I was ten-years-old wearing a Chevy t-shirt and Dale Earnhardt hat, laughing at my uncle who was a Rusty Wallace fan as the black number-three car nudged the number-two Miller car out of the way and speeded toward the checkered flag at a racetrack that could have been any number of places: Maybe North Wilkesboro, maybe Bristol, maybe even Martinsville. The track wasn’t important, what mattered was that for the next week, I would have bragging rights at my local elementary school and with my family in the Appalachian coalfields.
Read more at Appalachian Magazine
Hat tip to former staff writer Lou Modestino for this link
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