The Daytona 500. There isn’t anything like it anywhere in the world. The all-time, A-number one, first class, knock-down, drag out, greatest spectacle in racing. The Big One. The one everybody wants to win. The one they put first in their list of racing credits. The one Richard Petty has won five times and no other driver has won twice. The one NASCAR’s all-time super speedway king dog, David Pearson, has never won.
This isn’t the granddaddy of racing whose trophy is reverently cradled by an awe-stricken pilgrim, humbly grateful to tread the golden dais. Daytona is the 19-year-old, lump-shirted, tight-butted, hipswingin’, fire-breathin’, yaller-haired honey you don’t ever want to bring home to Daddy.
This 500 is the race men would cheat their preacher, slingshot their brother or sell the…