RICH: The return

Published 7:00 am Sunday, February 9, 2025

It happened the other night. He returned for the first time in 30 years. His eyes were still dark brown, his hands were short but wide, and his teeth still pearly white but rarely seen because, for him, life was a serious business.

Usually, his smiles were tight or a closed, half smile that slipped slightly up from one corner but there were times I could entice a full grin and then, on occasion, a business success would be so joyous that he would throw back his head of thick, glossy, dark brown hair and laugh.

In a dream, he came back to visit. He was still young and cute and, throughout the dream, he grinned or laughed.

Without question, the happy dream came because at 9 pm, I had slapped closed my laptop, having written a magazine piece that featured Alan Kulwicki. It was the story of how Tink and I met: he was writing a movie script on Alan, discovered a story in the New York Times that mentioned I had dated him, then tracked me down to call and ask for an interview. A movie contract had me in Los Angeles so I met him for coffee and an uneasy but cordial friendship was begun. Tink was not happy nor easy in those days.

Alan won the stock car racing championship then was killed in a plane crash a few months later. That was just his luck. The way things seemed to go for him since he was in the second grade. That’s when his mother died. Alan and his little brother went to live with his grandmother while his father traveled the United States Auto Club (called USAC) building engines for different team.

As a sixth-grader, his grandmother died. Two years later, his brother, a hemophiliac, died while blowing the trumpet in the school band. A blood vessel burst.

Life, as evident by these tales, showed its grim side to Alan, early. Inspired by his father, he studied engineering in college, got a master’s degree, then began driving on the ASA circuit, eventually winning a championship and becoming one of the sport’s top stars.

I met him then. He won an ASA short track race that I, as a sports writer, was covering. I went down to the track to meet him. In the most fortunate of events, the track photographer snapped a photo of the moment I met Alan. We are shaking hands, my short, golden-red hair blowing in my face. I’m wearing large, black sunglasses (my sunglasses in later years would be an amusement between us) and Alan, in a rare moment, is smiling. I cherish that photo.

When Fox Sports did a documentary that included Alan, the network interviewed me  and used a couple of my Alan anecdotes, including one about his lack of humor. Once, I saw Alan walking through the garage with briefcase in hand — the only stock car driver to ever tote briefcases. Merrily, I ran over to him.

“Wait until I tell you what happened.” Deadpan, he looked at me. I continued laughing. “It’s so funny!” Not even a hint of a smile. I stopped and leaned in until our noses were close.

“But, don’t worry,” I replied humorously, “I’ll tell you when to laugh.”

At that, Alan smiled.

A friend took a photo of Alan and me at the height of our happiness, in the garage at North Wilkesboro. I am dressed way too glamorous for a greasy garage, wearing matching large sunglasses, hugged closely by Alan, grinning ear to ear. Since his death, the photo has set on my dresser until a few months ago when I discovered it had disappeared. We have been unsuccessful in finding it.

I awoke that morning with a sweet recall of that starry-eyed girl enthused about each day’s adventure. Alan, handsomely young, still had a lifetime of dreams ahead. Blissfully, we were unaware of the shortness of time.

—Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell mysteries. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.