His left leg ached. And there were bruises on his chest that hurt whenever he shifted in his seat. He walks tall, white T-shirt cutting a huge, athletic figure across the parking lot, and before he reaches his destination, Andy Papathanassiou is talking.
Cars rush past, and the world is bright, shining metal and a sharp smell of gas and hot rubber.
Mike Trower, motionless, perches on a two-foot cement wall. It didn't matter if he was working his Chevrolet Monte Carlo during the hottest part of the afternoon or the cool of nighttime. You don't have to like Jeff Gordon. And judging by the cheers from the grandstands every time his car belches black smoke and takes a shortcut to the garage area, many fans don't.