Lamenting the loss of a legend

"It's gonna be some exciting racing. Gonna see something you probably hadn't never seen on Fox." That was Dale Earnhardt, Sr. brandishing his usual laid-back smile before the start of the 2001 Daytona 500

Earnhardt is dead. For his fellow competitors, the familiar frightening glimpse of his black No. 3 Goodwrench Chevrolet in the rear-view mirror will now be reserved for nightmares alone.

It is now Mon., Feb. 19, scarcely 24 hours after the news broke. I mourn silently, in my own little way, as I lie in bed, staring out my window into the star-dusted black heavens. People like Earnhardt make me believe in an afterlife, people whose smiles just won't fade, whose hearts just won't stop, whose eyes just won't ever let go of that special little twinkle. He was a country boy, sporting a smooth southern drawl and a large, puffy mustache, whose hard-hitting driving style earned him the title The Intimidator. His notorious bump-and-run maneuver made him the most feared driver in all of NASCAR. To millions of fans he was a hero, to other drivers a nemesis. To those outside the realm of stock car racing, he was a legend—the astounding, mystifying Man in Black.

The accident did not appear to be that bad on television. I've seen it many a time, a nudge from below, loose off the turn, and into the wall. The Big One, as drivers refer to it, occurred 27 laps earlier in a horrific 19-car catastrophe that launched Tony Stewart's 3,500-pound Pontiac 20 feet towards the stars before gravity grasped the car and ferociously yanked it down directly upon fellow driver Bobby Labonte. Comparatively, Earnhardt's modest two-car scuffle initially appeared almost trivial. One one-thousandth of the famed race remained.

From the moment the paramedics arrived, he was unconscious, without a pulse. He probably deeply drew in his last breath as he careened towards the outer concrete barrier at 180 mph. Just ahead, friend and Dale Earnhardt, Inc. driver Michael Waltrip took the checkered flag, followed closely by Earnhardt's son, Dale, Jr. The doctors said Earnhardt died instantly of severe head trauma, his head snapping forward, his skull fracturing from front to back, his brain smashing into the bone. I was wholly unprepared for the gamut of videos that slowly shattered my hopeful heart. This was no movie and Earnhardt was no actor—he was the classic good ol' boy, following his dreams faster than any man probably should.

To anyone who doesn't believe in NASCAR as a sport: I wish I could touch you, and for one moment let you feel as I felt on Sunday night. All the stars were falling. Those men affect you in ways even I didn't believe until now. I can't explain it. But I know it, and it is amazing and great and terrifying. This is NASCAR, the best, and the worst.

He is up there now, twinkling. Earnhardt didn't die a sad man. He didn't die in a bed, alone. He died in the place most familiar to him, strapped to the seat of a stock car, zooming along at 180 mph. If you could ask him about it, he would probably say that all that speed only helped propel him to heaven; that as he collided with that wall, he was looking out his right window, watching as his friend and his son raced towards the finish line, one-two; that he was smiling. Given the odds again, Earnhardt wouldn't even blink before donning his helmet and climbing into his sleek black shooting star.

The race goes on. On Sun., Feb. 25 at Rockingham, 43 men will climb into cars, start their engines, and race every bit as hard to that checkered flag. My guess is that Earnhardt, Jr. will be there. His father will be watching from the sky, playing with his mustache, cursing now and again, no doubt. Earnhardt, Sr. liked to play with people—during races, he would pull up beside a car, and out his window would go a hand, and up from that hand would go a single finger. He lived life with a passion reserved for storybooks and blockbusters. Now, the last page has been turned; Earnhardt survives only in our memories. He was the greatest driver in America's most authentic sport.

If you are ever driving down the highway and feel the urge to tail the guy in front of you a little bit closer, to push a little harder on the accelerator...well, that's a little piece of Earnhardt. And if you ever feel a tiny bump towards the rear of your car, yes, that's him again. And if you are ever in the shower and find yourself growling out racecar sounds like I do...well, that's NASCAR, and I know what you're saying, but like The Intimidator, I think I'll just sit here and grin.

Goodbye, Dale.

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