Where There's Smoke...

"Just turn off your high beams," he says, and walks back to his car.

Later, we watch the dirt-track race from a rickety wooden official's tower, where fading autographed posters of Stewart line the walls. We eat corn dogs while Doles gets his ass kicked down below, and afterward we meet him at the car and drive back to the motor-coach lot.

"I'm done with racing," Doles says.

"You fuckin' quitter," Stewart says. "If I'd-a quit, you think I would have had the 28-year career I had? Sheeee-it. I've had enough of you tonight."

"Aw, hell, Tony. Y'all gonna call me later and say, 'Bring me some pussy.'"

"If there's one thing I don't lack, it's pussy. Between me and Tom here, there's two things we definitely don't lack, and that's pussy and money." Stewart is standing in his relaxed pose, with his thumbs hooked into his jeans. Carnival sounds and car horns float into the lot from the other side of the vast Talladega infield. "Pussy, money and race cars. That's pretty much all I care about." Then he winks at me.

Stewart gets wrecked at the Talladega Sprint Cup race. Twice. The crew repairs the damage the first time, and Smoke claws his way back into contention. With 14 laps to go, Junior gets into him as they race four across, and he gets caught in a melee that takes out six cars. Into the wall he goes, tearing up the front right side. The No. 20 car's day is over. Bad luck. Again. "This season's like a bad dream," he says. Zipadelli kicks the wrecked car. Zippy, Shapiro and the rest of the Home Depot team are staying with Joe Gibbs next year.

Back at the motor coach, Doles and Wetherald are sitting on the couch. Stewart strips to his tighty-whiteys and reclines on the floor. Someone hands him a plate of microwaved Chef Boyardee ravioli, and Stewart eats and watches the race on the widescreen.

"Shit, you can't blame Junior, even if it's his fault," Stewart says to the room, referring to Earnhardt's sacred status with the fans. Doles agrees. "And I think that Denny Hamlin set the goddang record for unnecessary lane changes," says Stewart. "Why can't he just ride?"

"That's what I was saying," says Redneck Jody.

"Well, he's on his own at Richmond. And I mean it."

Stewart finishes the ravioli and tosses the plate in the trash can. "This tastes like shit," he says. He fishes a box of doughnuts out of the cabinet.

The pack wrecks again, and Kyle Busch wins under caution. Pundits are now comparing Busch to Old Man Earnhardt, and I'm reminded of the signed helmet back in Stewart's house: "Tony, I'm coming for you!"

Stewart doesn't have anything left to prove in NASCAR. He can race for another 10 years if he wants to, but the competition is coming of age — Busch, Hamlin, Vickers, Edwards, David Ragan, a pimply 18-year-old named Joey Logano who'll most likely be taking over Stewart's seat in the No. 20 car. Stewart has to build a whole new team and also assemble a pit crew that understands that sometimes he loves winning so much it hurts. It ain't gonna be easy.

"You want a doughnut, Jody?" Stewart asks, chewing.

"No, thanks."

"Well, then," Tony Stewart says. "Do you want a kick in the ass?"

[From Issue 1060 — September 4, 2008]

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