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The best thing about covering NASCAR is I never have to see grown men naked. I bet that when writers who cover other sports hit the offseason, what they miss least are the regular talks with men in various states of undress. Poor Ken Rosenthal probably spent more time looking down at his shoes in clubhouses last season than Dale Earnhardt Jr. spent looking up at the top 10.
But that's not my point. My point is it has been almost two months since the last race, and it will be another month before the next one. I need something to do on Sundays; I can only pretend to spackle the bedroom wall for so long before my wife figures out I'm actually napping. The 2006 season can't start soon enough.
What I'm looking forward to most:
Road-trip breakfasts. Races often are held in the boonies, and there is no better meal than one at a greasy spoon with a sign outside that says, "Eat."
Why don't other industries follow that trend of honesty in advertising? My insurance agent would have a sign that says, "Scam." But that's not my point. My point is I could eat an omelette, corned beef hash and toast every day for the rest of my life.
The five minutes before a race starts--and the 10 minutes after it does. The smell, the power, the noise, the creeping deafness.
Tony Stewart's brash. The man is entertaining.