See you there!

Mark Martin tries to pass Kyle Busch in the closing laps of the Sharpie 500 at Bristol Motor Speedway. Busch led the final 68 laps of the race. (Photo Credit: Jason Smith/Getty Images for NASCAR)

Last night’s Sharpie 500 at Bristol Motor Speedway was a classic NASCAR race at its most beloved track in only one aspect.

It was a classic example of why Mark Martin has never won a Sprint Cup.

And in all likelihood never will.

Even the most gentlemanly great drivers in NASCAR history have possessed the heart of a cold-blooded assassin when what Magic Johnson refers to as “winning time” comes around. They have unfailingly exhibited the gift for rooting out an opponent when the situation required doing so in order to come out ahead. Some were far more blatant about it than others (*coughdaleearnhardtcough*). But they all had, and for those currently active have, the same knack for the kill. Whatever it takes to win. Apologies can wait for afterwards. Go for it now.

Consider the three drivers now locked into the Chase: Tony Stewart, Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon. Nine championships between the three of them. None of them came with NASCAR’s equivalent of the NHL Lady Byng trophy awarded annually to the league’s most gentlemanly player attached. Whatever the off-track persona of these three might be, when it’s crunch time they have been far more determined than their opponents to make the other guy go crunch if need be. I win, you whine.

But not Martin.

He is so addicted to his everything-is-beautiful outlook on life that when the only thing standing between him and victory is not using the chrome horn to announce his presence, he lets it stand. This has made him tremendously popular with his fellow drivers over the years. Why shouldn’t it? They know he will not do unto them as they would do unto him were the positions reversed. What’s more, he’ll hop out of his car parked on pit row rather than in Victory Lane after the race and smilingly say how great it all is and of course whoever is presently celebrating the win would never ever ever do anything different than he did in an effort to take the checkered flag.

And Middle Eastern peace is right around the corner.

Back to the Saturday night that wasn’t much at Bristol. The first part – the vast majority, actually – of this race was a rather dull affair, so much so that when a brief rain shower passed over the track it was quickly determined not to be actual rain but rather tears of boredom shed by the guardian angels of all present. Martin handedly led most all laps, other drivers rising and falling on the scoreboard with minimum fuss. Or excitement. Not that a return to the wreckathon days of Bristol would have been better, but with the outside groove working far better than the inside there were a lot of people getting around each other without any sense there was actual passing going on.

Near the end the intensity picked up, with assorted outbursts of impatience plus the occasional blown tire leading to several cautions. Meanwhile, Kyle Busch worked his way ever closer to the front, finally seizing the lead amid the growing sheet metal carnage. Not to worry, thought the faithful gathered to among other things commemorate Martin’s one thousandth start in NASCAR. His Pop Tarts pastries had pasted the field throughout. Surely he’d scoot by the Candy Brat and secure the win.

Guess again.

On the final restart, Martin quickly positioned himself behind Busch. Or underneath him. Or next to him. It didn’t matter. When it was clear the only way he could win was nudging Busch, Martin couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, Busch delivered the win while Martin delivered yet another sunny side up sermon complete with insisting Busch would have raced him the exact same way had their positions been reversed.

Sure, Mark.

Sure.

Enjoy not winning the race or championship again.

Once upon a time, the Bristol night race was the stuff of legends; 160,000 close personal friends howling as one at the results of forty-three cars all attempting to dive onto a bottom groove designed to comfortably hold forty-three Hot Wheels. Add to the mix more banking than a Wall Street cocktail party and you had the situation for maximum stock car racing stuffed to the gills with shredded sheet metal and equally shredded tempers. This was the track where Dale Earnhardt was booed for (ahem) “rattling” Terry Labonte’s cage. It was NASCAR heaven on a hot August night.

Lately, the race has been quite the disappointment. Some blame this on the parabolic racing surface installed a couple years ago in an attempt to create a second outside groove, this being done under the assumption people would like to see more passing and side by side racing and stuff. Actually, it’s the CORN can and its patented preclusion of passing and side by side racing and stuff. I mean, who wants to see that? /sarcasm off

Mark Martin is on the pole for tonight’s festivities, doubtless hoping to parlay this into reinforcement of his currently shaky place in the Chase. Other lower rung Chasers are hoping to simply survive the night without having to start practicing their wait’ll next year speeches during the upcoming off weekend.

Enjoy the race, everyone.

NASCAR Nationwide Series points leader Kyle Busch spins after making contact with Chase Austin on Lap 52. (Photo Credit: John Harrelson/Getty Images)

Last night’s Nationwide race at Bristol was one of those moments when The Driver Most Fans Love To Hate fell victim to not his own penchant for excessive on-track aggression or hyper-active emotion sending his senses packing, but someone else’s flub. It happens. It’s called racing, where the best car and driver can have the perfect day (or night) go awry through circumstances utterly out of their control.

Busch and Kevin Harvick were having a nice battle for the lead, Busch hugging the outside groove which ever since NASCAR’s oval pinball machine was resurfaced with a parabolic motif has been the preferred method for getting around the place, when coming off the corner Busch found himself being smacked not by Harvick on the inside but rather Chase Austin on the outside. Austin, who had been hugging the wall courtesy of a tire going down, finally succumbed to the law of gravity and went down himself. Down on the track, that is. No one’s fault, but the resulting mess was… well, a mess. There wasn’t enough NOS Energy Drink in all of Thunder Valley to get Busch’s battered ride working properly again, though he did eventually re-emerge to make some laps.

As the ripped and ruined #18 turned into the infield, the only possible sound louder than forty-three cars doing the spin cycle inside the Tennessee Colosseum roared forth as the assembled throng celebrated the aforementioned Driver Most Fans Love To Hate’s ill fortune. It’s a sound that occurs from coast to coast whenever baby Busch has an accident regardless of the cause. Apparently the NASCAR Nation never got the MSM memo about why they’re supposed to wuvvy wuv Shrubby Shrub to itsy bitsy pieces. Ingrates.

That said, cheering whenever anyone wrecks regardless of who they are is lame in the extreme. Forget how many times you’ve heard “you know, they could be hurt or worse out there.” It’s not a cliche. It’s cold, final truth, as anyone who’s ever visited the grave of a driver who died in an accident can testify. Sure, you want to see a driver who for whatever reason you detest lose. But let it be on a last-lap thriller of a pass by a fellow competitor. Far, far more satisfying. And less vulgar.

To Busch’s credit, after giving himself a ten minute time out immediately following the wreck he faced the media, placing blame for the wreck where from the available evidence (he was unaware of Austin’s tire problem) it belonged, namely the spotter. The interview was minus the sulking whine that has oft permeated Busch’s post-incident conversations, although it is more accurate to say those conversations when he’s actually had one instead of storming off in a snit. Perhaps he’s actually getting that clue seldom thought of as being in his game room. It’ll still take him simultaneously saving puppies and kitties from a burning house and paying the mortgage on the orphanage seconds before Snidely Sinister forecloses on same in the middle of a snowstorm while helping a little old lady across the street to make him actually likeable. But it’s a start.

As far as the rest of the race was concerned, David Ragan, who had entered this year touted as the driver most likely to break through but instead has been but a blip on the radar finally won one, leading the final fifth plus. Teammate Carl Edwards finished second, thus keeping his slim hopes of catching Busch for the series title alive for another week. Brad Keselowski came in third.

The question is why.

Regardless of where one stands on political matters, Obama is President. When he offers to show support for your sport, you come. To their credit, many of NASCAR’s leading lights did just that.

So, in lieu of the aforementioned handwringing and angst, let us remember the fundamental reason why we watch NASCAR, or for that matter any sport: It’s fun. So let’s have some, courtesy of what was actually said during some of the assorted photo ops at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue when NASCAR came to call…

• Official White House Photo
• Official White House Photo
• Official White House Photo by Chuck Kennedy
• Official White House Photo by Lawrence Jackson
• NASCAR Public Relations
• NASCAR Public Relations

All photos courtesy NASCAR Media

Brian Vickers after winning the 2009 Carfax 400

Brian Vickers signed a multi-year contract extension with Red Bull Racing today, thus validating the rumor his sponsor wasn’t all that keen on re-upping with him until it could start using the advertising slogan “our energy drink guy has as many wins in the past year and a half as that other energy drink guy,” more commonly referred to as Dale Earnhardt Jr. Which is a bit snappier than “he has 425 more points and unlike Dale Jr. an actual shot at making the Chase,” although the latter is equally accurate.

Aside from their primary sponsors both being unnecessary albeit ubiquitous accessories for teenagers, Vickers and Earnhardt have precious little in common outside their chosen profession.

Dale Jr. is NASCAR’s favorite son and most beloved driver, whereas Vickers toils in near anonymity except when he wins. Which has been exactly twice in Cup, the first time being at Earnhardt’s expense during the fall 2006 Talladega race when in an outburst of youthful enthusiasm — you know, brainlessness — he attempted a last-lap pass of Dale Jr. and Jimmie Johnson who were dueling for the win. Vickers wrecked them both en route to victory, thereby easily becoming number one on the Junior Nation’s enemy list and remaining there until Kyle Busch came along.

His second win this past Sunday at Michigan came courtesy of running second behind Johnson, who had utterly dominated the race, and at the end unlike Johnson succeeding in a fuel mileage gamble.

Vickers is a competent NASCAR driver, albeit one in no danger of being included in the gallery of the greats. He’s definitely one of the sport’s oddest. As noted by Dustin Long, he enjoys skydiving, admires Albert Einstein and the Dalai Lama, embraces the concept of an undefinable God, and wants to learn three additional languages: Spanish, French… and Mandarin. Nothing that would so much as raise an eyebrow in most big cities. But in NASCAR? Somehow it’s difficult to see Vickers tipping back a brewski with Bubba in the infield.

Philosophy quirks aside, the question is whether Vickers has the same shot at being in the Chase as he does of being dubbed Sprint Cup’s official space cadet. He is currently one position and twelve points outside of the top twelve with three races remaining: Bristol, Atlanta and Richmond. Two of the three are short tracks, which is not good for the Red Bull boy. His average finish at Bristol in ten races has been 26th, while Richmond has been even less kind with an average finish of 27.8 although unlike Bristol he has at least cracked the top ten there… once in ten starts. Atlanta much more suits his style, with a top five and five top tens in twelve starts. But will that be enough?

Vickers might make the Chase, although given how his immediate competition for the title comes from the likes of Mark Martin and Matt Kenseth this is anything but assured. Red Bull may give you wings, but NASCAR’s space cadet is going to need a lot more than that in order to fly sufficiently high.

Photo credits: Jerry Markland/Getty Images for NASCAR