Daytona’s tire tracks still in sand

By Joe McAdory

Published: February 17, 2008

PONCE INLET, Fla.—Waves gently crash to the shore. Seagulls squawk, searching for a morning meal. A warm wind blows off of the sun-shimmered Atlantic, filled with the scent of salt.
There is no one here but me.

To my left is the ocean. To my right are sund dunes, A1A and the historic Ponce Inlet Lighthouse in the background. In front of me lie the tire tracks of history, covered in sand.

The racing world will focus today 10 miles northwest of my quiet, little siesta on the beach. Nearly 200,000 will gather and millions will watch on television to see if Dale Earnhardt Jr., Jeff Gordon, Tony Stewart, Jimmie Johnson or someone else will grab the elusive Daytona 500 trophy. The winner will roll into victory lane—confetti flying everywhere—jump on top of their car, hoop, holler and celebrate what has become a made-for-television 200 mph reality show, complete with fireworks, jet fighter fly-overs and national anthem from someone who evidently cut a record.

But before the glitter of what has become today’s corporate-powered NASCAR and an event coined and trademarked by Ken Squier as “The Great American Race,“ there was racing at Daytona.
Lots of it. Right where I’m standing.

Daytona will celebrate the 50th running of the 500 in about four hours. I’ll be there. Can’t wait. But before I fight the crowds and take my seat, I figured I’d pay homage to the hallowed grounds on this stretch of beach. Before me is the exact spot where the final beach race was held, Feb. 23, 1958.

It’s easier to enjoy what we have today when we learn to fully appreciate what we had yesterday.

It’s hard to folks raced on this stretch of sandy Earth. One straightaway of the track was the beach. The other was A1A. Half sand. Half road. Treacherous, deep sandy turns lie in between.

Daytona Beach offers a special, hard-packed sand that allows vehicles to drive on the beach. If it didn’t, Daytona would never have become the Birthplace of Speed.

Quick—who’s the fastest driver in the history of Daytona? Dale Earnhardt? Wrong. Oh yeah, Bill Elliott. Wrong again. Before Awesome Bill from Dawsonville turned a lap of 210 mph over at the speedway, an Englishman named Sir Malcolm Campbell ripped across the sand here at 276 mph back in 1935 in an odd-looking speedster dubbed the Bluebird.

But real, annual beach “racing” didn’t start here until the 1940s. Nothing against Sir Malcolm, a 1900s version of John Force, but he never really traded paint.
Here just south of the north turn—where a restaurant the “North Turn” aptly exists and serves customers seven days a week—there were no speed trials. There was just racing. Hard racing. Bill France recognized its future and molded the sport into gold.

I look to the ground and imagine the tire tracks left behind. I gaze down what used to be the backstretch and picture pioneers—Lee Petty, Tim and Fonty Flock, Red Byron, Buck Baker and Paul Goldsmith battling just feet from the onrushing surf—ghosts of Daytona’s past who paved the way for Daytona’s present and future.

This isolated spot has an eerie calm to it today. There’s something about serenity that makes a place special. Sure, we can celebrate the 50th Daytona 500, but let’s not forget where it started. Right here between the dunes.

Peering back at the ocean before making my trek toward the sea of crazed humanity that has become Daytona International Speedway, I can’t help but notice a pack of pelicans zooming inches from the water—one tucked directly behind the other in a perfect, symmetric line.

Yep, they must be drafting.