Babes, Bordeaux & Billy Bobs

For

get the race, creed and color thing. There is no sharper distinction among the citizens of the world than this: those who care passionately about cars and those who barely know a Buick from a bagel. Just so you know up front, they picked the wrong guy to write this story. Did not take auto shop in high school, never bought a can of STP, never watched a car race. And here I am on my way to Tennessee for the first of three NASCAR races in four weeks. The mission is to meet Jeff Gordon, the 27-year-old stock-car-racing superstar who sells everything from toothpaste to soft drinks on national television, and find out why so many racing fans loathe him.

Also, to answer one of the great riddles of our time: What's the big deal with racing? Essentially, 40 extremely mobile billboards circle a track for three hours, driven by men in jumpsuits that make bowling apparel look sharp. And yet car racing continues to be the hottest, fastest-growing sport in America, generating $2 billion in revenues and drawing gazillions in sponsorship money. In TV ratings, NASCAR racing blows away every major sport but pro football. With California-born Gordon as its poster boy, NASCAR is expanding beyond its Southeastern roots, going after the wine-and-cheese crowd, and even Donald Trump wants to get in on it. He plans to build a speedway near New York City, where there's a word for people who tailgate at high speeds: cabbies.

FOOD CITY 500
Bristol, Tenn.
My biggest fear is that I won't be able to speak the language. Gordon is going to say something about a carburetor adjustment, and I'll remember going to the auto-parts store for my father and being asked questions that made me feel like the dumb kid in class. How was I supposed to know what size the engine was or that "medium" wasn't an acceptable response?

The first surprise in Bristol is the Woodstock-on-wheels scene. Race fans converge from hundreds of miles away, arriving in motor homes as early as Thursday for parties, concerts, qualifying rounds and a junior-circuit Saturday race called the Busch Series. The local newspaper estimates that race fans will drop nearly $70 million into local pockets, and the money starts flowing at a Friday-night fund raiser for local children's charities. About 300 people have come to eyeball their racing heroes and bid on auction items like hats, uniforms and a Jeff Gordon jacket.

The evening allows me my first glimpse of Gordon and gives me my first hard evidence that racing fans don't come within 500 miles of normal. These may even be the same people who think Elvis is alive. "Oh, my God!" a woman quivers when she spots Gordon in a shower of camera flashes. (Women tend to like him more than men, many of whose development seems to have stalled in the towel-snapping phase. Gordon isn't manly enough to be their spiritual leader.) "He's so handsome."

He's got a twinkle in his eye too. But at 5 ft. 7 in., he looks like a stray from the Mickey Mouse Club. He's kind of bashful and aw-shucks looking when bidding begins on his jacket, a rainbow-colored affair bearing the name of his main sponsor--DuPont automotive finishes. Bidding starts at $500 and ends at $10,000, and I am stunned. Not by the price but by the idea that someone might leave the house wearing such a thing.

Nearly every Sunday from February through November, 40-some drivers climb into their cars and drive just like those cabbies for 500 miles, stopping only for major accidents or if the engine spits out a part. In 33 races last year, Gordon won 13 times, tying a record set by Richard Petty, who retired in 1992 but is still known as "the King." They keep standings from race to race, and Gordon has won driver of the year three of the past four years, the youngest ever to win three times. His earnings last year from race winnings, sponsorship deals and the sale of everything from hats to toy cars were $14 million.

For this, he is appropriately loved and hated, as are all the rich and famous. We'll get to the hate part. As for the love, it means this: from the moment he arrives at a track on Thursday until the moment he leaves on Sunday, he cannot take two steps without drawing Billy Graham-style crowds. People want to touch him, be photographed with him, have him sign their hats, their shirts, their children.

The amazing thing about this scene is that fans can get so close. It's the equivalent of walking on the field at Yankee Stadium during batting practice and asking Derek Jeter if he wouldn't mind posing for a photo with your three kids. DuPont might invite a few hundred car dealers, body-shop owners and other clients to a race, and they'll all get special access. Yet Gordon will climb out of his car after a practice run, and a growing swarm will be waiting to walk him to his trailer. Some of them will tug at him and shove things under his nose for autographs. In my first brief chat with Gordon, I ask if he's ever tempted to flick backhands at the jackals. "No," he says politely. "It's just part of the job."