My three-day road to Daytona Beach ended dismally.
The day of the Daytona 500, I was as sick as I can remember being, and maybe 90 minutes later reluctantly drove to the emergency room at Central Florida Regional Hospital. I spent about six hours there. They gave me a CAT scan. Hey, I’ve watched "House," I know what happens. I was scared, I have to admit.
Then they fed me morphine through an IV. I asked if I’d still be able to cover the race. The doctor looked at the morphine and said no. I said, or tried to say, you’ve never read my race columns, nobody will know. As frenzied as the finish was, I would have been the most laid-back guy at the track.
I’m fine, nothing serious, but I did miss the race. I thought I was immune to anything more than the flu. It appears I was wrong.
Despite the thud with which the three-column, three-day drive to Daytona Beach ended, I’d do it again.
I love the road, and based on your e-mail, so do many of you. You know what I loved? Waking up and not knowing where I’d end up that night.
In the car was a full tank of gas and an atlas. Other than curiosity and a sense of adventure, what more do you need?