From 5PM Friday onward, I spent this weekend on basically 100% racecars. It was good and necessary. The next thing I had to do after receiving news of Kyle Busch’s death on Thursday (thank u @confluencechimera — that was so much better than finding out via some heinous AI Facebook slop) was *run a meeting* about Louisiana v. Callais and then keep running tech on that meeting while I went to another meeting until 11PM. Well, first I sat on my floor for two hours on Twitter, in shock and disbelief, and then when I got sad I stood in the shower before said meetings. And then the next morning... went to work? And said nothing. Because how do you even explain that to like... non-NASCAR people who are probably also normal about things. Come Monday, I still don't know. This morning I said, "How was my weekend? I stayed in my house lol."
Friday was honestly super triggering because TMZ (TMZ TMZ-ing...) released the audio of the 911 call. I didn’t listen to it, obviously, but descriptions of it were impossible to avoid, even if all I did was *open a new tab in Firefox*. And that was just so, so upsetting, because the general public should not have access to that, it should not be paraded around. And like, on a personal level, I didn’t want that in my head. That’s horrible.
The teams and drivers were only informed an hour before the public was, and while during NASCAR admin’s media availability on Friday some journalists asked some truly heinous questions (let’s be clear here, it was Claire Lang. It was Claire Lang’s heinous question), it was helpful to know that, in answer to another journalist’s question, NASCAR has resources and support for the teams and drivers. It was also helpful to know that everyone was given the option not to attend Media Day (Saturday), and that only people who were ready and wanted to be there should go. From my perspective, it felt protective, for the old guard to step into a lot of the initial media appearances, like Denny and Brad and Jimmie and Joey. And then teammates, past and present. People who drove for KBM. People connected via their kids’ friendships. Joe Gibbs.
Despite already knowing it was going to rain in Charlotte all week, I initially dreaded the idea that instead of teams being able to clear the slate for a few hours and work on something that demanded their full attention, they’d have to sit in rain delay protraction and stew in the uncertainty and have even more media availability. But I think Saturday ended up being really good, in that everyone was together, but also had a lot of time out of the car. And there was space to just be with the moment and with each other. Sharing stories, reflections, embraces. For everyone—teams, drivers, admin, journalists, TV media, fans. Because NASCAR is one of those weird things where like, most people have like three different jobs in the industry or have worked across different pieces of it at various points in their life (“X does graphic design for Y team but is also the tire carrier for Z and also races late models with Q”) and there’s an extremely liquid boundary between what is what and who is who. The formal TV broadcast well be on a last name basis with someone and then two minutes later be on first names. All the teams and drivers know all the media people by name, and we know everyone by name. Heck, we know who has a bundt cake business. Basically without any additional effort or sleuthing required, somehow we know the wives; the kids; the parents; who’s friends with who, who—doesn’t like Martinsville hotdogs, or has never head of the Appalachian Trail. Somehow, it’s all in there. And that’s how you come to know people like Samantha. Especially Samantha, who is outgoing and talkative and all in all a center-of-the-room kind of person.
And I mean, people will have the conversation about parasociality, sure. But the racetrack is the space of the collective. This weekend, collective mourning. I think the collective is an important dimension of the greater whole. There are things for the family, inside the house, and there are things for and from the neighborhood. I also think that even on its best, most innocent day, that’s part of what NASCAR is—intimacy amongst strangers at a racetrack, bound together by love of whatever this weird thing is. I hope that within the ether of the universe, the Busch family feels that love.
It’s because of the particularity of racing-as-collective that I feel like the pieces that were the hardest to handle and that meant the most were those that were part of the protocol of racing. Keeping “Busch” in the rear window of the 7 truck KyBu was supposed to race on Friday—the one he won in last week. Reflections from the man who re-wrapped the 8 into the 33. The silent witness of that 33 emerging from the hauler and being rolled to tech. Numbers gracing pylons. Decals flooding the field, on every single car. All the Rowdy nameplates. The Indy 500 coordinating across series and across states to bring these things to their cars, too. The 8 and 18 coordinating full decal swaps to KyBu’s font, for the cars and pit signs as well as the graphics package for the broadcast. Everyone coming out in KBM or KyBu or Brexton gear. KL going for a “Tiny Kyle” nameplate, to honor KyBu’s nickname for him (Tiny Kyle, as distinguished from Big Kyle, Kyle Busch). These mean so much because they are the language of the sport, in its most particular and most representative. Love and mourning and expression in a native tongue.
In no world did I imagine that the Busch family—Kurt and his partner, their parents, Samantha, Brexton, and Lennix—would be present for the 600. That seems unimaginable. I hope they were treated to all the space and respect they seemed to have been. But there is, again, something to be said of being in mourning together, even if you are mourning from different spaces and distances and relationships. I hope they felt held. I will remember Owen going to Brexton, looking shy and awkward and uncertain, to hug him. I will remember Samantha and Brexton, holding each other tight.
I’m proud of everyone who got it done, moved mountains. I’m proud of everyone who gave themselves courageously, generously, vulnerably. I’m proud of everyone who chose not to. I’m proud of everyone who kept it together (Danielle Trotta has balls of steel), and everyone who didn’t.
I’m glad I got to spend the weekend at a 2.5-day racecar funeral, stretching from Charlotte to Indianapolis and beyond. I’m glad I got to spend it in the collective, and especially to do that in the company of my own personal friends. Thanks, you three. <3
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