For all the great driving, great teams and great cars out there this year, there is only one who has all that AND great luck — Kyle Busch. And that is why he’s kicking everyone’s keister this year.
More than anything else, luck — the only quality no driver can master, purchase, nor even sufficiently woo — has determined the fate of the 2008 NASCAR season. Winnie, the NASCAR Goddess of Fortune, is one hot and fickle lady; she deals it out how she sees ‘em – a view which is inscrutable to the rest of us.
Let us consider the following turns of Winnie’s Wheel this year:
- Last year the Chevvies of Hendrick Motorsports could do no wrong; flip that coin this year for them. Now Joe Gibbs Racing is king, ruling both the Sprint Cup and Nationwide roosts. And Toyota, a car that could win no races last year, can’t stop winning them this year.
- The Number 20 car this year is probably the luckiest car ever. It wins no matter who’s in the driver’s seat.
- Green seems to be an especially lucky color this year, especially festooned on Kyle’s green Interstate Batteries No. 18 Toyota. The AMP cars of Dale Earnhardt Jr. (second in points) feature green designs.
- Remember those unlucky Goodyear tires, which Dale Earnhardt and Tony Stewart derided with such heat after Atlanta? A bad, bad tire they said, not safe for plebian road driving, much less a Sprint Cup race. Yet somehow Goodyear’s bum luck passed on to the cars themselves, derided now as terrible to drive — like cement blocks without wheels — safe but mostly responsible for the bad fortunes of so many drivers this year.
- Jimmie Johnson gambled on fuel strategy to win his only race of the year at Phoenix. Similarly, Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s only victory of the season was due to a lucky gamble on fuel (astonishingly lucky; his car ran out of gas as soon as it crossed under the checkered flag). Of course, fuel strategy looks great when it creates a win. Carl Edwards’s fuel strategy turned out to be bum luck at Martinsville, losing the race on the last lap when he ran out of fuel.
- Michael McDowell was very lucky to walk away from that crash at Texas, smacking the wall at full spin and then tumbling over and over and over and over and over. Everyone says it was the generic car that saved his ass, but I think he watches the tape and crosses his heart for Winnie.
- Perhaps the most consistently unlucky driver this year has been Tony Stewart. Despite having arguably the best team and the best car out there, a crapstorm of bad luck has fallen on Tony: accidents, flat tires, broken parts, bad weather, even the flu. Smoke is surely this year’s Job, crying “How long, oh Lord!” as he sits dejected in his stalled Home Depot car. I hope Clance is correct in her most recent astrological prognostication, and Winnie spins Tony’s fortunes around the other way.
- Jeff Burton was hot early in the season but of late the dice have gone cold, resulting in finishes of 15, 13, 12, 37 in his last four races.
- Kurt Busch was astonishingly lucky to win at New Hampshire. This was no mere matter of preparation meeting opportunity, as he said after the race: Tony Stewart’s bum tire (it blew with three laps to go) plus bad weather put Kurt in the catbird seat where previously he was in 22d place in the standings. His luck was so weird that the race finish was like an episode from “The Twilight Zone.”
- Kasey Kahne, who was too far down in the rankings to qualify for the All-Star race, had lucky hunky-enough looks — an accident purely of birth — to get the popular vote for placing in the race anyway, won it, and has gone on to race as fiercely as those piercing blue eyes of his.
Drivers are a superstitious lot; they know how much Winnie plays in their eventual fortunes (or lack of them) to hedge all of their bets. Why do you think that so many of them trot out such jaw-droppingly beautiful wives and girlfriends to the races? Why else? They’re good luck charms, rubbed every which way both the night before and just prior to getting into their cars on race day as an appeal to Winnie.
Individual drivers have unique superstitions. A sick 6-year-old girl gave Dale Earnhart a penny, which he glued to his dashboard as he went on to win first Daytona 500. David Reutimann always puts his gloves on the same way — left hand first, and hi 6-year-old daughter tapes his heat shields if she’s at the track. David Ragan picks up pennies off the ground and puts them in his left shoe because his dad does that.
Other drivers have superstitions to ward off bad luck. J.J. Yeley makes sure black cats never cross his path. If he sees one, he’ll drive the other way.
$50 bills have a cache for bad luck; Humpy Wheeler signed and gave one to Dale Earnhardt Jr. before qualifying for the Coca-Cola 600; Earnhardt rejected the bill and went on to qualify sixth. Kyle Busch didn’t take the bill and made sure nobody on his crew did, either, and won the pole in the race.
What has all of this to do with great cars, great teams, and exceptional racing talent? Nothing. But it seems to have everything to do with what makes racing so addictive. Winnie the NASCAR Goddess of Fate is the penultimate track bunny, standing by her man in ways that no amount of skill will ever come close to.
Perhaps this hearkens back to the whiskey-running nights of NASCAR’s roots, where runners in jacked-up ‘39 Fords rubbed a rabbit’s paw swinging from their rear-view mirror as they raced up and down and round moony Appalachian roads, chased by stern black cruisers. Hot car and consummate skill were less than half of the equation back then, and drivers knew it. They got through because Winnie (or Tammie back then) sang them through on their car radios.
If Winnie loves a racer, he can do no wrong. She hovers over the fortunate as they race like a Faith Hill, angelically opening ways through the press of roaring metal, turning the wheel just right or left to avoid catastrophe. And for the unlucky she reveals her other side, standing in their way Gretchen Wilson all jacked up for a butt-kickin’, legs wide, hands on her hips, her eyes glowering through the darkness out back of trashiest redneck roadhouse beyond the last lights of town.
Who can woo Winnie? I doubt anyone can. It’s her race. She picks her winners. Maybe she’s stay with Kyle, or maybe she’ll jump in someone else’s car. The rest of the boys are right now performing their ablutions to her, stroking these soft curved rabbit’s feet, whether it hangs from their rear view mirror or is tucked inside the panties of their fantastically beautiful loves.
We have no way of knowing which way Winnie will turn her wheel at Chicagoland. We suspect that her romance with Kyle will continue. But she’s a moody dame. She is what makes racin’such a thrill.
(note: this post also went up today on my blog over at Clance’s wonderful Church of the Great Oval networking site. If you haven’t been by there, check it out. It roars.)