrong.

Instead of following the remaining stragglers who were wandering out of the track, we took our own route. Candice had the idea to scale a chain link fence to beat the crowd. Before we could celebrate successfully making it to the other side, we were both sliding down a very steep and long hill. As it turns out, the fence (surprise, surprise) stood as a barrier between the walk way to the track and a ravine.

The slide goes down as an experience that seemed fun at the time but leaves you hurting in the morning. However, to see Candice, still in her black dress from the video interviews in the track, flawlessly hop a fence and slide down a gravel hill was well worth a few cuts and scrapes.

Once we reached the bottom of the hill it occurred to both of us that what we thought was a brilliant shortcut turned out to leave us incredibly lost. With no clue which direction to go to get back to our campsite, we figured we might as well seek out some company.

From Candice:

So we head through the sea of RVs, only these seem a little different, a little quieter, and with a little less flare. A nice older couple flags us down, inquires as to whether we are lost and offers some refreshment.

We visit a bit, and realize this duo has worked on the crews of racers from Richard Petty to I really can’t remember. They share some insight into who they like and who they don’t. And, an interesting fact: David Stremme always comes to get his own grub and supplies during most races unlike his more-popular counterparts who send staffers.

Interesting.

However; after this brief stop we realize we’ve got to get back to the campsite.

“I know what to do,” I tell Brent, and run towards a bounty of golf carts.

“Hey can we hitch a ride,” I ask. “Sure,” the guy says, “Hop on.”

Only, something about this doesn’t seem right. For one, we’re going in the wrong direction. For two, this golf-cart driver is laughing hysterically.

Back to Brent:

By the time the golf cart finally stops, I’ve totally lost my sense of direction. All I can really tell is that we’re parked near the entrance to a campground or parking lot located on a steep hill overlooking the speedway.

Our location doesn’t look the slightest bit familiar. Since I’ve scoured around most of the campsites near us during of the week, this is not a good sign.

The driver tells us, “they’ve called all the golf carts back in.” Before we can figure out exactly where we are, he is gone without us. I’m still not sure who “they” is or why this mysterious they suddenly felt compelled to pull all the golf carts off the road in the middle of the night.

The whole ordeal seemed very suspicious; I think our driver had the sinister intention of leaving us lost and stranded the second he picked us up.

Despite Golf Cart Man’s best efforts, order was soon restored. Another group of fans gave us a ride back towards the track and on to our campsite. Their goodwill was typical of all the NASCAR fans I met during the week who were all super generous and enthusiastic about helping us out (Golf Cart Man being the one exception).

It was surprisingly calm when we finally made it back to the tricities.com compound. Lights were already out at many of the RVs around us with the few remaining tailgates on their last breath.

Finding things so quite made me realize that 1) I had no idea what time it was 2) it was most likely much later than I expected. Figuring that knowing now would do nothing to help the way I was sure to feel in the morning, I headed for my tent without looking at a clock.

It’s a good thing for that tent, too. The traffic heading towards the Interstate was still at a crawl when I finally called it a night. It’s a safe bet daylight would have greeted my drive back to Kingsport.

A soft rain woke all of us much earlier than we would have preferred. The second wave of traffic, this time from people who had stayed the night and were now heading home, once again clogged the roads leaving the track.

A quick game of croquet golf was organized to kill some time and further put off the chore of breaking down camp.

I must note that the rest of the tricities.com team refers to croquet as “Carney golf.” However, I’m proud of my surname and, though I am aware of the stigma popular culture has attached to it, I won’t demean all us Carney’s (both of profession and name) by using this term.

ANWAY, after Brant, the husband of former Racing Rookie Lindy, completed his wire-to-wire domination of our croquet game, it was finally time to head home.

I will always remember my fist race week as an extremely fun and eye-opening experience that will forever change how I think about everything from the sports landscape in America to the validity of the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” rule.

Thankfully, there is no time to get too sentimental. After all, the 2008 Food City 500 is only 201 days away.