I have always been an avid racing fan, and I can still remember the excitement at small tracks such as Pines Speedway. It was located in a little town called Groveland, Mass., along a sandpit on the Merrimack River. Once in awhile, a car would get airborne enough to make it into the river on the third turn. For some reason, the crashes seemed to be exciting, and no one ever seemed to get hurt. How little I knew.
There were three classes: A, B and C. On special occasions, there was a Figure 8 or spectator's race. As time went on, the small racetrack flourished, and I drifted away from those racing days. But I always cherished the memories.
After 15 years, I hooked up with an old high school buddy who was still connected with the racing world. One afternoon, he took me to another friend's house. Everyone there was in his driveway gathered around a racecar.
Something here piqued my interest again, because by this time I had experienced a different kind of racing. We had a horse stable at one time, and I had an interest in harness horses. The fact is, I have always been addicted to the atmosphere and "hype" of racing in one form or another.
I'll never forget the first and only time I went to see my friends race at Loudin - a small track in southern New Hampshire. Even though I had always been a racing fan, I knew very little about who Cale Yarborough was, not to mention Dale Earnhardt. When the event began, they dropped Yarborough off in the infield by helicopter. Nonetheless, the crowd was more enthusiastic about a yellow Wrangler Jeans car with a No. 3 on it. They were excited to see this Dale Earnhardt - an upcoming driver with abilities and potential like no other driver of his time.
So the races began and the cars went round and round. The racers went for 25 laps when Earnhardt swooped down and swept the field by one lap; he was gaining ground. That was my introduction.
Some 15 years later, I had continued to catch bits and pieces of the legend of the then-black GM car, a team "Mr. Goodwrench," and the car's "pilot," who barely kept this car on the ground. "Trinity" is how I labeled this miraculous trio.
I read an article in this magazine last April about how even after Earnhardt's death, drivers might still swear they saw a black car with the number 3 in their rear view mirror. As the article concluded, I got chills down my spine.
Two months later, I was still thinking of Dale Earnhardt.
And then, today, I looked in my rear view mirror as I was getting off Interstate 495. I saw a big black semi coming up with the number 3 on it. Once again, I was elated as I signaled to the driver with the thumbs up sign and held three fingers up, acknowledging the trinity: GM, Mr. Goodwrench and the weekend warrior, Dale Earnhardt.
