The 24 hours that I spent in Talladega, Alabama from April 15 to April 16, 2000 was such a bizarre experience that I felt compelled to document the day on this web page.  You can view a map that corresponds to this narrative by clicking here.  The map will open in a new window where you can click back and forth to follow my tribulations.  Although I was technically in the central time zone, all times will be reported as EST (eastern).  The entire trip actually lasted for about 35 hours, but the 5 1/2 hour drive up there, and the 5 1/2 hour drive home were thankfully uneventful.

Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
    The plans for an overnight outing to see my first ever NASCAR race originated last Tuesday night in Jackson, Mississippi.  While visiting my mom, I went out with Steve, an old friend from high school.  He and some college fraternity brothers make the trip to Talladega twice a year (in April & October) for camping, tailgating, and racing.  It happened that one of the regulars was unable to attend this time, thus making a ticket available.
    Since I have always wanted to go to a NASCAR race, I eagerly accepted the offer assuming that Kim and I could find a baby sitter for Sunday while she worked.  After I returned to Tallahassee on Wednesday, Kim gave me "permission" to go to the race as her parents were passing through town on Sunday on their way to Colorado and would be able to babysit Olivia.  I called Steve and confirmed that I would be there sometime on Saturday afternoon.  He was leaving for Talladega on Thursday, and told me that he would call Friday night and give me directions to their camp.
    Friday night came, and he called me from the campground.  The call came later than expected as the cellular phone lines were tied up in the Talladega area.  If I would have known the trouble that this would cause the next day, I would have taken more specific directions, or formulated a plan "C".
    But plan "C" was never made.  Plan "A" was for me to call his cellular phone upon my arrival at the campground from a set of phones located near the track (map insert P).  He would simply meet me at the phones after my call.  Plan "B", which was the contingency plan in the unlikely case that plan "A" failed, was to find the campsite using the landmarks that he described.  I jotted down the directions to the phones, and the general directions to the campgrounds not expecting any problems trying to meet the group.
    I left Tallahassee at noon on Saturday.  I knew that a Busch race (preliminary race) was to start at 2:30, and wanted to get in the camp before the race let out.  It seemed like a great decision, and looked to have the anticipated outcome, as I pulled into the racetrack parking lot with about 20 laps remaining in the race (I was listening on the radio). I turned into campground road (map insert) and found no traffic as I pulled as close as possible to the racetrack.  As a few fans had left early, I found a great parking place only a few hundred yards from the track (map insert 1).  I listened to the end of the race on the radio thinking that I would call Steve from the track as the crowd was letting out.  He could easily meet me at the phone inside the stadium.

Miscommunication in Turn 1
    The race ended, and I fought against the wave of exiting people to get into the grandstand area.  I didn't expect to see that the Busch race also drew a sellout crowd.  I got inside, and noticed that the phones nearest to my entry were occupied.  I bought a sausage dog and coke from a nearby vendor (delicious, but cost me 10 bucks), and waited for the phone.  I can safely assume that the people that I waited behind weren't calling their stockbroker, and their conversation wasn't as urgent as my call, but I waited patiently.  Finally, they finished and I confidently dialed Steve's cell phone using a calling card that I got from Kim for Christmas.
    After dialing the 98 digits required to place a call using a calling card, I got this message:  "Thank you for using blah blah blah, please enter the number of the party you wish to dial."  I wish I had 3 minutes on my calling card for every time I heard that message on Saturday.  It didn't dawn on me until later that this message translated into, "All cellular phone lines in this area are busy.  Please don't bother to try again."
    As more people were waiting for the phone, I decided to try again after a few minutes.  I walked along the grandstand, and took a peek at the track.  It took about 15 minutes before I was able to call again.  All of the 15-20 phones up and down the 1 mile long grandstand were occupied by folks drinking Busch-in-a-can, and calling their stockbrokers.  I finally got to a phone, and re-tried the number with the same outcome.
    By this time, I thought, Steve had made his way back to the campsite and was waiting for my call, completely unaware that I couldn't get through.  I could search for the phones that he described, or begin my search for the campsite.  I did neither.  Since I didn't know the reason why I couldn't get through to his cell phone, I stayed at the track, and kept trying the number.  He had also given me his beeper number (man, it seemed like we had all bases covered).  I tried to leave a numeric message on the beeper hoping that he would call me since he evidently had his phone turned off, or had given me the wrong number.  But, he never called.  I called his wife, Stacey, and confirmed that I had the correct cell and beeper numbers.  I did.  I called Kim to see if he had called her.  He hadn't.  I left the pay phone number with each of them in case he called in the next fifteen minutes or so.  I waited.  After a half hour of waiting, and a few more attempts at his cell phone, I decided to drive down to try to find the phones that he described the previous night.  I got to my car, and quickly dismissed that plan, as the throng of traffic on campsite road was moving at a pace of about 5 feet per hour.  I walked back to the track, and waited by the phone, and let the traffic die down.
    Finally, at about 7:30 when all efforts from the track were exhausted, I decided to buck the still slowly moving traffic, and try to find the campsite using the directions that he gave me.  I had written down essentially:  going east on speedway blvd., turn right on Campground Road, then make your first left, and look for a set of phones.  From where I was parked (map insert 1), I would need to go back towards Speedway Blvd. to find this spot.  Unfortunately, the traffic officer wouldn't let me take a right on Campsite Road from the parking lot ... I had to go left.  I reluctantly followed the traffic out of the campground, and onto State Road 326, then onto State Road 377, and eventually out to Highway 77 where I was about 3 hours prior (in a much better mood).
    I had no choice but to retrace my steps from earlier, going north on 77 with the intention of turning right (east) on Speedway Blvd., then back to Campground Road.  But, to my heightening dissatisfaction, a traffic officer was preventing any traffic from entering Speedway Blvd from the west.  I continued north, and stopped at a Texaco station at I-20 (map T).  I tried to call Steve's cell phone from the gas station, but achieved the same results.  It was on top of the pay phone at this gas station that I later surmised I had left my calling card.  Some lucky Busch-in-a-can drinking, stockbroker calling, not lost, SOB hit the jackpot as I had about 130 minutes left on the card.
    Not knowing that I left the card on the phone, I got back in the car and headed south on 77 to see if traffic had cleared enough to allow travel east on Speedway Blvd.  Not a chance.  I slowed by the traffic officer and asked how long before the road would open.
    "Bout two hours" was his answer.
    "How can I get to the campgrounds?"  I asked.
    "Go down to the co-op, and turned left."
    I groaned.  I didn't know what or where the co-op was, but I had a sinking feeling that it was located at the intersection of 377 and 77.  I travelled the 10 or so miles back down to 377, shot a finger at the co-op, and continued back to Campsite Road.  At about 9 o'clock, I reached the spot where I had parked earlier, no closer to meeting my group than I was 4 hours ago.  It was dark, and the traffic on Campsite Road had picked up to a sizzling 6 feet per hour.  I parked in basically the same spot as before (map insert 2), with the intention of searching for the campsite.
    "Make a right on Campground Rd, then take your first left ... look for a set of phones." The directions said.
    It should be noted that Campground Road and Campsite Road are names invented by me while writing this narrative.  I had no idea of the layout of the campground at the time.  I assumed that the first left was way back near Speedway Blvd. (it turned out to be Campsite Rd ... where I was).  I got out of the car, and started to walk towards Speedway Blvd.  I reached a set of phones (map insert P), and tried to call Steve (these phones accepted only cash and credit cards, so I didn't realize then that I had lost my calling card).  I had no idea that I was calling him from the phones that he described in the directions (I assumed that there was another set of phones somewhere near the 1st left).  I got the same message from the automated phone lady whom I now hated.   Noticing that the traffic was moving at a whopping 7 feet per hour, I decided to forego the 2 mile walk to Speedway Blvd, and attempt to drive the distance.
    After getting back in the car, and sitting in traffic for about an hour (Ok, I admit, I moved more than 7 feet ... it was closer to 100), I decided to park again (map insert 3), and walk the remaining distance.  I called once more from the infamous set of phones, and with the same results, began my trek.  The decision to walk was a good one as I was walking about 10 times faster than those who drove (at this point most of the traffic consisted of campground dwellers who were just "cruising").  I walked all the way to Speedway Blvd, and retraced back to the "1st left".  It wasn't much of a road ... basically a path between campers and tents.  The "road" quickly ended at some woods, and I knew that I was in the wrong spot.  I glanced down Speedway Blvd.
    "I must have taken the wrong turn off of Speedway," I thought, reversing my pedestrian direction and heading back to my car.  "I'll have to drive back here, take a right back towards the track, and find the correct off -road."
    Of course, these weren't my exact thoughts ... my exact thoughts were:  "&*%$#, I must have taken the wrong $%&^% turn of the &*(%$ speedway ... I'll have to walk all the %$#*& way back to my $%^#& car, and drive all the &%*$ way back here, then try to find the &*&%$ correct off &%^#* road."
    Luckily, by the time I reached my car it was after 11:00, and the traffic was moving much faster.  I reached Speedway Blvd (2 miles) at about midnight.  I turned right to look for the "correct off-road", but the only turn was the main entrance to the Speedway and Racing Hall of Fame.  I continued to a convenience store (map C) down the road to try to call Steve once more.  At this convenience store, I learned what would happen if the world ran out of all commodities except beer, ice, and cigarettes, and it was announced that beer, ice, and cigarettes would only be available for another 30 minutes at only one convenience store.  I also learned the destination of everyone in the traffic jam.
    I parked, and located the phone.  It was at this moment when I noticed that I no longer possessed my calling card.  I searched frantically though my car, wallet,  and pockets to no avail.  Since this store didn't sell calling cards (apparantly only beer, ice, and cigarettes), I was forced to scrounge through my pockets for enough change to place another futile call.
    My options at this point were:  a) continue to call using change that I would have to buy,  b) try to find the campsite, c) go back to the Texaco, and try to find my card or buy another one, or d) go back to Tallahassee.  I considered "d" for a minute, but it was after midnight, and besides ... I really wanted to go to this race.  "B" was out of the question, as I was convinced that I had bogus directions.  I wanted to get out of the madhouse, so I dismissed "a".  I decided on "c" as I knew that I would eventually need a calling card anyway.

Blown Tire in Turn 2
    I pulled out of the store, and went west on Speedway Blvd towards the Texaco station.  As I passed Campground Road, I slowed and peered down the road, hoping that Steve and his group might see and wave at me ... or light a flare or something.  Only thing I saw was the steady stream of traffic continuing to pour onto Speedway Blvd.  I drove on.  After a couple of miles, my steering wheel started to pull heavily to the right.  I slowed down, and pulled to the side.  It straightened out as I slowed down, so I continued.  Immediately after rejoining the traffic on the road, the wheel jerked to the right, and I heard rubber flapping on the road.  Flat tire.  Rats! ($%#@!).
    There was a substantial shoulder on the road, so I stopped the car (map FT) and began the process of changing the tire.  I emptied my sleeping bags, overnight bag, and cooler of beer from the back of the car to see where the spare tire was located.  It wasn't anywhere obvious.  I found the jack, and looked in the manual for the location of the spare.  It was supposed to be inside the hatch of the Jeep Cherokee.  I realized at that moment that I never really saw a spare tire on the car when we bought it in 1997.  Since the tires were new when we bought the car, and we had never had reason to use the spare, this omission went unnoticed ... until now.
    I remembered, however, that thanks to a birthday gift from my in-laws, I was a card carrying member of the AAA auto club.  The only problem was getting to a phone to call them.  I knew that I was two miles from a pay phone in either direction.
    Across the street and down a couple of hundred yards, I saw a truck with a fire lit beside it (map F).  Out of necessity, I got up the nerve to venture up to the stranger, and ask for his assistance.  It was a local man who was selling firewood out of his truck.  Business was evidently good on the chilly night as he was packing up his emptied truck to leave.
    Not to be presumptuous, I told him that I had a flat tire, and asked him where the nearest telephone was.
    "Local call?"  he asked.
    "Toll-free." I answered.
    He handed me his cell phone.
    I dialed the number for AAA, and with the firewood salesman's help, I described my exact location to the representative.  The fact that she requested a phone number where she could reach me in case of any problems bothered me because I knew that I would soon be out of touch, and relying on a tow truck driver from who-knows-where to find me.
    Just as I hung up the phone, the man's wife pulled up.  The three of us had a nice time chatting about such issues as the crowd in town for the race, experiences with car break-downs, the firewood business, and directions to the campsite.  In fact, based on my directions (which I had memorized by that time), they felt confident that they could find the campsite.  They gave me several new landmarks to look for when I returned.
    It was getting late, and his wife reminded him that it was time for them to go.  Noticing that I was in short pants, he offered to keep the fire going for my warmth.  I had planned on returning to the safety of my car when they left, but I decided not to refuse the nice gesture.  He retrieved a large antifreeze-sized jug of motor oil from the back of his truck and began squirting fuel on the fire.  As he was doing this, the flames somehow backlashed up the stream of oil, and threatened to engulf the whole jug.  To prevent this, he quickly jerked the jug back and to his right away from the fire.  Unfortunately, this is precisely where I was standing.  The oil completely drenched me below my waist, ruining my shorts and socks.  He began to apologize profusely, but I couldn't do anything but laugh.  We talked for several more minutes about my fate on this day, and they left apologizing some more and offering to pay for my clothes.  I told him that we were even, considering his help.
    I ventured back across the street to my car, changed into the blue jeans that I brought, and waited another half hour or so before the tow truck arrived a few minutes after 1 a.m.  The tow truck driver turned out to be very friendly and helpful, but my first impression was that he was very reluctant to help me at all.  Apparently, he was awoken by the AAA person, and had basically a standing vow to stay completely away from the racetrack area on this particular weekend.  The representative informed him that I was on a major road, and in dire need, so he agreed to make one pass to see if he could find me.
    The first thing he told me was that he knew of no place in the area that would be able to fix the tire at this late hour.  I figured as much, and asked him to just take me and the car to the Texaco station (map T) where I would try to contact my friend.  As he loaded the car on the truck, I think he began to realize that I wasn't just a typical drunk race fan trying to cause trouble in his hometown, and with this, he became much more amicable.  Either that, or the crankiness due to being woken in the middle of the night was wearing off.  He suggested that he could take me to a truck stop (map TS) on exit 165 where they had a tire shop.
    On the way to the truck stop, he told me of several experiences he had with the race crowd over the years.  I understood why our relations started uncomfortably.  He also told me that the traffic today would be like a Sunday drive compared to the traffic after tomorrow's race.  This was disturbing news knowing that I had a five and a half hour drive after the conclusion of the race (if I even went to the race at all).
    We reached the truck stop, and the clerk said that the tire shop wouldn't open until 7 a.m., but she could have an emergency call placed ... which would cost 50 bucks plus normal charges.  I told her that I would consider it, but I needed to make a call first.  This store did sell phone cards, and I was able to purchase one from a machine and call Steve from the adjoining diner.  My first impression of the diner was that it wouldn't necessarily be a bad place to spend the night.  They had a television, phones, plenty of empty booths, coffee, and food.  I dialed the number using my new phone card, and got through!
    I briefly told Steve what happened, and that I was at a truck stop deciding what to do about my flat tire.  Just as I was about to give him directions to pick me up, the phone disconnected.  I quickly tried to redial the number, but couldn't get through.  Just then, my new tow truck driving friend came in the diner and said he knew someone who would fix my tire tonight.   A garage nearby named Dillard and Son's (I was happy that I wasn't traveling with Peter Warrick and Laverneous Coles) could look at the tire.  I left word with the clerk that if someone called for me to let them know I was getting my tire fixed, and would call him later.
     The tow truck driver and I loaded up and drove to the garage which was located exactly in the middle of freaking nowhere (map G).  If I hadn't become such close friends with the tow truck driver, I would have sworn he had kidnapped me, and was taking me to the filming of Deliverance II.  We thankfully reached the garage which was surrounded by an auto junk yard.
    The owner and his son (both Dillards, I assume), and a couple of other employees were very busy.  The race weekend is evidently a boost to the local economy in more ways than just beer, ice, and cigarette sales.  I was just thankful that the garage was still open for business at 1:30 in the morning.  The senior Dillard took one look at the tire, and pointed out a slash that was probably too long to be repaired in the conventional manner.  He did try with a plug with no luck.
    He thought about it for a while, talked with Dillard junior, looked at the size of my tire, and offered to sell me one of the tires off his truck!  Even though I had no real alternative, I politely refused to accept the tire from his personal truck.  He told me not to worry that he could retrieve another from the lot in the morning.  I accepted his offer, and he proceeded to remove the tire from the rim on his truck, and put it on mine.
    While this was going on, the tow truck driver, knowing his work was done, gave me his bill which with AAA discounts only came to 35 dollars.  I gladly gave him the cash, explaining that I wish I could include a tip, but I didn't know how much the tire would run me, and I was running short of cash.  He understood, and was on his way.  I never realized the burden of the AAA drivers when they are called in the middle of the night, but I hope they are compensated well, and I am deeply appreciative of his help.
    As Dillard senior was still busy with my tire, I asked junior if he had a phone that I could use.  He led me to his office where I was able to contact Steve for the second time.  Steve, who was sleeping the first time I called, had woken his friend, Jay, and proceeded to search for me and a diner east of town.  I could have sworn I said west, but I was so shocked that I finally got through on the line the first time, that I might have told him wrong.  When I called the second time from the garage, he was at a gas station east of town asking where their diner was, and probably receiving puzzled looks from the clerk.
    To avoid small talk in case of another disconnection, we quickly agreed to meet at the Texaco station (map T).  I told him that I should be there in 30 minutes or less.  I got off the phone just as Dillard senior was putting my rim with the new tire on my car.  I considered asking him how much he was going to charge me before he put it on, but I felt there must be some unspoken code where a stranded, desperate, traveler must accept whatever charges that a local mechanic hits you with.  I didn't mention costs, and tried to be as friendly as I could, hoping that there was a more powerful code between southern gentlemen where you don't mind doing a good deed for one another.
    Dillard was a very friendly, soft spoken, man who probably worked at or owned the garage for more than 50 years.  I got the feeling that 100 years ago, this place was a horse carriage repair shop owned by Dillard senior's great-grandad, and Dillard's granddad was his employee.  But, they seemed like pleasant folks who didn't mind their lot, and genuinely liked to meet and help strangers.  After senior had a short conference with junior, they agreed to charge me fifty dollars for the tire and labor.  I thought this was a very reasonable price, considering it would have cost that much to wake up the tire guy at the truck stop.  I paid in cash, and got directions out of the middle of nowhere (I asked them to repeat the directions a couple of times).
    I had no problem getting out of the woods, or with the new tire, and made it to the Texaco station at about 2:15 in the morning.  I was very relieved to see Steve and Jay waiting for me in the parking lot.  We were all very tired, and said few words before I followed them back to the campgrounds.
    They stopped on a curve on Campsite Road nearly exactly where I had parked twice before (map insert 4).  I locked the car and hopped in Jay's truck for the short trip to the campsite (map & map insert X).  There must have been an implied curfew for all campers as no one stirred in the campgrounds.  Only two hours prior, it was a veritable madhouse that resembled a mix between Mardi Gras, Woodstock, and a ... well, a NASCAR race.
    We spoke briefly about Steve's attempts to find me and my attempts to find him, but reached no conclusion on how this all happened.  We settled in the tent and despite the hard floor and the chilly night, I slept reasonably well, though all too short.

Blue Skies in Turn 3
    We woke at about 8 o'clock to a chilly, yet quickly warming morning.  I looked around the campsite, and sadly realized that last night wasn't just a bad dream.  Someone in the group had already made a trip to McDonald's (map M) and brought back breakfast and coffee, and my outlook was improving.  We busied ourselves eating breakfast, catching up, reading the paper, and breaking down the campsite.  Half of the group, like me, was leaving after the race... the other half was staying another night.  I considered calling in to Tallahassee and taking Monday off, but I resisted the urge ... despite the lure of the camping trip I never got.
    We left for the race track at noon.  Steve and I stopped at my car to drop off my things, and to make sure that my new tire still had air.  I was parked in an advantageous spot, so that if I didn't dally after the race, I might be able to beat the traffic.  The forever imbedded memory of yesterday's traffic jam, and the necessity to get out quickly after the race caused some anxiety that morning, but it was undue as I found out later.  We met back up with the group, and walked the few hundred yards to the track.
    I used the ATM machine at the track, and paid Jay for the ticket.  Without any regard for yesterday's strife, I settled in to enjoy my first ever race.  The grandstands were packed by more people than I had ever seen at one place in my life (approx. 200,000).  The day turned out to be beautiful, though warm (mid 80's).  The cars seemed larger than life, and the speed was incomprehensible unless you are actually there.  I found myself cheering for Bill Elliott as I had drawn his name in a pool that we arranged before the race.  Most of the group I was with, and about 95% of the crowd were rabid Dale Earnhardt fans.  Every 30 seconds or so of the race, someone would shout "Earnhardt!", and the surrounding fans would respond, "Wooo!", or "Hell, yeah!"
    I got into it a little bit, and found myself cheering for him as he raced near the front of the pack for most of the day.  He finished in third, however, as the hated Jeff Gordon won the race.  I got the feeling that most of the fans considered themselves to have had a worse day than me because Gordon had beaten Earnhardt.  I didn't mind though.  Gordon is a good spokesman for the sport, and he seems to race cleanly.  But, mainly I was just happy to be there.  I got to see a great race, complete with a 16 car accident near the end.  My driver, Elliott, wound up in 15th place despite running in the top 5 near the end of the race.
    The race ended at about 4:30, and as Gordon crossed the finish line, I was already scaling the steps towards the exit.  I shook hands with the group, and made a full sprint to my car.  I reached my car ahead of the majority, and was able to move rapidly down Campsite Road to Campground Road out to Speedway Blvd, and finally to 77 south to begin my long ride home.  I looked at my watch as I easily cruised ahead of the traffic out of town.  It was 5:00 ... exactly 24 hours after I pulled into town.  The trip home was uneventful, but (of course), couldn't go off completely without a hitch.  I realized as sweat poured off my sunburned face (I hadn't run more than 10 yards in years) that the air conditioning in the car was on the fritz.

Turn 4 ... The Finish Line
    I arrived safely in Tallahassee at 10:30, and related my "Griswald" story to my in-laws, Tom and Pat.  I told the same story to Kim and my sister when I picked her up from work, and realized that my ordeal had to be written down.  I left too much out to relate it verbally.
    I learned many lessons in my 24 hours in Talladega ... some that I should have already known, and some that I will undoubtedly have to learn again.  I learned that AAA, a spare tire, and a jack can be invaluable.  I learned that if you're going somewhere that you've never been before ... get good directions, and make sure you understand them.  I learned to make a useful contingency plan (such as an easy to reach meeting place in my case).  I learned that there really are good people in the world ... even in the backwoods of Talladega (actually Lincoln) Alabama.  I learned that a firewood salesman, a tow truck driver, and a mechanic can be lifesavers.  I learned that you should always carry a phone card ... and don't lose it.  I learned to have enough cash on hand to pay for emergency services.  I learned to bring a change of clothes with you in case you get motor oil splashed on what you're wearing.  I learned to not rely on cellular phones for communication .... but if you have one after a flat tire, it could certainly be useful.  I learned that sometimes, no matter how hard you try to think it out, every decision you make will be the wrong one.
    You may ask that considering what happened, would I ever go to another NASCAR event for the rest of my life.   The answer is "of course".   The people there escaped their humble daily lives as mechanics, waitresses, and stockbrokers to enjoy a thrilling weekend of camping, hell-raising, and a major race.  That's the reason I went.  Life is too short to let any possible ill consequences deter a person or family from living their lives to the fullest.  I am not, however, recommending that you take your family to a NASCAR race.  Well ... maybe take them to the race, but the campgrounds were downright crazy.  I could write another story of this length about what I saw on my two mile hike back and forth along Campsite Road.