By MONTE DUTTON

A few things to ponder on a dreary Monday morning:

The next generation will never learn to tie its shoes. It’s a useless knack. I never do it anymore.

I was up to 2 a.m. watching the stock cars race. It’s a habit, even more than a decade since I last covered a race live. Sunday was an odd one. I never picked up my guitar. I never read a book. I wrote about barbecue in the morning. I watched a movie and picked up the race late. Thunder, lightning and rain descended on Hampton, Ga., so I watched the part of the race I had missed. Then I called an old friend and caught up. (“How are things in Clinton?” “Well, I don’t live there anymore.” …)

Carson Hocevar is the poster boy of his generation. He’s fearless. He’s talented. He’s got a personality the high banks of Talladega can’t enclose, and he just doesn’t care. I’m not a fan, but I’m fascinated. He’s out of a movie. I can imagine him screaming “woo-hoo!” when he takes the green flag.

NASCAR needs a young driver who can draw young fans. It’s obvious from the commercials that the base is aging.

One distasteful aspect of my former profession is that every time a driver comes along who is quotable, irreverent, funny and, oh, by the way, talented, the cynics tear him apart.

On one hand, the old timer in me grumbles that these crazy kids have never had to fix what they tear up or pay for it. Then again, every hour brings knowledge that the world is changing.

The most I can say for Carson Hocevar is that he amuses me. I’m coming around.

The best driver won the race. I’ve seen a touch of David Pearson, my gold standard, in Ryan Blaney, for several years.

Right now, Kyle Larson has the most talent. He can take his car where no one else can. His weakness is that he does it so often.

Great drivers can run the high line in the bankings of big tracks. Richard Petty could do it. Dale Earnhardt could do it. Bill Elliott could do it. Harry Gant could do it. Larson can do it.

I would be remiss in any description of Sunday without noting the early-morning shock of Sen. Lindsey Graham’s death. My first thought was it was a social-media hoax. My second thought was it must be Mitch McConnell. My third thought was, hell, he was why I moved up here.

You may not think that is funny. It is your right. I didn’t really move up here because of a politician. I mourn even this one’s passing. I could write a book no one would read about why I moved.

Wellpilgrim.com takes its name from John Wayne, who liked the phrase, and the Kris Kristofferson song “The Pilgrim: Chapter 33, Hang on, Hopper.” The title of the site comes from my favorite song, Michael Burton’s “Nightrider’s Lament.”

If you’d like to contribute to the site, I can be reached at Adventure Village #6, 15 Adventure Ridge Road, Brevard, N.C.    28712.

I’d appreciate it if you’d consider buying one or two or five of my books, which are available on Amazon and at other bookseller sites. Two novels, Cowboys Come Home and Lightning in a Bottle, are available in audible versions.