Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [208]
What Payton most loved about the racing world was the comradery among drivers. Back in Illinois, his life often felt bereft of meaning and purpose. He was lonely, sad, isolated. The track, however, offered substance. It was just like the Bears’ locker room, what with Payton flicking ears and tying shoelaces together and embracing rivals in rib-crushing bear hugs (his track favorite was grabbing unsuspecting drivers by the wrists while walking by and having them helplessly drag along). Were the other drivers close, personal friends? No. But they were colleagues, and they served a very genuine purpose. “We were at a race in Sonoma, California, which was my home track,” said Peter Musser, a veteran driver. “We were in a drivers meeting and he’s got himself peeled up against a back wall. The head of the series is chewing us all out about reckless driving, just letting us have it. [Driver] Scott Sharp turns to Walter in the back and says, ‘Walter, why don’t you sit up here with the rest of us.’ And in that high-pitched voice, Walter says, ‘Nah, man, the brothers hang in the back.’ The room just broke up laughing.”
On the road Payton had nothing to hide and no preestablished image to live up to. He wasn’t Sweetness, the larger-than-life Chicago icon. He was Walter, the mediocre driver and laid-back guy. Most of his peers didn’t even know he was married.
“He ran with great-looking women,” said Bobby Archer, a fellow racer. “That, I remember.”
“Gorgeous women accompanied him,” said Greg Pickett, another driver. “He was a magnet.”
Payton never wore a wedding ring, and the woman by his side at most (but not all) events was Lita Gonzalez, the Continental flight attendant. Thanks to her job, Gonzalez had free access to the nation. On her off days she’d fly from her home in New Jersey and meet Payton at points ranging from Nevada to Dallas to Wisconsin. “She was there regularly,” said Jim Derhaag, a competitor. “We all knew Lita and embraced her into our community.”
On occasion, Payton also brought his children along. They enjoyed the excitement of the racetrack. The sounds of the engines. The speed. The euphoria. The colors. On August 20, 1993, Walter had eight-year-old Brittney accompany him to Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, to watch a qualifying round at Road America. When Walter went off to drive he left his daughter in the company of the track officials. “We were on a golf cart,” she said. “Me and a bunch of people I didn’t know.”
Strapped into his blue Ford Mustang Cobra (No. 34 painted across the hood), Payton lined up with the other drivers, taking off with the wave of a flag. It was an otherwise normal qualifying run—Payton hanging back, waiting to make some sort of move, preparing to transition from a straightaway to a curve. Running directly in front of Payton was Dick Danielson, a Hartford, Wisconsin, native with twenty-three years of racing to his credit. As his Camaro steadied for the turn, Danielson shifted into fourth gear and lost all power.
“Walter is preparing to pass him, but it’s like following a car on the freeway and the car in front of you stops,” said Tom Gloy, owner of the Tom Gloy Racing Team. “Walter was pretty much helpless.” Payton’s Ford somehow eluded Danielson, but its front right tire nicked Danielson’s left rear tire.
At 130 mph, tiny collisions mean big trouble. Payton’s car swerved off to the side, hit the guardrail, somersaulted, flew thirty feet into the air, traveled a hundred feet, bounced four times, and finally, bounded off the guardrail and over a fence. “The fence!” said Jack Baldwin, a driver. “I’d never seen anyone clear that thing before.” The final impact cut open the rear of the vehicle and sliced through a fuel cell. The car was engulfed by fire. Payton, knocked unconscious for a brief spell, regained his senses and leapt from the damage. “When I finally stopped I was looking upside down and there were flames,” he said afterward. “All I could think of at that point was that I had to get out of there.”
Riding