Back then I was a fairly immoderate pot smoker, but because of situations beyond my control, did not bring any with me. Laws were more draconian then than they are now, especially in the South. Possession of one joint in suburban Atlanta netted you 10 years on the chain gang in 1981 (or something like that). So, I wasn't feeling masochistic, but. . .the mountain people. Moonshine, Texas Tea, y'all sit around for a spell. The wheels inside began to turn.

The next day, I think a Friday, I went up in the grandstands on the far end, pitside of the track. I always kept a clipboard to keep track of the times of the three pro classes and two

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alky classes, and those little props helped me to get to know the locals at any race. They'd want to know what I was writing down, I'd show them, and we'd hit it off. On this particular day, I went looking to hit it off with mountain people and the introduction was not long in coming.

I espied three guys and a gal near the top of the bleachers near the top end of the track. Three beards and a bouncing babe. My hair was fairly long back then, not all that common in the South 22 years ago, and I started to keep track of the Pro Stocks. After 15 minutes or so, one of this wild-eyed quartet asked Whatcha got there? I told them and we started bullshitting. They liked to hunt and fish, all of them except the gal worked in construction, and as we loosened up (I occasionally bought a beer or two to calm my shaking hands) we talked a little of personal lives.

I let it slip that in my weirder moments I liked to smoke pot. They in turn were more demonstrative.

"You wanna real buzz, Buzz?" one of them inquired. As I turned to answer, this one guy pulled from a beer-packed ice chest a small half-full Mason jar with a clear liquid in it. Worldwise as I was, I sorta knew what awaited in that somewhat harmless-looking package.

"Well, since you put it that way," I said good-manneredly, "I accept your token of friendship," and was handed that jar. An effortless twist of the wrist let the genie out of the bottle and I took a slightly less-than-modest swallow, but nothing you could call "hoggish." The stuff went down exceedingly warm and then lingered as a hot coal might in your shorts.

Gasp, gasp. "Say," I squeaked, "that really gets your attention." I took one more draw, handed it back this time with a mild wretch and then a series of coughing reports. They laughed, I laughed. And after an oil down, I said I had to get to the pressroom and that I'd see them later.

Much later. And as for the pressroom, I wasn't walking around 10 minutes before I got numb in the face, warm in the head, and, let's say it, "Dixie Fried." Those two swallows were the equal of a half joint's worth of good Hawaiian or Northern California weed. I was no longer in pressroom shape. I could just see the scene if I flashed my Media card. Track topkick Steve Earwood would see me mount the stairs in full Samoan warrior skirts and spear, my frothing face covered with body paint and blood. Innocent city beat reporters scrambling out of the way of a demented madman. As it was, it took me a good hour or so to throw that stuff to the point where I would want to talk to anybody.

I went to the Southern Nationals many times after that first one, which was the inaugural event, but I never saw that group in the grandstands. I was kinda hoping I would and for a year, every time I bought a bottle of tequila or bourbon. I'd check the label to see if they had any "Have You Seen These Missing Persons?" photos on them. They didn't, dammit.

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