Life Lessons From My Dad: Episode 1

The year was 2000. Our computers had successfully rolled over to a shiny new millennium, but I was at a NASCAR race, where hair was still big, safety devices were for sissies, and fuel injection wouldn’t be adopted for a decade. Freedom and carburetors.

I was sixteen years old. Painfully shy and skinny, but with a five-speed Ford Mustang, because I had a cool father. Like really cool. 

Our family looked on nervously from the stands as Dad represented his company in a charity race around Atlanta Motor Speedway, driving an actual cup car. It was hair-raising stuff.

Because there were some (but definitely fewer) lawyers back then, organizers did insist that this competition be conducted in a time-trial format, with each amateur asked to stay in the tire tracks of a pacesetting professional up ahead. 

My father reckoned that, in order to win, all he had to do was give the pro plenty of reasons to hurry it up a little. And he was particularly qualified.

A second-generation stock car driver, Dad had spent many Saturday nights at the local short track honing his skills. When the corporate ladder pulled him away from having a car of his own, Santa kept him fresh with racing experiences at this very speedway, allowing Dad to get quite comfortable on the high banks doing a buck fifty. It’s safe to say that the CEO of Dad’s company had chosen well.

But there would be more to it than sauntering in with his shiny helmet and race boots. Surely there were other ringers in the field. Dad would need to reach into his professional skillset for that pivotal edge in the power of persuasion. Some might call it sales.

From an initial drivers meeting right up until the finals on Sunday, Dad laid the groundwork. He became fast friends with the instructors while hitting all his marks and topping every practice sheet. It came down to the final three drivers in front of a packed house of over 100,000 Sunday fans.

Prior to strapping in on Pit Road, Dad took the pro aside, giving him a friendly heads up. “I’m going to drive this thing like a bat out of Hell, so watch your mirrors. I’ll be coming in a hurry.” 

That is exactly what my father did, nearly pushing the instructor car all the way to victory of a significant margin. They clocked him at 170 miles per hour. His teenage son beamed proudly from the grandstands, knowing I would never have the gumption to take matters into my own hands like that.

When Dad rejoined us on the other side of security, now holding a very impressive trophy, there was a twinkle in his eye. Still in a driver’s suit, very much looking the part, he was sporting the goofy smile that Chapmans get when they are up to something.

I was finally beginning to relax a bit, looking forward to a buffet lunch. Seeing Pops do his thing had been quite the stressful endeavor - plenty of excitement for one day.

But with a quick “Y’all follow me!” from our fearless leader, we Chapmans were on the move, headed back in the direction Dad and his credentials had been escorted out of. A loudspeaker boomed, alerting everyone that driver intros would soon begin. Everyone else seemed to be walking the opposite direction and to their seats, as instructed. My skinny butt was clenched. 

The first checkpoint was a piece of cake. Dad never broke stride. He urged the rest of us to avoid eye contact, instead focusing straight ahead. We were now in the infield, dodging final preparations.

Through the commotion, enough people must have looked at my father and his trophy without suspicion. His confidence visibly ballooned with every step. There was no stopping him now as our path took a bee line through the procession of cars and crew members. We were headed directly for the one place a fan is never allowed to go, at the exact moment they most definitely should not be there.

Looking back, I can say with certainty that our unlawful entry couldn’t have come at a better moment for the sport. This was peak NASCAR. Drivers of the era - Jeff Gordon, Dale Earnhardt, Tony Stewart, The Labonte Brothers - were nearly mythical in stature. Fans like us would never get anywhere close under normal circumstances. But right before the cup race, every God-fearing driver attends a church service in the media center. You know, in case today’s race is the last one.

When asked why he nor his family possessed any credentials whatsoever to enter the Media Center, Dad simply said “I just won this” and pointed to his trophy, the size of a small child. “They,” he added, “are with me.” 

My eyes were unconvincingly wide. 

Via some miracle, that door was opened. Then another in quick succession. We shuffled into the next room, only to find it awfully quiet…

That’s because they were PRAYING. Every driver I had ever cheered for or against, head bowed, thanking the Lord for fresh rubber, good weather and Cracker Barrel. We were now close enough to be sharing breaths. It was a lot to process.

Once the pastor said “Amen,” Dale Earnhardt’s thoughts returned from Heaven and the very first thing he looked at was me. I was, of course, intimidated, but also mortified at how far our mischief had progressed. Surely, we would be tackled and cuffed by security at any moment.

Yet, with that, the audience was dismissed. I was left standing there in awe and complete embarrassment as security allowed Dad to corner Bobbie Labonte, one of our favorites, for an autograph. Once quite some time had passed and the opportunity had been milked of every last drop, we were kindly asked to leave…

Back where we belonged, the Chapmans huddled together for a quick debrief. While there was some moderate scolding for his cheekiness, all in all, we agreed that the whole experience had been pretty cool. Once in a lifetime kind of stuff.

“Kids,” Dad said, “Always remember: If you look like you know what you are doing, people are never going to stop you.”