By MONTE DUTTON

On Thursday night, I was watching the Daytona qualifying races on TV and thought about how they had changed since the early 1990s, when I started writing about them.
They were in the daytime back then, and the stands were almost full. The stands were almost full for all the races during Speedweeks, packed for the Daytona 500. For the “twins,” and the Saturday (then Busch) race, a few empty seats were available in turns four and one. There was no such thing as a Truck Series yet.
I guess those fans have been priced out of the market. It must cost a lot more to watch all the races. The prevailing view back then was that empty seats didn’t buy hot dogs. Fans made pilgrimages. The races were in the Florida but the crowds migrated down I-95, from Pennsylvania, Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia.

The fans went to races every night of the week, and not just at the big track. They went to the short tracks – Volusia County, New Smyrna Beach, Lakeland and others – where their own local heroes brought the race cars down to run where snow wasn’t on the ground.
Daytona International Speedway called it Speedweeks, but the term was applicable to the whole state. The convention center had a big trade show. There was always something to do. We’d go to the greyhound track, or hang out at Boothill Saloon, or visit Fireball Roberts’ grave, or the Streamline Hotel, where NASCAR was formed, or what was left of the old beach/road course, where the original stock cars ran wide open up A1A, took a hairpin curve on each side and then raced back up the sandy beach.

Last night I was watching a video of the old Ricky Skaggs’ song: Don’t get above your raisin’ / Stay down to each with me.
NASCAR has gotten above its raising. Every other sport has, too. Ain’t no money in one’s raising.
Both annual trips to Daytona were heaven. Renting a condo for the whole month was cheaper than a week in a hotel. My buddies and I watched a lot of live music, played a lot of golf, cooked a pot of chili to watch Super Bowl and still spent half our time at the track. In July the race started in the morning, and we’d write our stories and be swimming in the Atlantic by mid-afternoon.

Being a sportswriter was a lot more fun in those days. Maybe everything else, too. It certainly was different. I’m not there anymore. I don’t know everybody – or anybody — but I feel confident that not one driver at the speedway tonight is remotely like Harry Gant, Sterling Marlin, Kenny Schrader and Dave Marcis. I doubt there’s a trace of Tony Stewart left in the family trees.
If I still went to the races, I expect I’d thank my lucky stars for the Wood Brothers, Dale Jr. and King Richard.
I’m getting a little stronger, but I tire easily. Energy remains a problem.

In the off chance you’d like to read my novels and other books, they’re available on Amazon and many prominent bookseller sites.
You can read them on your phones and other devices for a modest cost. I make a bit more if you purchase the actual books, but what I mainly want is for folks to read them.
Illness has left me with some some uncovered medical expenses. I hope to sell off some memorabilia I’ve accumulated over the years. First I’ve got to get well. Perhaps you’d be interested in purchasing an autographed photo of Merle Haggard, or Sir Jackie Stewart, or Jimmie Foxx, or Buddy Hackett, or Mario Andretti, or Carl Reiner, or Sid Luckman, or some historic NASCAR posters.