By Thomas Lynn
We weren’t watching the race — we were a part of it.
Standing in the thick air of gasoline, the roar of engines that make ears bleed, drifting clouds of burnt rubber, causing crippling fits of spasmodic coughs. There was no reason to follow what we were so clearly devoured by.
Buzzing voices over the loudspeaker filter through my ear plugs every couple of seconds, only to be drowned out by another cycle of screaming engines. “The favorite, of course, to win the Daytona Rolex 24, a magnificent team of the best pit crew and drivers . . . and we can’t forget that it’s . . . now we are getting word that. . .”
Following the race was next to impossible and I’m not embarrassed to say I didn’t even try. Wasn’t my job. In the pit — where frantic people push anyone out their way and Europeans give snarling glares, muttering, incoherently to each other— four rookie reporters were getting their bearings.
“Can you stay out of the way?,” asked Mike Lovecchio, a Social Media Editor for NASCAR, who hired us to cover the 50th anniversary of Rolex 24, one of the world’s most renowned track races.
I pause for a moment, thinking it might be a rhetorical question. His stare continues to rest on me, so I simply nod.
“Good.”
It was one criterion for the job—to resist being sucked into the organized, chaotic mess of a 24-hour-long race. Race veterans were warning me that if I didn’t stay out of the way, I would be run over by the many golf carts transporting miscellaneous car parts up and down Pit Road. I’m not
completely sure about them running me over, but they certainly yell something fierce.
My job is simple. Stay out of the way and be the forefront of information on
Pit Road. When a car comes in for a tire change, I need to be there. When a car
comes in to switch drivers, I need to be there. A cell phone in one hand, texting information to Lovecchio sitting up in his nondescript media office, and a note pad in the other with, “DRIVER CHANGE?” written in bold Sharpie. Trying to get anyone to talk to me. In the smoke and screeching, it’s impossible to hear, much less get someone to stop and clue you in on
what’s happening.
It seems impossible at first. No one will tell me anything or let me have a spot to get a clear view of what’s going on. I’m walking up and down the road, along the fence with envious faces watching me, wondering what makes me so damn important. And the great, big tents holding crews and hiding everything from view, take some getting used to. Lucky for me, I have 24 hours to get good and acquainted with my surroundings.
There were, of course, breaks in what assured itself to be a very long day. In the beginning, before the race, we reporters got to know each other and some shared secrets on how to work the pits. When the race started, I never saw them again. My shift and breaks were four hours long. I had three shifts, two breaks and 13 cars to keep track of. They come in, get all four tires changed, get a fresh tank of gas in seconds, change a driver, and are gone in less than two minutes. They were so quick, it was awesome.
For the first four hours, I ran back and forth like a mad man, trying to make it to each tent before hearing the squeal of one of my car’s tires reentering the race. Eventually, relief came and I went to get pizza.
Second shift would be the easiest, the honeymoon phase of the ordeal. As the shuttle brought me back to the infield, the partiers were setting loose on the grounds. Makeshift fireplaces were lit to pure reckless degrees, as belligerent drunks wandered in packs yelling and flipping people off for no good reason. Food vendors made cat-calls to anyone walking by. It was booze-soaked, unadulterated fun.
Back in the pits, things were relaxed. Teams fell into a rhythm that made my job easier. Some tents were missing; those teams that went with them were officially out of the race, leaving in their wake large, giant gaps. I snuck into a tent with Turner Motorsport — the crew for car 93 — and found a cozy little spot where I could see all of Pit Road. It was a huge tent and people were so tired by that time, they simply ignored me.
After that, the job was a breeze. Five hundred texts to Mike and a coughing fit or two later, I was off to the shuttle for a well-needed shower and early morning coffee.
Returning to my final stint of work at 7:30 a.m, I again was greeted in the Turner Motorsport tent with blissful indifference. The remaining cars came in and left with no excellent explosions or head-over-heels crashes to inform Lovecchio about. Before I knew it, my relief reporter was standing next to me, asking who was winning.
“Not a clue.” I said, “I’m going home.”