Relearning an invaluable lesson
By Marty Smith, Turner Sports Interactive
January 24, 2002
10:35 AM EST (1535 GMT)
COMMENTARY
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Marty Smith
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Sometimes, if you’re humble enough to strip yourself clean of the everyday effrontery used to impress the masses -- and, of course, fortunate enough to notice -- everyday interactions with the common folk can provide lessons not easily taught by even the most learned or worldly of humankind.
I enjoyed one such occurrence the other night. Somewhere amongst an X Box, a Britney Spears cardboard cutout, a slab of pepperoni pizza and a few cold Budweisers, a buddy of mine reminded me of an invaluable lesson I already knew, but one I hadn’t slowed down long enough to realize in quite some time.
Life is pretty damn sweet when you love what you’re doing.
It was my buddy A.J. Alsup’s birthday, and despite my exhaustion following a day on the interview-laden Charlotte media tour, my wife and I decided to join he and his girlfriend for drinks at his abode just north of Charlotte. When I arrived at his race shop – somewhere around 10 p.m. – I expected to find a shop floor devoid of humanity.
That shows what I know about racers. As I strolled inside, the place was lit up like Times Square at Christmas. Three guys feverishly worked away on a racecar, laughing heartily at one another all the while.
This may not have been so intriguing to me had these gentlemen not gotten up with the friggin’ rooster. Two of them, and forgive me for not remembering their names, work full time for ppc Racing. That’s the team that houses the Fords of Scott Riggs and Jason Keller in the NASCAR Busch Series.
For some reason, I struggled direly to understand the psyche these guys employ.
If it were me, I’d have been on the couch in my tighty-whities long ago, gleefully watching the Duke-Maryland college basketball tilt.
I needed expert analysis:
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For drivers like A.J. Alsup, all the long hours and late nights are well worth it when you're doing something that you love.
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“So dude, you’re kidding me, right? You’re telling me these guys work all day at ppc, then come over here and build your cars?”
Attempting to be kind in his rebuttal, yet wanting to be sure I had a full grasp of my stupidity, Alsup responded thusly:
“Oh hell yeah, bro. This isn’t anything new. It’s like this all the time.”
Well, alrighty then. Alsup, an aspiring racer himself, is usually right there beside them. But it being his birthday, and considering the celebration thereof, it was a full-bore party for the night.
By midnight, my eyes were so blurry and my mind so foggy I didn’t have a Gordon fan’s chance at an Earnhardt convention of staying awake. Meanwhile, down below, these guys are still wide-ass open, intensely slaving away at this funky-looking car.
They were souping up Randall Chupp’s Late Model ride. A.J. commenced to inform me that this Chupp cat is a badass driver, one who wins most every event he enters.
Late Models have long intrigued me. These guys pour their hearts, souls and bank accounts into a $20,000 dream for 100 laps of glory every Saturday night. They come from every facet of life imaginable: bankers, lawyers, truckers, garbage men, policemen, teachers, politicians. After 12 hours in their office of choice, they run home for a quick meal before heading out to the shop to assemble their dream on wheels.
God love each and every one of them.
As Alsup continued, my mind wandered a bit. I begin thinking of the thousands of guys who are probably doing the exact same thing at this very moment.
“So, dude,” I interrupted, “You reckon there’s a lotta guys out there doing this right now? It’s 12:30 a.m., man.”
“Oh hell yeah, bro. We love this stuff, live for it. It’s not work to us, man. That’s why those guys are down there right now. They’re here at midnight because it’s what they love to do. It’s fun, man. They don’t really feel like they’re working.”
That’s pretty much how I feel about writing this column every week. And I’m glad my buddy reminded me of it.
Life is sweet, indeed, when you love what you’re doing.
NOTE: Marty Smith's column appears weekly on NASCAR.com. The opinions expressed here are those solely of the writer.
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