Burton stayed mum, taking me instead to the Sunday drivers' meeting, where the invocation preacher actually said, "God bless our sponsors, without whom we couldn't be here today." You think God started with Coors or Viagra?
Just before the race Chad Tigert, the team's actual Gas Runner, finally spilled: All I had to do was put Larry the Legend's empty gas cans into this kind of wagon, walk about 300 yards down pit road, fill them up at a makeshift Sunoco station and come back. That's it. A lot of pit bull.
"Are you kidding me?" said Burton's boss, owner Richard Childress, who won six titles with Dale Earnhardt himself. "Gas Runner is the most important job of all! Name me one car that ever won without fuel!"
So as the crew was facing down fire and death, I was waiting in line with my stupid little wagon, nowhere near the action. My best time: 9 minutes, 47 seconds. I felt like the guy who fights the war from a desk in Dubuque. At no time did I think to myself, Man, I'm really on fire!
The closest I got to paint-swappin' was trying to sneak past the Gas Runner for Kevin Harvick as he walked with his stupid little wagon. I tried to pass him low, near the vending machines, but he cut me off.
Meanwhile, my teammates were reliving Days of Thunder (thanks to great pit work, Burton didn't have to pit with most everybody else at Lap 230, vaulting him from 17th to seventh) and Days of Blunder (they had a DMV-slow 16.38-second stop a little later, yanking Burton back down to 18th).
I wasn't there for that last screwup, but I got back with my wagon just in time to see the Rear Tire Changer, Aaron Smith, pounding his helmet over and over on the wall in frustration. He looked as though he'd gladly take fire over whatever had just happened. Burton finished 15th, behind winner Kyle Busch.
Later that night, safe but deflated, I went through the Taco Bell drive-through, where the guy made especially good time hustling up my chalupa.
Now that's a Gas Runner.