By\u00a0Thomas Lynn<\/p>\n
We weren\u2019t watching the race \u2014 we\u00a0were a part of it.<\/p>\n
Standing in the thick air of gasoline,\u00a0the roar of engines that make ears bleed,\u00a0drifting clouds of burnt rubber, causing\u00a0crippling fits of spasmodic coughs. There\u00a0was no reason to follow what we were so\u00a0clearly devoured by.<\/p>\n
Buzzing voices over the loudspeaker\u00a0filter through my ear plugs every couple of\u00a0seconds, only to be drowned out by another\u00a0cycle of screaming engines. \u201cThe favorite,\u00a0of course, to win the Daytona Rolex 24, a\u00a0magnificent team of the best pit crew and\u00a0drivers . . . and we can\u2019t forget that it\u2019s . . .\u00a0now we are getting word that. . .\u201d<\/p>\n
Following the race was next to impossible\u00a0and I\u2019m not embarrassed to say I didn\u2019t\u00a0even try. Wasn\u2019t my job. In the pit \u2014\u00a0where frantic people push anyone out their\u00a0way and Europeans give snarling glares,\u00a0muttering, incoherently to each other\u2014\u00a0four rookie reporters were getting their\u00a0bearings.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you stay out of the way?,\u201d asked\u00a0Mike Lovecchio, a Social Media Editor\u00a0for NASCAR, who hired us to cover the\u00a050th anniversary of Rolex 24, one of the\u00a0world\u2019s most renowned track races.<\/p>\n
I pause for a moment, thinking it might be\u00a0a rhetorical question. His stare continues to\u00a0rest on me, so I simply nod.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was one criterion for the job\u2014to resist\u00a0being sucked into the organized, chaotic\u00a0mess of a 24-hour-long race. Race veterans\u00a0were warning me that if I didn\u2019t stay out\u00a0of the way, I would be run over by the\u00a0many golf carts transporting miscellaneous\u00a0car parts up and down Pit Road. I\u2019m not
\ncompletely sure about them running me\u00a0over, but they certainly yell something\u00a0fierce.<\/p>\n
My job is simple. Stay out of the way\u00a0and be the forefront of information on
\nPit Road. When a car comes in for a tire\u00a0change, I need to be there. When a car
\ncomes in to switch drivers, I need to be\u00a0there. A cell phone in one hand, texting\u00a0information to Lovecchio sitting up in his\u00a0nondescript media office, and a note pad\u00a0in the other with, \u201cDRIVER CHANGE?\u201d\u00a0written in bold Sharpie. Trying to get\u00a0anyone to talk to me. In the smoke and\u00a0screeching, it\u2019s impossible to hear, much\u00a0less get someone to stop and clue you in on
\nwhat\u2019s happening.<\/p>\n
It seems impossible at first. No one will\u00a0tell me anything or let me have a spot to\u00a0get a clear view of what\u2019s going on. I\u2019m\u00a0walking up and down the road, along\u00a0the fence with envious faces watching\u00a0me, wondering what makes me so damn\u00a0important. And the great, big tents holding\u00a0crews and hiding everything from view,\u00a0take some getting used to. Lucky for me, I\u00a0have 24 hours to get good and acquainted\u00a0with my surroundings.<\/p>\n
There were, of course, breaks in what\u00a0assured itself to be a very long day. In the\u00a0beginning, before the race, we reporters\u00a0got to know each other and some shared\u00a0secrets on how to work the pits. When the\u00a0race started, I never saw them again.\u00a0My shift and breaks were four hours long.\u00a0I had three shifts, two breaks and 13 cars to\u00a0keep track of. They come in, get all four\u00a0tires changed, get a fresh tank of gas in\u00a0seconds, change a driver, and are gone in\u00a0less than two minutes. They were so quick,\u00a0it was awesome.<\/p>\n
For the first four hours, I ran back and\u00a0forth like a mad man, trying to make it\u00a0to each tent before hearing the squeal of\u00a0one of my car\u2019s tires reentering the race.\u00a0Eventually, relief came and I went to get\u00a0pizza.<\/p>\n
Second shift would be the easiest, the\u00a0honeymoon phase of the ordeal. As the\u00a0shuttle brought me back to the infield, the\u00a0partiers\u00a0were setting loose on the grounds.\u00a0Makeshift fireplaces were lit to pure\u00a0reckless degrees, as belligerent drunks\u00a0wandered in packs yelling and flipping\u00a0people off for no good reason. Food\u00a0vendors made cat-calls to anyone walking\u00a0by. It was booze-soaked, unadulterated fun.<\/p>\n
Back in the pits, things were relaxed.\u00a0Teams fell into a rhythm that made my\u00a0job easier. Some tents were missing; those\u00a0teams that went with them were officially\u00a0out of the race, leaving in their wake large,\u00a0giant gaps. I snuck into a tent with Turner\u00a0Motorsport \u2014 the crew for car 93 \u2014 and\u00a0found a cozy little spot where I could see\u00a0all of Pit Road. It was a huge tent and\u00a0people were so tired by that time, they\u00a0simply ignored me.<\/p>\n
After that, the job was a breeze. Five\u00a0hundred texts to Mike and a coughing fit or\u00a0two later, I was off to the shuttle for a\u00a0well-needed\u00a0shower and early morning coffee.<\/p>\n
Returning to my final stint of work at\u00a07:30 a.m, I again was greeted in the Turner\u00a0Motorsport tent with blissful indifference.\u00a0The remaining cars came in and left with\u00a0no excellent explosions or head-over-heels\u00a0crashes to inform Lovecchio about. Before\u00a0I knew it, my relief reporter was standing\u00a0next to me, asking who was winning.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot a clue.\u201d I said, \u201cI\u2019m going home.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
By\u00a0Thomas Lynn We weren\u2019t watching the race \u2014 we\u00a0were a part of it. Standing in the thick air of gasoline,\u00a0the roar of engines that make ears bleed,\u00a0drifting clouds of burnt rubber, causing\u00a0crippling fits of spasmodic coughs. There\u00a0was no reason to follow what we were so\u00a0clearly devoured by. Buzzing voices over Continue reading Reporter keeps pace inside organized chaos machine<\/span>