Two young men, Chevrolet fans by their t-shirts and caps, are out walking. this is August, last summer.
"Wait a second, man, hold up. Wasn't that Gordon?"
"On that golf cart just went by...."
"What? On a golf cart? What the hell would Gordon be doin' out here on a golf cart?"
"No, seriously, dude, it was him. Look!"
"Like he'd ever come out here. No effin' way. Never happen. Gordon'd never come out here. Think about it. How drunk are you, anyhow?"
"Pretty effin' drunk, but it was still him."
One hundred yards away now, cresting a hill in the last of the sunset and trailing a cloud of dust and a wake of rubbernecking argument and beer-impaired finger-pointing, it is Jeff Gordon, the four-time NASCAR Winston Cup Champion who, depending upon which fan you ask and which finger he's pointing, is either This Nation's Mightiest Hero, the Unyielding Defender of True-Blue Decency and the Blessed Four-Barrel Redeemer of the Pushrod V-8; or the Citified, Sissified, Goody Too-Good-to-Be-True Shoes Destroyer of All That Was Once Holy and Noble in the Manly Art of Stock Car Racing.