It was at this time every year – give or take a few days – that NASCAR fans and media would descend upon Rockingham Speedway for its fall NASCAR Cup Series race.
To most, the racetrack was better known as “The Rock.” It was a 1.017-mile track that staged 500-mile races, which meant drivers, who often ran at speeds slightly higher than 100 mph, had to complete around 492 laps to run the entire distance.
Of course, that took some time.
Except for Charlotte Motor Speedway’s 600-miler on Memorial Day weekend, many of Rockingham’s races were the longest of any season. They earned their oft-repeated nickname, “The Five Hours of Rockingham.”
That didn’t lessen the speedway’s popularity. When it came to racing, many fans felt they surely got their money’s worth at Rockingham. And there wasn’t a bad seat in the house.
After I joined the Roanoke Times in 1972, one of the first NASCAR races I covered was at Rockingham. Compared to what it became in later years, it was pretty spartan. But then, so were many other speedways at the time.
I enjoyed covering races at Rockingham. True, they sometimes seemed ungodly long but what was more important was the simplicity of gathering news and information.
Like fans and media, drivers also enjoyed races at Rockingham. They liked its short-track challenges on a larger speedway.
Additionally, the spring event followed the Daytona 500 and the fall race was near the end of the season. For most competitors, this meant less pressure.
Gone was the stress of competing in NASCAR’s most well-known and prestigious race in February. In the fall, there was little pressure for any driver not involved in the scrap for the championship – and that was the majority of them.
As a result, competitors were more relaxed and open. Getting interviews wasn’t difficult. Acquiring the answers that make for entertaining, informative stories was easy.
For the media, so was covering a Rockingham race. For them, the track became a favorite.
Years ago, it seemed drivers and the media were closer and more personal than they are today – just one man’s opinion, of course.
At many tracks, news folks and competitors would stay at the same motels (no one owned a motorhome), eat at the same restaurants and share drinks at the same clubs or bars, where they would swap stories that most assuredly would never be printed.
So it was in Rockingham, or, rather, nearby Southern Pines, where the Holiday Inn was filled with NASCAR types.
In 1978, it was at that Holiday Inn that what was the whackiest misadventure of my career began.
My friend, Tom Higgins of the Charlotte Observer, and I were dining at the motel restaurant when the late B.J. Currie of the speedway’s credential department approached us and said:
“Tomorrow night we’re all going square dancing at a place out in the woods. We want y’all to join us.”
Higgins and I had become friends and started traveling together just a couple of years earlier. But we knew what we liked to do when we weren’t tied down to work. And square dancing wasn’t one of them.
We tried to beg off, but B.J. – and several of her friends — were having none of it. Finally, we agreed to go.
As we drove to the square dance set in one of the many rolling pine tree forests surrounding the Rockingham area, we kept telling each other we were going as a courtesy and that under no circumstances would we square dance.
“Now, we’re doing this as a favor to B.J. and there’s no way we are square dancing,” Higgins said.
“Right,” I answered. “As far as I’m concerned, we make an appearance and get the hell out of there. I absolutely am not square dancing.”
Fifteen minutes after we got there, Higgins was square dancing with a 90-year-old woman and I was promenading with a 15-year-old.
Took control of the situation, didn’t we?
We tried to make the most of it. We were told we could take a drink if we wanted, but not inside the building. If we wanted a cocktail we’d have to pour it in our car.
Which we did, routinely. Even when it started raining – not a rare occurrence in Rockingham.
Our “bar breaks” continued throughout the downpour until I reached the conclusion we were drawing a lot of attention.
“Tom, do you think people are looking at us because we’re soaking wet?” I asked.
Finally, B.J. came up to us and said, “You’ve gotta come to my house. Momma is making us breakfast.”
“We have no idea where you live,” I said.
“Here’s the plan,” B.J. said. “Park up there where the road joins the highway. I’ll be driving a white Grand Prix. When you see it, fall in behind and follow me.”
We waited at the appointed place, trying very hard in the driving rain to determine which car was going past and straining to spot a white Grand Prix.
Finally, we saw one. And we dutifully fell in line behind it as it turned onto the highway.
After traveling several miles, I became concerned. We were rolling along in the middle of nowhere in complete darkness save for the rear lights of the Grand Prix in front of us.
“B.J. sure lives a heckuva long way out,” I said to Higgins.
He responded, “Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z!”
When we passed a sign that said, “Cheraw, S.C.”, I panicked. We were about 90 miles from our motel.
Shortly after that, the Grand Prix pulled into the driveway of a small house.
Out stepped a guy who looked exactly like that prisoner from the movie, “The Green Mile,” and you KNOW which one I’m talking about.
He stared at us. He wasn’t happy.
I put our car in reverse, backed up as fast as I could, made a sharp U-turn and sped down the highway.
After what seemed an eternity, we pulled into our motel parking lot. It was still raining.
“One good thing about getting back this late, Tom,” I said. “With this rain, there ain’t no way there’s going to be a race tomorrow.”
Tom replied, “Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z!”
I was awakened the next morning by sunlight pouring through an opening in the sliding door curtain and the sound of birds chirping.
It was 10:30 a.m. The race started at 1 p.m.
Suffice it to say that after a panicky start and some traveling past the speed limit, we entered the press box just before the start of the race.
Rockingham held its last Cup race in February 2004. But the track is still with us. It holds several events and will play host to the NASCAR Xfinity and Craftsman Truck Series and ARCA Menards Series East races next spring.
I’ve been back a couple of times just to see some racing and to absorb some old memories.
But not to square dance, of course.
Steve Waid has been in journalism since 1972, when he began his newspaper career at the Martinsville (Va.) Bulletin. He has spent over 40 years in motorsports journalism, first with the Roanoke Times-World News and later as publisher and vice president for NASCAR Scene and NASCAR Illustrated.
Steve has won numerous state sports writing awards and several more from the National Motorsports Press Association for his motorsports coverage, feature and column writing. For several years, Steve was a regular on “NASCAR This Morning” on FOX Sports Net and he is the co-author, with Tom Higgins, of the biography “Junior Johnson: Brave In Life.”
In January 2014, Steve was inducted into the NMPA Hall of Fame. And in 2019 he was presented the Squier-Hall Award by the NASCAR Hall of Fame for lifetime excellence in motorsports journalism. In addition to writing for Frontstretch, Steve is also the co-host of The Scene Vault Podcast.