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Interdependence Day
Guest Column By Cathy Elliott
One of the cooler current television commercials starring NASCAR driver features Tony Stewart
gazing lovingly at his car – a Corvette, in this case – seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world
even as it continues to revolve around him.
Fans use him as a photo op, sort of a living cardboard cutout, unblinking as guys drape their arms
across his shoulders and lovely young women ruffle his hair and plant shiny pink Barbie-lipstick
kisses on his cheek.
Stewart, though, is unaware of any of these goings-on. He can’t take his eyes off that car.
For one suspended moment in TV time, nothing exists in his world other than man and machine.
This adoring one-on-one relationship disintegrates, of course, once they hit the race track.
Stewart’s bright orange Toyota may be one of the more distinctive cars and he is surely one of the
most popular and recognizable drivers in all of racing, but if they choose to maintain their attitude
of exclusivity, neither of them is going anywhere.
Some of the most frustrating NASCAR-related conversations I’ve had over the past several years
have resulted from comments – not mine – offering up the opinion that stock car racing simply isn’t
a team sport, but rather just one guy riding around in a car for four or five hundred miles.
Uh-oh. Now they’ve gone and done it. This attitude is my kryptonite, my hot button and my Bat
signal all rolled into one. Say this to me and you’re guaranteed to get my attention, ready or not.
I totally understand that a boy’s first love is his car, because I’ve been there. The occasion was my
16th birthday. The object of my affection was a Chevy Vega, complete with hatchback and metallic
finish, the extremely bright blue apple of my eye, I thought it was just the most beautiful thing I had
ever seen. It represented my freedom.
With driver’s license in hand, so new it was still warm from the DMV laminating machine, I rounded
up some willing friends and made plans to celebrate my newfound adulthood the old-fashioned
way, by cramming eight or ten teenagers into my glorious new-to-me rolling palace and going to
see a movie.
I was confident that all of the pieces were in place. The Mighty Vega was spit-shined, the crew was
ready to roll, and we were halfway down the driveway when I realized that my confidence had been
misplaced … along with my cash.
Have you ever tried to wring gas money out of a Vegaload of teenagers? Winged pigs come to
mind.
Chastened and reduced to the level of literal begging, I went back into the house and explained
my situation to my father. He just looked at me, then took out his wallet and handed me a twenty.
I tried to make a clean and dignified getaway, but alas, it was not to be. As I opened the door to
leave, he said, “Happy birthday … Miss Independent.”
Dad wasn’t out there putting on four tires and adjusting the wedge, but it didn’t matter. The world
loomed limitless and large, but without his help, I couldn’t move an inch.
It is all too easy for race fans to fall into the trap of believing that Carl Edwards, Dale Earnhardt Jr.
and the other top names of the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series are, collectively speaking, “The Man”,
and in large part this is true. Each of these guys represents the highest and most visible point in
their individual orbit, like Seattle’s Space Needle or the top floor of Macy’s, where they stash all
the designer outfits.
After all, how many Super Bowl-winning touchdowns could Eli Manning have thrown without the
offensive line out there supporting him? Mr. Manning can tell you that while having control of the
football is great, one loose lug nut can cause you to lose it all.
In NASCAR, this is never more apparent than at Daytona, where a bold foray into the groove not
taken can literally hang a driver out to dry.
NASCAR offers us a prime example of the principle of interconnectedness. The drivers may
indeed be The Man, but without The Men (and WoMen) who back them up through ownerships
and sponsorships, in the shop and in the pits, they may as well be sitting in the driveway, behind
the wheel of an old Vega. Every time their visage grins down at you from a billboard, it is propped
up not only by foundations and framework, but also by the catch-can guy and the rear-tire
changer.
Throughout our lives and careers we strive to break free of strictures. These include things like
our parents, our bosses and the posted speed limit.
But at this time of the year when we spend so much time in consideration and discussion of things
like independence and freedom, it is important to remember that neither wars nor races are won
by a single man. Rather, the efforts of many focused in a single direction achieve the ultimate goal.
Freedom rings loudest when it has plenty of backup.
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