Every driver who has competed for any length of time at Talladega Superspeedway has their own examples of why the track leaves you feeling vulnerable. Here are mine:
In 1996, I arrived at Talladega fourth in the standings. I left in an emergency helicopter.
In 2001, I took the white flag running in the top five. I never saw the checkered flag.
There are three primary reasons drivers are motivated to race at Talladega:
There’s a trophy.
It pays 190 points.
And you want to say you won at Talladega. Why? Because the anxiety or level of concern associated with competing there is different than any other place you go.
Most drivers struggle with competing at Talladega because so little of what they’ve been taught, so little of what was required to become a Sprint Cup Series driver actually applies when racing on the high-banked, 2.66-mile monster. Rather than the normal focus of methodically catching, passing and driving away from the single car in front of you, you operate as a member of a “pack.” You team with a group of cars to work your way to the front, using whichever driver is willing to push you long enough to get to a better place. Even teammates swap lanes with little regard for those who’ve helped them, instead focusing entirely on what’s best for that lap, for that moment.
There’s no accelerating or braking – well, except when a caution flag comes out or you head down pit road. Instead, the 450 horsepower you have requires 100 percent throttle nearly 100 percent of the time. If you lift, you lose the draft, which means you lose the race.
It’s a contrast to what we saw last week at Martinsville and will see next weekend at Texas, tracks where each driver starts the race with a strategy that was established during two days of practice – two days of evaluating how good their car was or wasn’t. After those two days, teams know when the race begins whether they have a winning car, an average car or a long day ahead of them.
It’s different at Talladega. Nobody has the edge – at least not with the car – because all the cars are relatively equal. It’s an uncomfortable feeling entering a race in which your destiny is not determined by how well your car handles, how well you read the track as the race unfolds or how well you deliver feedback to your crew chief. You start the race at Talladega knowing that how your day ends depends greatly on the cooperation, the control, the temper and the stability of your competitors.
The funny thing is that it’s not the risk of injury which dominates a driver’s mind when headed to Alabama; it’s primarily the risk of finishing 40th and losing valuable points.
You think this might be on the mind of Jimmie Johnson or Chad Knaus this week?
The bottom line is that drivers don’t like Talladega; they just tolerate it. Its style of racing is an accepted oddity in the sport. In just the past 12 months, we’ve seen how Regan Smith lost there trying to be careful – and we witnessed Brad Keselowski win there by throwing caution to the wind.
Draw your own conclusion, but it became apparent to me that being cautious at Talladega either leads to a poor finish with a car still intact at day’s end or a poor finish with a car ready for the junkyard. In other words, twice a year at Talladega you are rewarded, more than normal, for taking risks.
My best finish there reflected this. In 2003 – with Matt Kenseth in front and lines of cars to my left and right – I pushed, slammed and literally knocked Kenseth sideways in order to help him and myself. It was extreme, bordering on ridiculous, especially at 200 miles per hour. But it was what is required to win at Talladega.
That wasn’t my strategy at the start of the day, but it became a necessity in the closing laps if I were going to maintain or gain position. I finished fourth.
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After the race, I thought a little bit about the position I put Matt in – beating and banging in a style neither of us is known for. This was on the personal side. But from a competitive standpoint, I wondered: Did I push hard enough?
A year later, the engine in my car broke a rocker arm early in the race. As I stood in my pit box while my team attempted to make repairs, I found myself fascinated with the behavior of the fans. Thousands of them immediately in front of me were all on their feet as if they were anticipating something. The seats they had paid so much for were hardly being used, for fear they might miss something.
I came to the realization then that as long as that type of excitement and drama existed – the bumping and banging at 200 mph – little about the way we race would change when competing at Talladega.
I didn’t dislike going there, even after my injuries in 1996. I can’t say I looked forward to racing there either. But I can say, without hesitation, that I wished I had won at Talladega.
