Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [206]
Those who observed Payton in his racing infancy recall a marginal talent who sabotaged his own improvement with the need to drive full throttle. Just as Walter Payton the running back knew no brake pedal, Walter Payton the driver knew no brake pedal, either. “He drove exactly like he played,” said Knapp. “He cut very hard, he was really jerky, and he didn’t know when to pull back.”
“He wanted to run before he walked,” said Tony Kester, his driving coach. “Walter’s best attribute as a driver was his hand-eye coordination, which was off the charts. But a big problem was his strength. Walter was like Paul Bunyan, and Paul Bunyan would have had a lot of difficulty driving. Walter was so strong that he would push the brake pedal with too much force and lock the brakes. So we had to adjust the pedal to make it harder.” If NASCAR and Formula One are auto racing’s Major Leagues, the Sports 2000 series was maybe Class A. Most of the participants were part-time racers who worked nine-to-five jobs. Few fans attended, and those who did were either irrationally devoted to motor sports or uninspired by the day’s selections at the local movie theatre. Experienced drivers viewed the series dismissively, as an entry-level endeavor and little more. For Payton, however, it served as a gateway to a higher caliber of competition as well as an adrenaline substitute for football.
His official debut took place on May 13, 1989, in the not-so-bustling Dallas suburb of Addison, Texas. For a man used to first-class accommodations and the most modern of equipment, this would seem to be an enormous comedown. The 1.57-mile track was built on the runways, perimeter roads, and streets of the dilapidated Addison Airport. There was minimal parking, zero concessions, and blistering heat that made the inside of a car feel like a microwave oven.
Payton and his crew arrived at the track approximately four hours before the one P.M. start. The enormous van that carried his car and equipment bore the insignia, PAYTON PLACE. Armed with a white Lola with No. 34 painted along the side, Payton nervously entered his vehicle and rolled toward the starting line. His heart was pounding, his breathing quickened. He last felt these sorts of jitters thirteen years earlier, when he lined up for his first NFL game.
Though he was but a rookie, Payton—ever the competitor—expected to win. Through the seventh of thirty-seven laps, he was running eleventh in a field of twenty-four, holding his own against tour veterans like Irv Hoerr and Darin Brassfield. Finally, on the eighth lap, inexperience kicked in. Payton’s car skidded off the track and slammed into a tire wall, bringing oohs and ahhs from the scattered fans and audible cursing from the driver. “I was really running hot,” Payton said afterward. “I was coming into turn six and suddenly there was oil on my visor. It must have been thrown up from the car in front of me. I reached up and tried to wipe it off my visor and shouldn’t have done that. It smeared all over and I couldn’t see anything. The next thing I knew I was off the track.”
Because Payton was a first timer, his crew and the other racers took sympathy on his plight. Driving wasn’t easy—especially for a rookie used to physically dominating in another arena. Yet as the season progressed and Payton traveled from venue to venue, the excuses became a regular part of his routine. His car wasn’t good enough. His crew kept screwing up. The track was too slick. The steering wheel jammed. He crashed on multiple occasions,