Kirk Shelmerdine crawledthrough the window of hisblack Monte Carlo after fin-ishing 20th in the Daytona500 and grinned like hehad just won the biggest

race of his career. Instead of beingshowered with champagne, Shelmer-dine was soaked in perspiration as hewaited for NASCAR’s tech inspectors torelease his car so he could load up andhead home to Welcome, North Caroli-na.

He wasn’t in Victory Lane. JimmieJohnson got to park his Lowe’s Chevro-let on that hallowed piece of pavement.Maybe that will come some other dayfor Shelmerdine, although the odds areagainst it.

No, the story about Shelmerdine isn’tabout where he ended up that Sundayafternoon. It is about how he got there.

Newly minted racing fans may notknow the name Kirk Shelmerdine, butthose who go back more than a decadehold him in awe.

He came south from his Pennsylvaniahome to race. He was just a kid. To paythe bills, he worked as a tire changerand a mechanic, eventually hooking upwith Richard Childress Racing. By age28 he was among the most successfulcrewchiefs in Winston Cup. His figuresfrom atop the pitbox include 46 victo-ries, 14 poles, 142 Top-5, and 246 Top-10 finishes. But the most importantnumber is four— the number of Win-ston Cup championships with Dale

Earnhardt Sr. between 1986 and 1992.But four titles in six years were not

enough to keep the fire inside Shelmer-dine stoked. In a decision that rockedthe Winston Cup garage, he simply quit.

“I came down here as a teenager torace,” he says. “I never figured on beinga crewchief. Suddenly I was in my 30s,and I had spent half my life on my back,underneath one of these cars. Success inthis business costs everything you have.It takes that level of devotion to do thejob the way it has to be done.

“Still, getting out was the hardestdecision I ever made . . . but also theeasiest. It got to the point I wasn’t will-ing to give it everything I had, and atthat point the decision was pretty muchmade.”

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the RoadnotTaken

Kirk Shelmerdine reached the pinnacle of thesport as Dale Earnhardt’s crewchief duringfour championship campaigns. But hestepped away from Cup racing 14 years agoand headed down a path that eventuallyplaced him back in the limelight By JERRY F. BOONE

Shelmerdine says he thought aboutgetting out of the business for almosttwo years before he finally packed histoolbox and left Richard Childress.

“I didn’t really have any plans forwhen I got out,” he recalls. “I was sittingaround with time on my hands when acouple buddies talked to me about rac-ing an old Harry Gant car in an ARCArace at Daytona.

“We came back to Daytona just tohave fun, and I did really well. I think Ifinished Second or Third in my first raceon the most famous track in stock carracing. I was feeling pretty good.”

What he found inside the helmet waswhat was missing under the hood.

“I knew I wanted to drive,” he says.“I’ve been working toward a crack at the

Daytona 500 for 15 years.”

THE SHOWIt was this single-minded stubborn-

ness that put him underneath that car—his own car—in the Daytona garage in

February.Making the field has been an obses-

sion with Shelmerdine. This was his fifthattempt to drive his way into the race.

“I tried last year and barely got on thetrack,” he says. “This time I have a muchbetter car and a real engine.”

That’s about all he has. He arrived atthe Speedway with one used car, a cou-ple engines, no big-name sponsorship,not much money, and two crewmen onthe payroll.

He raced his way into the Daytona500 by beating eight other drivers to fin-ish 21st in one of the Twin 150 qualify-ing races.

No one was more surprised than theman behind the wheel.

“I had the numbers written on my

J U N E 2 0 0 6 39

But four titles in sixyears were not enoughto keep the fire insideShelmerdine stoked. Ina decision that rockedthe Winston Cupgarage, he simply quit.

Shelmerdine and Phil Harris, hiscrewchief, are two-thirds of his full-

time team. JUNE BOONE

hand,” he says. “I was trying to figureout if we had made it, and I figured wedidn’t.”

He didn’t realize he was in the sea-son’s first race until a NASCAR inspectorshowed up at his garage and toldShelmerdine to push his car into thepost-race inspection line for teardown.

“It says something about the uniquequalifying system for the Daytona 500,”says Benny Parsons, former WinstonCup champion and Daytona 500 win-ner. “Kirk’s is a Cinderella story. It’s a

wonderful story. At Daytona, dreamscan still come true.”

Perhaps. But it helps if you work atthem.

It is the final Saturday morning ofSpeedweeks, and the time is T-minus-30minutes to the final practice for thebiggest race of the NASCAR season.

Most drivers are in their team haulers,huddling with engineers and crewchiefsover their last shot at pre-race perfectionor signing autographs for eager fans at asponsorship breakfast.

Not Shelmerdine.He is still in his blue jeans, faded T-

shirt and a cap that says “Alaska.” He ison a creeper beneath the black No. 27

Monte Carlo, hammer in hand, pound-ing away on a stubborn part until it seesthings his way.

His way is the way racing used to be.The crew works on an ’04 Monte

Carlo that Joe Nemechek drove twoyears ago with US Army sponsorship.Under the hood of the black Chevrolet,the hinge supports still have “US Army”laser cut in the aluminum. In a bit ofcoincidence, Shelmerdine drew thegarage bay just to the left of Nemechek’steam.

HELPING HANDSHe has a car. He has an engine. But

he doesn’t have much else.The tires on the side of the car are

marked with the number 27, whichreplaces the crossed out 8 and 57.

“Some teams, like the 8, just give usthe wheels and tires after they’ve putfour or five laps on them,” explains JerryPennington, the team’s tire specialistand gas man. “There’s still a lot of wearin them and it saves us about $1,800 aset.”

Under NASCAR’s new tire policy,Pennington must keep track of all thetires and wheels he gets. He then has toreturn them to Goodyear before theteams he got them from can leave Sun-

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T H E R O A D N O T T A K E N

M Harris and Shelmerdine discuss replacing theChevrolet’s A-arm with a new piece before the cargoes out for its final practice run. JERRY F. BOONE

O While other drivers were resting in theirhaulers or meeting with sponsors and fans,Shelmerdine was working under his car 30 min-utes before final practice for the Daytona 500.JERRY F. BOONE

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day night. Each tire carries a unique barcode, and NASCAR insists on account-ing for each one as part of its effort tolimit testing by controlling how manytires a team can go through in a season.

Shelmerdine’s crew is as low-profileas his car.

Skip McKenzie came from Ottawa,Ontario, to help Morgan Shepherd. Butwhen Shepherd didn’t make the race,the burley Canadian walked over toShelmerdine’s garage and asked, “Whatcan I do?”

McKenzie races open-wheel modi-fieds, and says he knows what it is liketo fuel a season on little more than pas-sion.

“If you’ve ever been in a race car, youjust can’t walk away from a team likethis,” he says.

Jarad Kellis came with the engine.It was Pro Motor Engineering, the

Mooresville, North Carolina, shopwhere Kellis works, that built the Chevyengine for Shelmerdine.

The builder supplied four teams, butthree of them went home after crashingin the Twin 150s.

“Kirk’s our last best shot,” Kellis says.“I went with them for testing and askedto come down here to help. You justhave to love these guys and what theyare doing.”

Outside the garage door, a crewmem-ber pulls furiously on the hand starterfor the generator needed to power thecar’s oil warmers. He yanks and yanks,but the rope refuses to engage theengine.

Kellis grabs a wheel chock andthumps the end of the engine. The spoolengages and the motor fires up with thenext pull.

He puts the chock back on the pitcart. “All it takes is the right tool for thejob,” he says with a grin.

And the right tool doesn’t have to bethe latest piece of high-tech hardware.

“Racing has changed so much since Ileft Childress,” says Shelmerdine. “Thebiggest difference isn’t the technology,but the number of people it takes to runa team. When I was with Dale, we hadonly about eight guys working for us,and we did everything. Now everyone isa specialist.

“There [are] a lot of teams shakingtheir heads at what we are doingbecause we don’t have all the fancyequipment. The most important tools inmy box are a tape measure and a ball ofred string.”

And Phil Harris.“As far as we are concerned, any car

that qualifies is capable of winning,”says Harris, Shelmerdine’s crewchief.He has been with Shelmerdine for

almost nine years, but his resuméincludes more than 20 seasons with BudMoore Racing.

“For us, just making this race is a vic-tory,” says Harris. “I don’t think the guywho finishes first will feel any happierthan we did when we made the field.Given what we’ve got to work with, forKirk and me, it’s that big a deal.”

Harris pulls the alignment equipmentoff the top of the toolbox. It consists offour used brake rotors with steel shaftsscrewed to the center of them—andShelmerdine’s ball of red string.

Then he goes to work aligning thesuspension just like he did when hebegan wrenching on cars decades ago.

Most team owners budget about $1million for the race. Shelmerdine arrivedin Florida deep in debt, with less than10 percent of that available for Speed-weeks.

“It’s about everything I have andeverything my friends could come upwith,” he says.

He gets money from a few local busi-nesses and the executives of a Tennesseeoil company who formed a promotionalbusiness to raise funds for small teams.

He also has perhaps the most unusualsponsor in racing.

Mike Feezor, one of his crewmen,was with Shelmerdine a few years agowhen the financial end of the team wascircling the drain. He called his motherand mentioned the money problems.She rushed to the shop and gave theteam $50,000 to carry on.

It got him to Daytona in 2003. Shehelped again in 2004 and in 2005.

Winifred Feezor passed away lastNovember, but before she died she told

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Outside the garage door, acrewmember pulls furi-ously on the hand starterfor the generator neededto power the car’s oilwarmers. He yanks andyanks, but the rope refus-es to engage the engine.

N Shelmerdine and his crew check suspension movement after changing thecar’s upper A-arm. JERRY F. BOONE

N Richard Childress offered sponsorship from his winery to help his formeremployee pay the bills for 200 laps around Daytona. JUNE BOONE

her son to make sure Kirk got his moneyto make it to Daytona this year. SoShelmerdine got $60,000 from herestate, and his car carried a large decalfeaturing a buffalo and sponsorship fromthe Minnesota Mdewakanton DakotaOyate, which represents the tribe.

ON A SHOESTRINGStill, though, it’s not enough. It hasn’t

been for years.If Jimmie Johnson wads a car up

against the wall on Sunday, HendrickMotorsports simply rolls a replacementoff its assembly line.

“And he still gets his check,” saysShelmerdine. “I’ve got zero cars ready. Ifthis one gets destroyed, I’ve got to find$80,000 to get another one. That’s ahuge hit for a guy like me.

“I spent a lot of time last winter ask-ing myself, How long can I keep thisup? This race gets me in the black. Itgets me out of the debt from last yearand gives me enough to keep the doorsopen at the shop. We still don’t have themoney to run the rest of the season—certainly not to go to the races outWest—but it will keep us in business fora while.”

The success of Shelmerdine’s teambecame the feel-good story of Speed-weeks. It was a welcome diversion from

the political intrigue, financial maneu-vering, and conflicts with the rule bookthat have become the norm for the Day-tona 500.

As a driver, his resumé is unimpres-sive. He has a trio of victories in theARCA stock car series and three Top-5finishes in the Daytona ARCA race. He’smade sporadic attempts to run in Cup,qualifying for a few races here andthere. In 2004, he attempted 30 of theseason’s 36 races and started 18 ofthem. He never finished better than37th that year, and ended the seasonwith just a bit over $1 million in win-nings.

Daytona could have been Shelmer-dine’s check to solvency. But it is one hedeclined to accept. He has been askedabout selling his spot so often that he

doesn’t pause to think of the answer. The 47-year-old driver has muscled

his way into the Daytona 500, puttingteams with big-name drivers and hugesponsor packages in the trailer.

Has someone offered to buy his ride?To put in a substitute driver that wouldcarry the colors of a high-profile spon-sor? Or maybe accept a big enoughcheck to convince Shelmerdine to loadup, go home, and clear a space at theback of the 43-car grid?

“There’s a very short list of men whohave driven in the Daytona 500,” herepeats. “My name on that list is not forsale. You couldn’t put a price tag onthat.”

That makes Shelmerdine’s reputationone of the few things in NASCAR thatapparently isn’t for sale to the highestbidder. On Sunday, it was time to see ifhe made a wise investment in himself.

Race day dawns cold and damp, withthe constant mist threatening to turn torain. Shelmerdine doesn’t have time tonotice the change from Saturday’s blis-tering sun.

“Don’t try to keep up with me,” heshouts over his shoulder. “You won’t be

J U N E 2 0 0 6 43

“There’s a very shortlist of men who havedriven in the Daytona500,” he repeats. “Myname on that list is notfor sale. You couldn’tput a price tag on that.”

M It took Kirk Shelmerdine almost 15 years toreturn to pit road for the Daytona 500, this timeas a driver. JERRY F. BOONE

able to do it.”He works the garage like a politician

three days before an election. He’s lin-ing up crew, trying to find drafting part-ners, and shopping for uniforms for histossed-together over-the-wall squad.

One of those to suit up for Sunday isBrandon Hall, who, besides Harris, isthe only other man on the team payroll.Hall looks at the grandstands, where thecrowd is already beginning to fill theseats, and says, “I just can’t believe wemade it. This is the most exciting day ofmy life. This is a day I will never forget.”

Back in the garage, things are comingtogether for the little team that could.

Tampa businessman Tim Lopez showsup with a promise to buy all the tiresduring the race. He also volunteers hisson, Tim Jr., to work behind the wall.

“My wife and I have always been bigEarnhardt fans and we knew what Kirk’spart was in winning those champi-onships,” he explains. “We were in amotor coach in the infield watching aninterview with Kirk when he was talking

about having to race on used tires.“She turned to me and said ‘You go

write him a check,’” he says. “It took mea day to get him on the phone.”

A second old friend turns up Sundaymorning with sponsorship from Chil-dress Vineyards.

“I remember what it was like to cometo Daytona when I was starting out andhad no money,” Richard Childress says.“I had a lot of people help me out backthen. This is payback time.”

The clock ticks toward deadline. Apair of NASCAR inspectors lean on astack of tires to watch progress on theNo. 27 Chevy as the garages empty.Shelmerdine’s crew was the last one topush its car into the inspection line.

Tony Eury Jr., crewchief on the Bud-weiser car driven by Earnhardt’s son,watches the black car work its waythrough the inspection process andcomments on the effort it has taken hisold friend to get there.

“It’s just wonderful,” he says. “I’veknown Kirk a long time, and to see himcome down here and make the race—especially when drivers from multi-carteams went back in the trailer to besent home—says everything about hisdetermination. This is how the sportwas created.

“Kirk’s here because he deserves tobe here.”

Jerry F. Boone can be reached atjfboone@aol.com.

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M Shelmerdine’s hastily assembled crew wasquick enough to keep the No. 27 on the lead lapfor 500 miles. JUNE BOONE

P Shelmerdine and Terry Labonte run side byside as the Daytona 500 begins. JUNE BOONE