Babes, Bordeaux & Billy Bobs

• Share

(4 of 5)

I tell him I saw people selling Fans Against Gordon T shirts outside the stadium and stopped to talk to them, and he's curious to hear what they had to say. All the usual stuff, I tell him. He's too pretty for NASCAR. He's from the north. He's rich. He always wins. He married a gorgeous woman. If there is a more American urge than to want everything, it's to take down the guy who gets it. "All I can do is try to earn their respect by being who I am and doing what I do," Gordon says.

Good Lord, I want to grab this kid and shake him, mess up his hair, maybe get him to take up cussing. He admits, in the course of 90 minutes of insufferable evenhandedness, that the pressure, obligations and spotlight are overwhelming. "But if you had said, 'Hey, you're never going to have a personal life; you're constantly going to be traveling...talking to sponsors and signing autographs every day for the rest of your career,' I think I'd still say, 'O.K., I'll take it.'"

You hear some private mutterings from other drivers about Gordon's success and about how all the money translates into a better car, a bigger advantage and ever more exposure. "But when Jeff goes on the Letterman show, he takes all of us with him," Petty says. "His success has been great for NASCAR and every one of us."

Gordon sometimes wishes he'd gone to college or that he'd had time to make closer friends. But he's trading nothing because he has the only two things he wants: time with Brooke, who travels with him to every race, and time behind the wheel. "Even when I'm in a street car, driving down the road, it's like I'm in a race car. Not speedwise. It's just that I'm constantly paying total attention to everything around me, constantly clocking myself from one point to the next."

The one clue to what's under Gordon's hood is the story of his 1994 split from his mother and the man who raised him and introduced him to racing. Carol and John Bickford, Gordon's mother and stepfather, say they still don't know exactly what happened. But to Jeff it was obvious. As much as he loves them and believes they put him where he is, he wanted to be more involved in managing his life and career, and they were too controlling. "I was growing up, I'd met a woman I was just head over heels with, and I wanted to be a man," he says. "I wanted to show her that I could be a husband. That I could take care of myself and take care of her, and I felt like I was almost being treated like a little boy."

All three talk occasionally; all three say they'd like to patch it up. But Gordon's unreachability, to his own parents or to the next reporter who comes along and tries to break him down, isn't surprising. He is the dog who runs ahead of the pack and doesn't know why. His world begins at 200 miles an hour, and when he is out there, it's a safe place where no one knows him.

On race day private jets hover over the racetrack, waiting in heavy traffic to deliver high rollers to the nearby airfield. Al Copeland, 52, founder of Popeye's chicken, is up there waiting to join his family. Copeland is such a racing nut that he bought five race cars for his family and his 26-year-old girlfriend, and he rents out racetracks for private races.

On the infield, John Gregorian, 37, and four buddies from the Chicago Board of Trade light up $8 cigars in their rented 22-ft. Tioga Flyer. And Randy Holmes, 41, an ironworker from Orlando, Fla., climbs on top of his rickety $4,000 motor home and turns on his scanner to hear the chatter between drivers and crew chiefs. Holmes saved up for two months to come to the race with his stepfather, two sons and a nephew. He doesn't know it, but 75 yds. away in a somewhat more elaborate rig, Texaco CEO Peter Bijur is getting ready to root for Kenny Irwin in the Havoline car.

Fifty laps into the race, Gordon wrecks his car and finishes 38th. It's his fourth washout in a month, and he begins to wonder, for the first time in his career, if the magic is gone. Earnhardt, running on steak and potatoes, wins the race with Martin on his tail, a nickel short with that lousy can of tuna he had for lunch.