I had the good fortune during my career to meet and sometimes even get to know sports stars and other celebrities. Sometimes, the interactions were totally unexpected.

While living in Wake Forest, NC, I was invited on a rare off weekend to enjoy a media day outing at Tanglewood Golf Club near Greensboro. The event was being sponsored by Winston and the PR man overseeing the event was old friend Earl Fannin.

I wasn't sure if I would even write a story about the day. It was more of a fun time, a chance to see some of the top golfers in the world up close and personal.

The biggest name on hand that day was Lee Trevino, a future Hall of Famer, who was far more colorful than most of his competitors. Lee chain-smoked and took almost no time over the ball before making a short, quick swing that was amazingly effective.

He played an 18-hole exhibition that day and I trailed along, enjoying the banter between Lee and his longtime caddie, Herman, a mountain of a man who gave as good as he got from his boss and did it with a straight face.

As we walked along, I managed to get in a few words with Lee between the greens and the next tee. At one point, I congratulated him after he had made a sweet 18-foot putt and he asked if my game was any good. I said, "I'm a duffer, but I can putt."

On the next hole, Lee was lining up a putt of about 20 feet. He suddenly stood up, looked at me and said, "You want to make this one for me?"

I'm sure I turned white as a sheet and said, "No thanks!" But Lee insisted and the small crowd on hand went along with it, cheering me on.

He handed me the putter and said, "It looks like it breaks right and then left. But I'll let you read it yourself."

Lee then started taking pretend bets from the crowd, assuring everyone I was a great putter and was going to make this snake.

My hands were shaking as I stood over the putt and I couldn't get my eyes to focus as I tried to read the green. It just looked like a long way to a very, very small hole.

I took a big deep breath, pulled the putter back slowly and tried to make a smooth stroke and send the ball somewhere near the hole and not embarrass myself completely.

Despite my efforts to stay smooth, the ball jumped off the club head and started skittering to the right. Then it smoothed out and made a slight turn to the left. As I held my breath and watched unbelieving, the ball made another quick turn to the right and rolled straight into the hole.

It was the luckiest putt I ever made.

The crowd gasped and began yelling and Trevino ran up and shook my hand and said, "Damn, boy. You really can putt."

I handed him the putter from my shaky hand and smiled. What could I say?

He finished the round and I thanked him for the fun time. As he walked toward the clubhouse, Lee looked over his shoulder and said, "You can putt with me any time, kid."

There was another pretty good golf story that took place when we lived in Westfield, NJ. In 1993, the U.S. Open was played at Baltusrol Golf Club in nearby Springfield on the week of my 50th birthday.

I had been talking about the tournament for a while, bemoaning the fact that I had a race that weekend and would not be able to attend an event I'd love to see and that was practically in my backyard. Judy surprised me with tickets for the Wednesday practice.

It was the first golf tournament I had been to since my days in Cleveland, covering the Firestone Tournament and several other major golf events.

After getting to the course, we sat down in the bleachers alongside the practice range and watched several of the big names warming up. It was a beautiful day and I was just enjoying being there and seeing some of my favorite golfers work on their swings.

The bleachers were pretty full after a while and there was suddenly a stir as Jack Nicklaus, one of the all-time greats and a tournament favorite, walked onto the range. He set up directly in front of us _ we were sitting in the front row _ and began to warm up.

After hitting some 9-irons and some lasers with what I think was a 7-iron, he stopped to wipe his face with a towel. As he handed it back to his caddie, Nicklaus glanced toward the bleachers and we made eye contact.

He got a big smile on his face, pointed toward me and said, "AP?"

I was stunned, but I smiled back and waved.

He gestured for me to come over to the fence, which I quickly did. We shook hands as he leaned against the fence and asked if I was covering the tournament.

I told him that I was just there with my wife celebrating my 50th birthday and that I was still working for AP but covering auto racing full-time these days.

"Well, it's really good to see you," he said, waving at Judy. "Say hello to my friend Mario when you see him."

He waved again and went back to work and I walked back to the bleachers, where a whole bunch of people were looking at me like, "Who the hell is that guy and how does he know Jack Nicklaus."

For some reason, I had been a little down about my 50th birthday. But, after that day at Baltusrol, I felt just fine.

There are certain major sporting events that I always dreamed of either covering or at least attending. The Monaco Formula One race was one. Others included the Kentucky Derby and, of course, The Masters golf tournament.

My dad, who was not a very good golfer, introduced me to the sport when I was seven years old. I took to it and, by the time I was in high school, I was a decent player. Then life intervened - college, the army, full-time journalism and marriage. Golf became a sometime thing and my skills eroded. I became a 20 handicap, which I still am to this day. I still love playing, though.

During my years at AP, I was always working in the office or covering an event on the week of the Masters. But, once I retired, I decided to try to find tickets to the tournament. I was willing to pay, but not $1,000 a ticket. Too rich for my blood.

But, in reading about the Masters on the internet, I found Augusta National had an annual ticket lottery, giving people a chance to possibly buy tickets to the event at face value. I entered and, voila, I won the chance to buy two tickets to the Wednesday practice day. My brother-in-law, Stuart, a good golfer and a golf fan, was as excited as I was to use the tickets.

We found a room at a dumpy motel near the golf course - very overpriced. We met at the Atlanta airport _ I flew in from MA and he from FLA _ and we rented a car and headed for Augusta.

We  went out for dinner that night to a very nice restaurant in the downtown area and overheard the people at the table next to ours talking about the tournament. They were finished eating, so I walked over and started up a conversation, telling them Stu and I were newbies and asking for advice. They were regular Masters patrons and gave us some wonderful tips about parking, buying from concessions and how to watch the golf. We took the advice to heart and it all worked.

Wednesday was a beautiful day. Parking is free and there is loads of it if you get there early. We were there when the gates opened at 7 a.m. I lost my little pocket knife at the gate because I was too excited about getting in to go back to the car to drop it off when I found out I couldn't bring it in with me. Once inside, we went immediately to the concessions tent and bought our souvenirs. Then we checked the bag until the end of the day. All of that was from the tips the night before.

The golf course is even more beautiful in person than on TV, with the Azaleas in full bloom and the grass an emerald green. The only discernible difference between TV and reality is that the course is much hillier than it appears on the tube. We got a real workout that day.

We spent the day walking the course - from the first tee to the 18th green, stopping at numerous places along the way to watch golf and talk to the patrons, who were happy to chat. It was a wonderful day and we were determined to come back again.

When I got home, I emailed or called everyone in my family and most of my friends, asking them to enter the lottery for the next year. Only one entry per household is allowed. Amazingly, my brother Rich won the right to buy tickets, again for the Wednesday practice. And, again, Stu and I met up and went. This time, we found a nicer motel an hour away in SC.

Again, it was a beautiful day and we enjoyed the experience tremendously. Everyone was great, smiling and pleasant, even the security people. The food is cheap and good. And the logistics of getting around the course and seeing the scoreboards is excellent. On this day, we followed Tiger Woods and Freddie Couples and watched them bombing drives and hitting multiple balls from different spots in the traps. It was fun and enlightening.

On the way back to the Atlanta airport, Stu and I tried to come up with a strategy for finding tickets to the actual tournament. But we were coming up empty.

The next month I was in Indy for the 500. I was retired from AP now, but writing for Racintoday.com and it was my 47th and last Indy. I was invited to the annual Team Penske dinner. I've known Roger Penske since 1970, my first year at Indy and his second.

I had heard Roger had a hole-in-one earlier that year at Augusta, where he is a member, and I went up to say hi and congratulate him on the accomplishment. He almost blushed, which surprised me. Roger isn't very emotional.

I told him about our visits to Augusta and said, "I would love to go to the tournament some time, but the tickets are impossible to get." He smiled and said, "No, they're not."

"For you, they aren't," I replied.

He said, "If you want to go, you can use a couple of my tickets. I get four a year as a member, as long as I remember to pay my dues."

I said, "You want me to start calling every day and reminding you to pay them?" He smiled and said, "No, I think I can remember."

That year (2015), Stu and I were in Augusta for all four days of the tournament. Again, we stayed an hour away in South Carolina, but the drive was worth it.

We watched Jordan Spieth get his win. We followed him from the first tee to the 18th tee on the final day, although we couldn't get close to the 18th green and had to watch the finish on one of the outside TV's. Still, it was an amazing experience and everything I hoped it would be. So, thanks to RP for helping me fulfill one of my dreams.

Maybe one of these years I'll hit the Derby or fly over to Monaco.

One of the characters who remained a part of my story for my entire time covering auto racing _ a span of 40 years _ was Anthony Joseph Foyt Jr.

AJ - Also known to his friends as Tex - was an enigma to me for all those years - my personal Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

In 1970, when I covered my first Indianapolis 500, AJ was the biggest star in the sport. He had already won three of his four Indy titles and had won more Indy car races than anyone else in the history of the sport.

But he was also known as a difficult guy to deal with.

My first meeting with AJ came on my first day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I've told the story about how longtime team owner JC Agajanian got me in to interview Foyt after I had the garage door slammed in my face.

But, once I got to AJ, he could not have been nicer or more cooperative, despite the fact that my questions were probably very uninformed and sophmoric at that point. I really knew next to nothing about auto racing in general and Indy car racing specifically.

When we were done, he even smiled and shook my hand. I had no idea that was going to be one of the best moments of our long relationship.

Trying to talk to AJ at the racetrack was often like poking a hibernating bear to see if it was really asleep.

And, much like Muhammad Ali later on, AJ was constantly saying he was going to retire and then changing his mind. Unfortunately, when he said it, I had to write it - just in case he actually meant it this time.

On one fateful afternoon, shortly after the end of that year's Indy qualifying, I was working on the race preview story for the next weekend and came to a spot that was perfect for a quote from AJ. As luck would have it, his PR lady, Ann Fornoro, was walking past my office.

I caught up with her and asked if AJ was still on the premises. She said he was packing to leave for his home in Houston, TX, but that I might catch him in the garage.

I walked into the empty garage and there was AJ, holding a duffel bag and a briefcase and obviously about to walk out the door.

"Hey, Tex, any chance I can get a quick quote from you for a story I'm working on?"

He shrugged and said, "Yeah, if it's quick."

I got the quote, thanked him and was about to walk out when he grinned and said, "You won't have AJ to kick around much longer."

That brought me back. I asked him what he meant and he replied, "This is going to be my 30th Indy 500. I like round numbers and I think this is as good a time to quit as any. I'm going to call it quits after Sunday."

I said, "AJ, are you sure about this?"

He nodded, bristled a bit and said, "I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't sure."

"Look, if I write this, it's going to be in every newspaper in America tomorrow morning," I said. "If you're not serious, tell me now."

He said, "Damn it, I said it and I meant it."

I got a couple more quotes and dashed off to write while AJ headed for his private plane.

Moments after I sent the story off to NY Sports, I got a call from the deputy sports editor.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"I'm quoting the man directly," I said. "What else can I do?"

The story ran.

Very early the next morning I was still asleep when the phone in my motel room rang. It was the sports editor of the Houston Chronicle.

"Mike, I just got off the phone with Tex and he denies the story. Says you made it up."

I said, "Hang on just a moment." I then reached over to the table and grabbed my tape recorder _ the first one I had, by the way _ and hit the play button. I held it up to the phone and listened while my brief interview with AJ played.

"Okay," he said. "I'll say he changed his mind - again. Thanks."

By that time, I had determined that AJ never lied. He just told his truth of the moment, which made it plenty hard to cover his exploits and stay out of trouble.

When Judy was working at the Indianapolis Zoo as a keeper, they had a coyote they named AJ after Foyt. That coyote ate its babies and I told Judy I was not surprised.

I often told her of the difficulties of dealing with the ornery Texan.

It did come in handy to know that AJ was the king of the Indy speedway, though.

One day I had to leave the track for a lunch interview. That meant giving up my parking space in what was then a very small media parking area.

When I returned after lunch, the lot was full and I was turned away. I drove around the infield for a while, looking for a spot to leave the car. Nothing.

Finally, in desperation, I drove into the lot reserved for participants - drivers and crew. One of the infamous yellow shirt guards walked up to the car looking for my parking pass. I quickly rolled down the window and said, "Hey, I'm just running an errand for AJ. I'll just leave the car here for a little while."

He smiled, shrugged and walked away. Problem solved. Thanks AJ.

The first year that NASCAR ran at Texas Motor Speedway outside Fort Worth, Judy was traveling with me and we were invited to a sponsorship dinner for Foyt at Billy Bob's Texas, a well known dance hall in the Fort Worth stockyards.

The party was in a private room and, through some mixup in the invitations, only a few people showed up.

When we sat down for dinner at a big, round table, I found myself sitting across from AJ. The only other people at the table were Judy, Ann Fornoro and a writer from the Dallas Morning News.

The dinner conversation was lively and, much to my surprise, AJ was in a great mood. He chatted amiably with everyone but, particularly, the ladies. He talked about his grandson, who had just begun his racing career, and his family and was about as gracious as he could be for the entire evening. 

When we parted, he shook hands with the men and hugged the ladies, all with a big smile.

On the way back to the motel, Judy looked across the car and said, "So that's the big, bad AJ Foyt that you keep telling me about."

I just shrugged.

The following racing season began with the Daytona 24 Hours (Rolex) race and Foyt was entered.

I arrived on Thursday, two days before the start of the race. It was a glorious Florida day, sunny and warm with hardly a cloud in the sky.

As I walked along pit lane, saying hello to people along the way, somebody suddenly appeared at my side, putting his arm around my shoulder and walking with me step for step. It was Anthony Joseph Foyt, Jr.

He was smiling brightly and said, "Hey, Harris, how was your winter? Are you ready for a new season? I know I am."

We walked and talked for another 100 yards or so until AJ peeled off to head for the garage area. I was hyped to think that I now had a new, cordial relationship with my old nemesis - maybe thanks to Judy.

The next morning I walked into the garage and spotted AJ standing near his car. He didn't seem to be involved in anything, so I walked up to say hi to my new pal.

"Hey, AJ. how are you doing this morning?" I said brightly. He turned to me with a cold stare and replied, "F..k off! I'm busy."

So much for our new relationship.

Near the end of 1999, I was asked by my boss to form a blue ribbon committee to determine The Driver of the 20th Century. Almost everyone I asked to be on the committee was delighted to be part of it.

Among the members were Roger Penske, Tony Hulman, Bill France Jr., Dan Gurney, Richard Petty and many more of the biggest names in the sport.

AJ wouldn't even answer my calls or messages.

When the voting ended, not surprisingly, it was a dead heat between Mario Andretti, probably the greatest all-around driver of all time, and Foyt, certainly one of the greatest competitors and biggest winners ever.

I called Mario to tell him about the vote and he was happy and grateful for the honor. As for the tie with his longtime rival Foyt, he said, "Just to be named in the same sentence with AJ is an honor. He's a great driver and one of the biggest names in the sport."

Trying to get a quote from Foyt proved more difficult. Again, he didn't return my phone calls or messages.

Finally, I called his garage in Houston and got his son, Larry, on the phone.

"Listen, your dad has receieved a big honor and I'd like to tell him about it and get a quote for the story. Any chance you could get him to call me?"

Larry said, "He's right here in the garage. Just a minute, I'll get him."

The next voice I heard was AJ.

"What do you want?" he asked sourly.

I told him I had good news and bad news.

"The good news is you've been named the best driver of the 20th century," I explained. "The bad news is you tied for the honor with Mario."

"S..t," he said. "That little (blank) couldn't carry my helmet," AJ said.

I told him what Mario had said about him and he changed his tune a bit, saying, "Well, we have had some really good races against each other and he's won a lot of races. He's a real good driver"

I managed to write a balanced story about the two of them sharing the honor.

My career in racing began toward the end of AJ's driving career. I did cover the last of his four Indy 500 wins and some other great performances, but he wasn't the consistently brilliant star of the 50's and 60's.

The best race I ever saw him run was the 1983 Daytona 24 Hours.

Foyt, who had won the 24 Hours of Le Mans with Gurney in 1967, was not a regular in sports car racing. But he entered Daytona that year as co-driver with NASCAR's Darrell Waltrip in a Nimrod Aston Martin that failed to start the race because of a mechanical problem.

AJ was packing up his gear when Preston Henn, the owner of one of the top contending Porsche 935's approached him about joining him and European drivers Bob Wollek and Claude Ballot-Lena as a co-driver.

Foyt had never even sat in a 935 when he climbed into the car on that rainy Saturday night. Wollek, who was leading the race, pitted and climbed out of the car, expecting to see Ballot-Lena ready to take over.

He was totally shocked to see Foyt put on his helmet and head for the car. As they passed, Foyt allegedly asked Wollek to describe the gear pattern. I've never been able to confirm that but, moments later, during a TV interview, Wollek totally lost it, saying, "That has-been has never driven this car, especially in the wet. He's going to cost us the race."

With that, Wollek slammed his helmet to the ground and began to walk away.

I was standing nearby and was about to go after Wollek for a quote of my own when the PA blared: "AJ Foyt has just set the fastest lap of the race."

Wollek stopped in his tracks, looked up, muttered something and shook his head. When I asked him what he thought about the situation now, Wollek, who later became Foyt's good friend, said, "Maybe I was wrong."

Foyt did a double stint _ four hours _ in the car before turning it over to Ballot-Lena. He expanded the lead from one to three laps and the team went on to win the race by six laps. It was an amazing performance and a great story.

He co-drove with Wollek and Derek Bell the next year, finishing second, then won again in 1985, sharing the cockpit with Wollek, Al Unser and Thierry Boutsen.

I got to see the softer side of Foyt late in the 2008 season after Tony Stewart announced he and Gene Haas were going to field a car for the next season in NASCAR's top stock car series using Foyt's No. 14.

Foyt was a longtime idol for Stewart, who grew up in Indiana. The two had similar driving styles and demeanor.

Stewart said he called Foyt to ask him permission to use the number, although that really wasn't necessary.

I was in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada that weekend for an Indy car race and Foyt, a longtime Indy car team owner, was there, too.

Not knowing what kind of reception I would get, I knocked on his motor home door. Foyt was in a good mood and invited me in. Television reporter Jamie Little was already there, ready to ask AJ about the Stewart story. But their conversation had apparently just begun.

She seemed happy to have me join the interview and I asked how AJ felt about Stewart requesting to use his traditional number.

Tears formed in his eyes as Foyt spoke softly and slowly about how much Tony's friendship meant to him and how honored he was to have the No. 14 on the new car.

I looked over at Jamie and, like me, she seemed stunned by AJ's emotional response.

"I know he's going to win a lot of races in that thing," Foyt said.

Without question, AJ Foyt is a legend. He is also the most frustrating person I have ever had to deal with.

I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

One of the perks of covering auto racing was getting to take pace car rides.

Riding with a professional driver at the wheel of just about any kind of race car offers the opportunity to experience real speed without much danger and, often, to get to know the driver better.

The one major caveat about taking pace car rides is that most professional drivers believe it is their mission in life to try to scare the pants off their passengers.

My first such experience came in 1983 during the lead-up to the Daytona 24 Hours. 

Veteran racer Bob Tullius was giving media rides in his Jaguar XJR-5 a couple of days before the race. The track PR guy, Ron Meade, asked if I'd be interested and, although I was a little leery, I said yes.

I was issued a helmet, which made me feel claustrophobic, and told to climb into the car through the window on the passenger side. I was younger then, so I managed that without too much embarrassment.

The seat was a metal plate set onto the tube frame of the car. It was not attached to anything. There were no seat belts for a passenger, so Bob, grinning broadly, told me to hang onto the frame with both hands.

"I'll take it easy, so there's nothing to worry about," he said.

When the car took off, I was thrown back into the roll bar behind me - hard. We rolled through the infield portion of the track with the turns tossing me around like a rag doll. Then we entered the banked oval portion of the track and Bob hit the gas.

I had no control over anything, but I admit that, as we approached the first turn on the oval, I was pushing my foot to the floor as if I was braking the car. I was sure he had gone in too deep and we were going to hit the concrete wall, but, of course, the car turned easily at the last moment - again throwing me to the side - and glided through.

We made two laps and I knew I would have some bruises on me the next day. But, despite that, it was exhilarating and I wanted more.

Nowadays, there's no way a track or sanctioning body would allow a passenger in a race car without proper safety equipment and a real seat. But I survived and I loved it.

I've been asked a lot if I ever drove a race car. The truth is I never really wanted to.

I'm a decent driver on the street, but I really didn't know if I had the kind of hand-eye coordination to handle a race car at speed. The last thing I wanted to do was find out what it was like to hit a wall or go through a fence.

But there was one time I did get to drive a souped up car on a racetrack - and I really surprised myself.

It was in the late 80's at Charlotte Motor Speedway. Chevrolet was offering drives in their newest IROC car, the Z/28. Surprisingly, they were allowing some of the media members to actually drive the cars.

I was a little nervous, but it seemed like a great opportunity. Besides, I figured I'd just take the car for a nice leisurely spin around the 1.5-mile oval and bring it back to the pit lane. Then I could say I had actually driven at Charlotte.

This time, the helmet fit me and the seat was form fit and comfortable. I had been driving stick shift cars since I was 16 years old, so the 5-speed didn't intimidate me.

As I turned the engine on and revved it a bit, the Chevy staffer running the program said, "You can do three laps and don't worry about going too fast. These cars have a governor to keep them under 160."

I gulped and took off, nearly killing the engine once before gliding onto the banked track.

My first lap, I did exactly what I had anticipated, keeping the car at around 100 mph and running in the low groove. But it felt slow and I got a little more brave on the second lap, jumping up to the second of three lanes and topping out at about 125.

It still felt smooth and easy and I guess I got a little fire in my eyes at that point. On my third lap, I floored it, zooming up into the top lane, near the wall, and burying the speedometer needle.

My heart was pounding, but it still felt smooth and easy as I backed off coming out of the fourth turn and slowed to enter the pit lane. It was harder to slow the car to the 25 mph pit lane speed than it had been to go fast.

After I stopped the car and got out, I felt for a while like my body was still going 100 mph.

Just that little taste let me know how speed can be addicting.

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway was a place where I was lucky enough to get numerous pace car rides.

Each year, for the Indy 500, a car manufacturer would designate a model as that year's pace car. And, each year, a celebrity, a former Indy winner or a VIP was chosen to drive the car for the start of the race.

Most years, the manufacturer would offer pace car rides to the media sometime during race week. I took advantage of the opportunity a number of times and enjoyed it.

The most memorable ride was in 1991. Carroll Shelby, an American automotive designer, racing driver, and entrepreneur, was chosen to drive Dodge's brand new Viper. The model was so new that only two prototypes were available the week of the race.

Shelby, who was 68 years old and less than a year beyond a heart transplant, looked fit and full of energy the day of my ride. But I did have second thoughts as we raced down the long backstretch at Indy at somewhere above 150 mph.

I looked over at Carroll and thought, "This guy has a young marine's heart. I hope the rest of him is good, too."

As we went into the fourth turn on our second and final lap, Carroll was hugging the outside wall. But, as we neared the entrance to the pit lane, he looked over at me with a big smile and said, "The handling on this baby is amazing. Watch this!"

We were still racing at more than 100 mph when he spun the wheel to the left. The car jerked hard and turned at nearly 90 degrees, then smoothly flowed onto the pit road. The move took my breath away, but it was pretty amazing."

Another pace car adventure came near the end of my career at Indy, where they were giving rides in a two-seater Indy car. The rides were intended to raise money for charity or to entertain VIPs, but I asked the track PR guy if there was any way I could get a ride and write a story about it.

The next day, I was in one of the Indy garages being fitted for a driving uniform and a helmet. I was then ushered out to the pit lane, where I waited behind the low concrete wall skirting the pit lane.

Watching and hearing the two-seater flash past at what seemed close to race speeds with other riders made me wonder if I had made a good decision to try this. But I was committed at that point.

When it was my turn, I stepped into the rear seat and was buckled in. My head was barely high enough to see over the sides of the open-cockpit car and all I could see of the driver in front of me was the back of his helmet.

Davey Hamilton, who had competed in the Indy 500 several times, was the driver that day and I had no qualms about being in the car with such an experienced racer.

There were a few sporadic raindrops that day and we had to wait in the pits for a few minutes to make sure the track was dry. I had no method of communication and it began to get very hot in my uniform and helmet. I started to sweat and became nervous, thinking I might have an anxiety attack if we didn't take off soon.

Just as I was thinking about unbuckling and signaling that I wanted to get out of the car, we got the green light and Davey hit the gas, roaring out of the pits and diving hard into the narrow first turn of the mostly flat 2.5-mile oval.

By the time we hit the backstretch, we were up to speed. I'm told we hit between 165 and 170 - far slower than the top speeds in the race, but an awesome feeling to me.

As we neared the end of the backstretch, an unlucky bird _ I don't know what kind because I barely saw it _ flew into the left-side mirror and clipped it off. I doubt there was anything left of that bird but feathers.

Davy slowed and drove into the pits. One of the crewmen signaled for me to stay in the car, letting me know I would have another lap or two after they replaced the mirror. And, again, a few drops of rain fell.

This time, the wait was about 10 minutes. But there were no more nerves. I couldn't wait to get back out on the track.

We got in two more laps at speed and I only wished it could have been more. After all those years of covering races at Indy and, after numerous pace car rides, the two-seater was the closest thing to actually racing at Indy and I was enthralled.

When I told Judy about the two-seater ride, she said, "That is something I would love to do."

I knew my wife loves speed. Unlike me, she was happy to be on a rollercoaster and often said she would have liked to ride in a race car.

I got her a pace car ride a few years earlier at Michigan International Speedway. The driver was Al Unser and he gave Judy a big greeting and made sure she was in the front passenger seat for the ride. Then he totally disappointed her by making a couple of laps on the 2-mile oval at pedestrian speeds - almost like driving down a highway.

The two-seater would be a whole different experience, if I could make it happen.

Again I talked with the track PR guy at Indy and told him how much Judy would love a ride. Much to my surprise, he said, "I think we can fit her in."

The next day, we were in the garage again, getting fitted for a driving uniform and helmet. This time, it took a while because everything was too big for Judy. Eventually, though, they found things that fit her.

As they prepared Judy for the ride, I ran into Sarah Fisher, a five-time Indy 500 participant and that day's two-seater driver. I told her that Judy was going to be among her riders that day.

Sarah said, "Should I give her the "A" ride or would that scare her?" I said, "She loves speed. As fast as you can go."

Sarah smiled and said, "I really don't see who is getting into the passenger seat most of the time. So give the high sign when she gets in and I'll see what I can do."

We waited by the pit wall for a couple of other riders before Judy finally went to get buckled into the car. As they were helping her settle in, I walked about 10 feet in front of the car and caught Sarah's eye.

I gave her a thumbs up, which she returned. I could see the big smile inside her face shield.

Listening to previous rides, the engine of the two-seater sounded like a loud, smooth truck engine as the car rolled into the first turn. When Sarah drove past with Judy behind her, her helmet barely above the top of the cockpit, the engine sounded like a loud scream and the doppler effect took extra moments to dissipate.

After the ride, when Judy climbed out of the car, I'm not sure her feet touched the ground. She was smiling and laughing. When she climbed over the wall, I said, "Well, how did you like it?"

She said, "I want to go again."

I knew the feeling.

I recently got to thinking about some of the odd and interesting interviews I've had over the years.

Maybe the strangest took place at Nashville Speedway after the May 1982 race on an unseasonably hot, humid night. Darrell Waltrip, a Tennessean and then a budding NASCAR star, practically owned that track at the time, winning four straight races and five of six on the .596-mile oval.

So it was not surprising that DW went into that race as the favorite and, this particular night, he was untouchable, leading 419 of 420 laps and winning by more than a lap over runner-up Terry Labonte.

He made it a pretty boring race and, even though Darrell was almost always a great interview, I wasn't expecting much on this particular night. It was hot in the press box, too, and the half dozen or so writers that were up there were getting antsy as we waited for DW to arrive for the winner's interview.

When he finally did hobble in, it was obvious that Darrell was in some distress. He was leaning on wife Stevie's shoulder and his face was as red as a lobster. It turns out his cool helmet, which was supposed to blow some cool air on his face as he drove, stopped working early in the race.

Not only that, but the floor boards of his Junior Johnson Buick had heated up to the point that the heel of his right foot had been burned pretty badly. None of that stopped Waltrip from keeping his foot on the accelerator and finishing the race, but he was suffering now.

The interview was conducted at the rear of the press box, behind the last of three tiered rows of tables and chairs. Waltrip couldn't stay on his feet and wound up lying on the floor of the last tier, with Stevie holding an ice pack to his bare right foot.

Amazingly, DW was just as entertaining as always, making the race sound a whole lot more interesting than it was. Other than an occasional grimace when Stevie moved the ice pack, he conducted the interview as if everything were normal.

One of the best things about that interview was that the local TV cameras were lined up behind the writers. And we did our best to block their view as much as possible - just as they usually did to us.

By that time, I knew DW pretty well and liked him a lot. But our relationship didn't get off to a very good start.

At one of my first NASCAR races after taking over the motorsports beat in 1980, I decided to seek out Waltrip for a feature story. I talked to his PR person, who said, "Well, DW, is a busy man. I'm not sure if we can fit you in this week."

I thought that was a bit odd, since everybody I had met in NASCAR up to that point had been more than cooperative.

Although I kept trying, somehow weeks went by without my getting a face-to-face interview with DW. I even had one interview scheduled at Talladega, but Darrell backed out at the last minute.

The next week was a race at the Nashville track and I thought that was a natural, talking to Darrell at his home track. I tried to arrange an interview in advance, but his PR guy kept putting me off.

I finally decided to just try and catch DW himself. I kind of stalked him in the Nashville Speedway garage area, keeping an eye on him and waiting to catch him alone.

I finally found the right moment, walked up and said, "Hey, Darrell. I'm Mike Harris from the AP. Can we talk?"

He looked startled, made an excuse about having to meet someone and scurried off. I just stood there scratching my head and wondering what was going on.

Finally, I cornered his PR guy and said, "What's the deal? Why is DW avoiding me."

He hesitated before replying, then said, "Well, he's intimidated by you."

I started to laugh. A star NASCAR race driver intimidated by me? You've got to be kidding.

But he explained. "Darrell is very media savvy and he knows how big the AP is. And he doesn't want you making him look like a clown or something in a story that's going to appear in newspapers all over the country."

That took a moment to digest, but I told him, "Please tell Darrell that I will make sure he doesn't look like a clown in whatever I write. I'll be as fair as I can possibly be if he'll just talk to me."

The rest of that race weekend went by without a one-to-one and I was starting to give up hope.

I was home in Cleveland the following Tuesday when the phone rang. I answered and the voice on the other end said, "Mike, this is DW. You wanted to talk to me?"

I quickly grabbed a note pad and a pen and we talked for nearly an hour. The more we talked, the more comfortable Darrell sounded. It was more of a conversation than an interview. By the time we hung up, it felt like two old friends talking."

I never had another problem talking to DW the rest of my career.

Journalists are not supposed to have favorites, but I couldn't help but like Tim Richmond a lot.

From the moment I met this handsome, flashy, confident and pleasant youngster at Indianapolis in 1980, I was taken by him.

I wrote the first national features about him and we quickly developed a nice rapport.

On the track, Tim was aggressive. Often, too aggressive.

He crashed so much while driving Indy cars that, eventually, he was fired by the car owner _ his  dad. The final straw was a spectacular and frightening crash at Michigan International Speedway.

The car hit the concrete wall and burst into a fireball, with wheels snapping off and flying away amid a storm of debris from the disintegrating car. As I and everyone who was there held our breath, thinking this was the end for Tim, he emerged out of the wreck, theatrically kicked one of the tires lying nearby and walked away uninjured.

His firing was actually a real break for Richmond, who quickly found a ride in NASCAR. It didn't take him long to become a rising star in the stock car series.

I was at Darlington Raceway in April of 1983 when Tim won the pole position on what many believe is NASCAR's most demanding track. Typically, everyone in the media wanted a piece of the flamboyant youngster and I and a dozen or so writers and photographers were waiting for Tim to arrive for the post-qualifying interview as he did TV and radio interviews first.

We all had deadlines and everyone was getting a little peeved by the long wait. Knowing Tim and his impish sense of humor, I suggested to the assembled group that we give him some of his own medicine. I said, "When he does finally get here, let's all stand up and walk out as if we're going to leave."

Surprisingly, most of the assembled media members agreed to this silly idea.

Tim walked into the media center with a huge grin on his face, saying hello and waving to everyone. He sat down at the front of the room and we all stood up, turned our backs and began to leave.

"I heard, "What the hell's going on. Where's everybody going?"

That was as far as we could take it. Laughing, everybody walked back onto the room and sat down.

"Phew! I thought you guys were abandoning me," Tim said. "I'll try to get here quicker next time."

That brings to mind another late-arriving driver.

Tony Stewart won the Brickyard 400 at Indianapolis for the first time in 2005. It took more than an hour for him to finally arrive in the media center for the winner's interview. Most of the media had been sitting in the room waiting for him since shortly after the race ended.

David Poole, the late, great writer for the Charlotte Observer, got the first question.

He asked, "Tony, do you remember winning the Brickyard 400?"

It got a huge roar.

Another of my favorites was Benny Parsons, one of the nicest people I ever knew and one helluva driver.

In the spring of 1982, Parsons became the first driver to qualify for a NASCAR race at more than 200 mph. I got a quote from Benny's interview on the track PA system and sent off a quick lead to NY Sports.

I took a few notes during the ensuing interview, but a computer problem captured most of my attention and I missed most of what was apparently a great interview.

My qualifying story for the morning papers was just fine, but I quickly realized I needed more quotes from Benny for the story for the afternoon papers. I ran to the garage area and found he had already left the track.

Fortunately, I had seen Benny at the motel where I was staying in Anniston, AL. In fact, I knew the room he was staying in because I had seen him leaving for the track that morning.

Not knowing what kind of reception I would get, I knocked on his door. Benny opened the door, saw me standing there and smiled.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?" he asked.

I told him my sad story and asked if he minded answering a few more questions. Being Benny, of course, he said, "No problem."

I got the quotes for my story. But, more important, I saw a paperback on his bedside table and mentioned that I had just read it myself. We began to talk about our reading habits and it turned out we liked the same kind of mystery, spy and adventure stories.

The next week, I brought a couple of the books I had finished and took them to Benny, who, in return, gave me several of the books he had finished. From that time on, we often exchanged paperbacks and, just as often, talked about the stories and the characters.

Later that year, at a race in Rockingham, NC, Benny saw me coming out of the media center at the end of pole qualifying day and said, "Hey, do you have plans?"

Benny was from the nearby small town of Ellerbe. He told me he had a bunch of paperbacks in his office for me to look over and that we could grab some dinner afterwards. I jumped at the chance.

But Benny was a race driver and following him on the winding country roads back to his office proved an impossible task. I lost him in the first mile.

This was long before GPS and it took me a while to figure out the route to Ellerbe on back roads that had few signs. I finally did get there, but I had no idea where Benny's office was.

I stopped at a gas station and asked the attendant if he knew Benny. Of course he did. And he pointed me in the direction of his office.

When I arrived, I found Benny leaning back in his office chair, reading a paperback. He grinned and said, "What took you so long?"

I was blessed in my career to be around many amazing people, a lot of them famous. And I've often told people I can count the ones from my years covering sports who I did not like on one hand and have a couple of fingers left over.

That means there were an awful lot of folks who I really enjoyed being around during my 40-plus years covering sports,

But the one person that stands above them all in my sports Olympus is Mario Andretti.

Mario was already a star when I covered my first auto race _ the 1970 Indianapolis 500. He had won Indy in 1969 and was already starting to make his mark in Formula One, where he became only the second American to win the World Championship in 1978.

Most racing people consider Mario the greatest all-around driver in the sport's history, having won in just about every major series in the world.

I sat in on a few mass interviews with Mario in my first two years at Indy, but I had not yet met him when I walked into the restaurant at the Speedway Motel a couple of days before the 1971 race.

I was driving into the track early that morning when I decided at the last minute to stop in at the motel and buy myself some breakfast before another in a long series of busy days.

As I walked into the room, I saw Mario and his eldest son Michael, then eight years old, sitting at a table near the big windows overlooking the Speedway golf course. After I was led to a table near the Andrettis, I made the sudden and somewhat scary decision to introduce myself.

Walking up to the table with some trepidation, I said, "Sorry to bother you Mr. Andretti, but I wanted to introduce myself and say hello. I'm Mike Harris. I work for The Associated Press and I'm new to racing. I'm sure I'll be writing a lot about you in the future and I just wanted to say hi."

Mario looked up from his bowl of corned flakes and bananas _ which I quickly found out was his daily breakfast menu _ stuck out his hand and said, "Nice to meet you. You want to join us?"

I was stunned by the invitation, but quickly accepted. That morning meal was the beginning of a relationship that has continued to his day, eventually turning into friendship.

It didn't take long to realize that Mario Andretti is one of a kind. He is smart, friendly, caring and a true family man. He is also driven to succeed and, when he was racing, totally focused on his craft.

He was one hell of a racer, and it was a pleasure to be around for a large slice of his long, successful career.

Mario was also a great interview. He had _ and probably still has _ the ability to answer the same question over and over, giving each person who asks a slightly different answer without changing the meaning. That is a gift.

Over the years, I called him, respectfully, "My little quote machine."

We shared many meals at racetracks and at restaurants and, even when we weren't dining together, it was not uncommon for us to find each other at the same restaurants on race weekends. If you saw Mario there, that meant it was definitely a good place to eat.

Each year I would write a feature story leading into the opening of Indy 500 practice. I always tried to make it something special.

One year, Mario was among the favorites to win _ as usual _ and I decided to make him the focus of my story.

There was a NASCAR Busch Series race scheduled just before the start of practice at Indy at the track in Nazareth, Pa., where the Andrettis have made their home since moving to America. I normally would not have covered that race, but I called Mario and asked if I could stop by his home or office for an interview while I was in town.

"Let's meet for lunch," he said. "I'll pick you up at the track and we'll go to my favorite restaurant."

The media center at Nazareth was a mobile home and I was sitting in it, working at my computer when somebody came in and said, "Hey, Mike. Mario is here to pick you up."

I  walked outside and there he was, parked out front in a white Lamborghini Countach _ a very low-slung Italian sports car. People began to gather around to look at the car and at Mario as I totally embarrassed myself by actually falling into the front passenger seat.

After I had fastened my seatbelt, Mario said, "I have a couple of calls to make on the way. But I'll give you all my attention at the restaurant."

We got onto the two-lane highway outside the track and Mario, with his mobile phone at his ear, began driving down the road at what I felt was a speed faster than I was comfortable with _ particularly with him talking on the phone.

But I said nothing. This was his area of expertise and also his hometown. So he knew what he was doing - I hoped.

We came over a hill and, on the opposite side of the road, there was a state trooper standing alongside a car he had obviously stopped for speeding. The trooper heard the roar of the Lamborghini's racing engine and looked around.

I thought, "This ought to be interesting." But the trooper apparently instantly recognized the car and the driver and, instead of stopping us, turned and gave Mario a smile and a little salute. We both laughed.

Once we got to the restaurant, Mario was a man of his word, putting away the phone. He was well known at this restaurant and nobody bothered us as I did the interview. The trip back to the track went without incident, although I again disgraced myself getting extricated from that front seat with a crowd of people looking on.

Although I was drawn to a number of the people I wrote about, I always tried to keep them at arms-length in the interest of not compromising  professional ethics. That was hard with Mario.

When we talked, the conversations generally got around to food and restaurants. I told Mario several times about a wonderful French restaurant in our little city of Westfield, NJ. Chez Catherine was located in a small motel next to the train station in Westfield's downtown area.

Catherine was the owner and chef and had learned her craft from her father, who was an internationally known chef in Switzerland. She and her husband had a very popular restaurant in New York City for several years, but Catherine, who lived in Westfield, got tired of the commute and the long hours.

She finally moved her restaurant close to home and found her clientele followed her there.

It was expensive, so Judy and I didn't go often, even though it was minutes from our house. But we did have several memorable meals at Chez Catherine over the years.

As Mario got ready to retire at the end of the 1994 season, Lewis and I decided it was time to pay him back for all those years of great quotes. We asked if he and Dee Ann, his wife, would join us for a dinner at Chez Catherine. The drive from Nazareth to Westfield was only a little over an hour.

After we set a date, I phoned the restaurant. A woman answered and I said, "Hi Catherine, this is Mike Harris. I'd like to make a reservation."

She replied, "Sorry, this is not Catherine. My name is Lili and my husband and I are the new owners."

I was shocked, but I asked, "Are you changing the menu?" She said the restaurant would continue with the same name and menu and even the same recipes, which Catherine had sold to the new couple.

I figured we'd take the chance and made the reservation. I even mentioned that the party would include a special guest, race driver Mario Andretti. There was no reaction. She simply said, "We'll see you on the 20th."

Judy and I were the first to arrive that night and the place looked exactly the same, which I took for a good sign. Lewis and the Andrettis soon joined us and we sat down to what was definitely an outstanding meal.

We were finishing our main dishes when Lili, an older, serious-looking woman, approached the table and said, "Mr. Andretti. My husband, who made your food, would like to meet you."

Ever gracious, Mario said, "Of course. I'd like to thank him for this wonderful meal."

A man walked out of the kitchen, wearing a clean, white apron and equally clean and white chef's hat. He was carrying a very large book that looked like a photo album.

He bowed in the European style as he got to the table and said, "Mr. Andretti, may I show you something?"

The man opened the book to a photo that covered the entire page. It showed the finish of the Monaco race that Mario won in his championship year in F1. The man pointed to the car in the picture and said, "This is you."

He then pointed to a man standing on the track waving a huge checkered flag as the car zoomed past, and said, "This is me."

Mario was astounded and shook the man's hand. He gladly autographed the picture. Talk about coincidence.

When I retired from the AP in 2009, Mario returned the favor, taking Judy and me out to dinner at St. Elmo's, our favorite steak house in Indianapolis. It was another memorable night.

Mario also gave me one of the great honors in my life in the fall of 2006 when he was honored by the Italian government.

He was given the Commendatore dell'Ordine al Merito della Republica Italiana in honor of his public service, achievements as a race car driver and enduring commitment to his Italian heritage. The Commendatore is the highest honor granted a civilian by the Italian government, similar to being knighted in Great Britain.

I was at home in Wake Forest, NC near the end of the 2006 season when the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Mario calling to invite Judy and me to the ceremony in New York City. I accepted immediately.

In my mind, it was certainly worth the cost of two plane tickets and a hotel room.

Then I thought to call my boss, Terry Taylor, to make sure it would not be considered a conflict of interest in some way.

She said, "No, you need to go and write a story about it for the wire. We'll pay for your airline tickets and hotel. This is a great honor and should be a really good story."

It turned out that, other than family and a few close friends, the only people Mario invited to the ceremony were Judy and me, Lewis and Chris Economaki, the godfather of racing journalism.

The story I wrote that night remains one of my favorites.

Here are the last few paragraphs:

Mario proudly displayed the green ribbon and medallion placed around his neck, a symbol of his new stature, and thought about the other recipient of the Commendatore from the racing world, the late Enzo Ferrari. "Mr. Ferrari was one of my heroes for most of my life," Andretti said. "A lot of people called him Commendatore, but he always wanted to be known as Engineer, which he was early in his career. Still, it's truly an honor to be mentioned in the same breath with him." Asked if there was anything about his career or his life that he would change, the 66-year-old Andretti, who keeps busy doing public speaking, making commercials, running a business empire that includes the Andretti Winery in California and helping oversee (grandson) Marco's budding racing career, just shook his head. Gazing around the room at the extended family and close friends on hand to see him honored, Andretti said, "What more could any man want?"

It was always a bit difficult to sell the bosses on offbeat or different stories, mostly because they put an extra hit on the budget.

But, in the fall of 1998, I saw a note in a newspaper about the Baja 1000 being run for the first time in years on the original course, from Ensenada, about 60 miles south of San Diego, to La Paz, on the Gulf of Mexico, a race distance of 1,070 miles.

The idea caught my imagination and I proposed the idea to my sports editor, Terry Taylor, saying I could keep the costs down by embedding with one or more of the teams. The race was being run on a free weekend in my generally very crowded schedule and she reluctantly agreed.

I quickly bought an airline ticket for the trip from Raleigh, NC to San Diego and began making plans.

Terry called me a couple of days later to say she had changed her mind and didn't want me to go. I told her the plane ticket was non-refundable and the costs were going to be minimal _ two nights in motels and a couple of meals.

To my relief she said, "Fine. But it better be worth it."

My best contact was Marty Fiolka, who wrote for off-road magazines and did public relations. Even better, he was part-owner of a team that was entered in the race with Marty co-driving a SCORE Lites car with Indycar driver Mike Groff and veteran off-road racer Ted Smith.

His relatively under-financed team, entered in one of the lower divisions of the race, had a total of 10 people, including the trio of drivers, and his chase vehicle, a very large rented RV on a truck body, was driven at the start by his dad, 63-year-old Sigfried (Ziggy) Fiolka.

Marty said he was delighted to let me hang with his team during the event.

But I wanted to see as much of this event as I could, since I was there to do a feature story and not just write about race results. So I contacted Lynn Arciero, the PR person for the powerful and favored Toyota team.

She agreed to let me and my buddy Lewis Franck, who decided to keep me company on the trip, spend the beginning hours of the race with her multi-tiered team. Unlike Marty's bare bones outfit, the well-funded Toyota team, led by Indycar driver Robby Gordon and off-road racing legend Ivan "Iron Man'' Stewart,  included 120 people, two airplanes, two tractor-trailer trucks and a real luxury, a helicopter.

It was no surprise when Gordon won the overall title. But that was only a small part of the story.

Lewis and I met at the San Diego airport and hitched a ride with one of the Toyota PR people across the border to Ensenada. We arrived the evening before the start of the race and got to be part of what was basically a fiesta in the small but charming Mexican town.

We had dinner with some of the Toyota team members and PR staff and the excitement really began to build.

The race started at 9 o'clock the next morning from the town center. And soon, the entire field was nothing but a cloud of dust on the horizon.

The competitors zigzag across the Baja Peninsula during the race, crossing and recrossing the two-lane Mexico 1 highway that bisects Baja. The idea is for the chase vehicles to speed straight down Mexico 1 _ and I do mean speed _ and get to the designated locations of the pit stops in the desert before the competitors.

The co-drivers ride in the chase vehicles and have to be at the stopping points before the racers in order to take their turns behind the wheel.

Lewis and I were supposed to watch the beginning part of the race from the Toyota helicopter, but strong winds grounded the aircraft and we were assigned to one of the utility vehicles being used as chase cars.

Our car had a professional driver and an experienced navigator who was supposed to get us where we needed to go, safe and on time. The first thing that happened was our driver got lost and the navigator, peering at a spiral bound notebook with printed directions in his lap, got confused by the desert roads. GPS had not been invented, yet.

Lewis and I, sitting in the back seat, both thought we saw where they went wrong, but we figured _ wrongly _ they knew what they were doing. 

Finally, we drove to the top of a very large dune near a water tower and were able to see cars and motorcycles racing by in the distance. That gave the driver a bearing and we got back on track, finally reaching Mexico 1 and getting to the first pit stop just in time.

At that point, we waited for Ziggy and the RV to arrive and switched teams. And this is where the adventure really began.

Ziggy was a nervous driver, especially when the numerous semi-trailer trucks zoomed past in the oncoming lane, shaking and moving the RV sideways. Things went pretty smoothly for a while.

We were flying down the highway with the needle buried below 80 (the top number on the RV speedometer) when a semi whipped past and clipped off the driver side mirror with a little metallic click.

That shook up our intrepid driver even more. But, to his credit, he kept his foot to the floor.

At that point, we were riding with Groff, who was napping and was scheduled to relieve Marty at the wheel of the racer on our next stop, Ted, a young PR gal, Heather Handley, and, of course, Ziggy, who continued to get more antsy as darkness fell.

Lewis, Heather and I decided we needed to make sure somebody sat up front with Ziggy and kept him awake and alert, although that made us more nervous, too. So we took turns in the front passenger seat, making conversation and telling jokes and doing whatever we could to keep Ziggy going.

We got to our first rendezvous point in plenty of time and Marty joined us in the RV and promptly went to sleep in the back.

Ziggy told us that one of the most famous sayings in Baja is "Never pass gas in Mexico," a double-entendre that really meant: If you see an open gas station, stop and fill up because you don't know when you'll get another chance.

We spotted an open station and stopped for a few minutes. That put us a little behind schedule and Ziggy was doing his best to make up time. But losing the side mirror had spooked him and he kept pulling the wheel to the side when the trucks would come by us.

Mexico One is lined by big concrete gutters on the edge of the roadway. After years of being rubbed by passing vehicles, the gutters have turned black and are hard to spot, even in daylight. Finally, Ziggy found one.

"Bang!!" One of the RV's tires burst and began to thump. The tires on the RV were in sets of two, so, thankfully, Ziggy kept control. But we definitely had to pull over as soon as we got to a safe place. That took a while because both sides of the road at that point were lined with huge rocks.

Finally, after a few minutes, Ziggy saw a place to pull over into the desert.

We had a two-way radio for emergencies, but there was no guarantee of reaching anyone in the middle of the desert. Fortunately, the Toyota helicopter was in the air and was being used to bounce radio signals during the night.

Even more fortunately, Marty's crew truck was behind us on the highway and showed up minutes after we pulled off. While they changed the tire, I decided to take my life in my hands and walk out of the pool of light from the RV and into the pitch dark of the desert in order to look up at the stars.

It was a little scary to step into the dark, but it was worth it. I've never seen so many stars. It was magnificent and something I hope to show Judy some day.

The crew truck finished the job and took Mike ahead so he could be waiting to relieve Ted at the next pit stop. And, at that point, Marty took over driving the RV, much to the relief of his dad.

Minutes later, we came to the border between Baja North and Baja South, which was manned by what looked like little kids in ill-fitting khaki uniforms. But there was nothing little about the rifles they carried, nor the machine gun being manned at the side of the road.

There was also a chain across the road with nails sticking out just in case somebody tried to run the barrier before being checked out.

We stopped and one of the young soldiers got on. He immediately began eyeing Heather, a pretty, young woman. I worried about her being kidnapped or worse.

Holding the rifle recklessly, with the barrel swinging around aimlessly, he looked around and asked in halting English, "What is your business here?" Lewis replied, "Baja Mil!" The kid heard the name of the race in Spanish and smiled.

There was a nervous pause, but Heather knew just how to handle the situation. She smiled back at him and gestured toward his head, "You want hats?" He smiled back and nodded.

Two hats with the sponsor's name and a few other race trinkets later, he walked happily out of the RV and the barrier was raised for us to drive through. What a relief.

At that point we were all getting hungry, having eaten most of the snacks that had been packed on board. As we drove through a small town with one paved street at 2 o'clock in the morning, there was one building with its lights on.

It was a Tacqueria, apparently taking advantage of the traffic from chase vehicles. We stopped and picked up a bag of hot fish tacos that were about as good as I've ever eaten. They didn't last long.

Meanwhile, Marty and his co-drivers had overcome getting stuck in the sand early in the race, a broken clutch and losing third gear in the five-gear transmission, and were still racing when we got to the final pit stop. Marty got back behind the wheel for the finish and Ziggy, refreshed after a couple of hours of sleep, got back behind the wheel of the RV.

As the sun came up, I pulled out my computer and began to write my feature story. I was wired from coffee and exhausted after being awake and on edge for more than 20 hours, but the words just flowed onto the screen.

By the time we reached La Paz and watched the finishers parade across the line _ fewer than half of the 142 entries made it to the end _ my story was done except for a few final results.

Marty, Mike and Ted finished second to Ivan Stewart in their division, although a long way back. Still, it was a triumph for the small team.

Now came the hard part. Sending my story to New York Sports by telephone from our hotel.

It was a nice, modern Crown Plaza overlooking the waters of the Gulf and the phone worked fine for talking. But, sending a story, that was different.

Finally, on my fourth try with the acoustic cups, the story got all the way to the end. I called the office and the editor there said, "I got it, but it's way too long for an off-road story. I'll cut it down."

I said, "NO WAY!"

I explained that it was a special assignment and not just a race results story. He said there was no record of it and he'd have to call Terry to get permission to send the whole thing.

I waited nervously until he called back and said, "It's on the wire. Sorry for the misunderstanding."

The next morning, Lewis and I had breakfast with Lynn on the terrace overlooking the water. There were two young men sitting near us who kept eyeing Lynn, another of those young, pretty PR women.

Finally, one of them got up and came over to our table and asked if she would like to join them. Before the startled Lynn could answer, I looked at him angrily and said, "Are you propositioning my wife?"

He looked stricken until we all started to laugh. Lynn, blushing mightily, thanked him for the compliment and remained at our table.

Lewis and I then left for the local airport to fly home by way of San Diego.

When we checked in, we were asked for our entry visas. Since we had been driven into the country, we had not stopped for any paperwork, so we were sent down a long hallway to a room with the sign "Immigration" in Spanish.

Inside the almost bare room was a man in a sergeant's uniform sitting at a desk. He looked up and, in a serious tone, reached out his hand and said, "Where are your papers?"

We handed him our plane tickets and he said, "You must also have a visa."

When we explained why we didn't have the proper papers, he scowled and said, "This is very serious. You may not be able to leave. Were you here on business?"

Lewis again said, "Baja Mil!"

Suddenly, the policemen broke into a smile and began to chuckle, saying, "What team were you with?"

When we both replied, "Journalists," he said, "I hope you enjoyed your visit to our country." He then stamped our plane tickets, shook our hands and we were on our way, relieved and happy.

After getting back to the States, I called the office to see if anyone needed me for anything and the supervisor said, "Terry wants to talk to you."

"What now?" I thought.

It turns out she wanted to congratulate me for a good job. The first edition of the Sunday New York Times had used my by-lined Baja story in a full-page layout.

Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. Or maybe both.

My last blog featured some of our worst hotel/motel stays. Today, I'm going to write about some of our best - or at least the most fun or interesting.

It was always difficult to find good, reasonable accommodations for the race weekends in Monterrey, CA. One year, I lucked into a brand new place called the Monterrey Bay Inn, which fronted the bay and was directly across from the famed Fisherman's Wharf area.

The hotel had only opened a few weeks before and, after checking in, Judy and I were blown away by the modern, upscale room. The bathroom was spectacular with a giant bath/shower. It was the first time we had seen glass that was see-through until you flipped a switch to turn it opaque. It was also the first time we had seen a TV in the bathroom.

The balcony jutted out over the big shoreline rocks that were covered for most of the day and night by dozens of sea lions. Judy immediately began spending most of her time on the balcony, barking back at the sea lions. It was quite the chorus and Judy eventually lost her voice from the effort to keep up with the animals.

There was no restaurant in the hotel, but it did provide room service for breakfast - from a nearby cafe. We ordered before going to bed each night and ate our wonderful full, hot breakfast on the balcony each morning. It was spectacular.

I reserved the room for the next year's race weekend the day we checked out.

We stayed there for three years before the hotel management messed up the deal. I got a letter a month or so before our scheduled fourth stay informing me that the hotel was booked for a convention and my reservation had been canceled. No alternate arrangement or guidance of any kind. Just a cancellation notice.

I called the corporate headquarters of the hotel group and complained and was given the cold shoulder. Not even a sorry. Just "nothing we can do about it."

I managed to find a decent room for that year's race despite the late date, but it still bugs me the way that was handled.

Another great place we stayed on work weekends was The Fountainebleu Hotel in Miami Beach. The luxury hotel opened in 1954 and there was an amazing ice cream shop just off the lobby (don't remember the name). My family would go there for treats during several spring vacation stays in Miami Beach when my siblings and I were young.

I was looking for a place to stay during a Homestead race weekend, when our kids were around eight and nine, and I found a great rate at the Fountainebleu, which had just gone through a $100 million renovation.

It was a long drive from the racetrack in Homestead, but I knew the family, who were not going to the track, would appreciate it.

The hotel had a magnificent pool area, games for the kids and wonderful restaurants - and it still had an upscale ice cream parlor, although with a different name.

My family had a great time there and I booked it again for the next year.

Again, I got a letter from hotel management, this time informing me that the hotel was overbooked for our weekend and that they had instead put us in a room next door at the Eden Roc Hotel. The letter also stated that we were welcome to use any of the Fountainebleu services during our stay across the big parking lot.

I wasn't particularly happy about the situation, but the Eden Roc _ a similar vintage to the Fountainebleu _ was a nice place, too.

We checked in and and were ushered by a bellman to a room on a dark, dingy corridor on a low floor. The room was adequate - typical hotel room - with a view of the front parking lot. It was a big change from the room we had the year before at the Fountainebleu, looking out over the pool deck and the ocean.

I told Judy and the kids I was going to the front desk and to turn on the TV, sit on the beds and not touch anything else until I came back. I then marched back to the lobby and asked to see the manager.

In this case, the manager was a pretty, young thing with a gorgeous smile. I had intended to be tough in making my case and demanding a different room. But I found myself smiling and saying, "I have a little problem that maybe you can help me with."

I explained the situation, telling her that I went to the track and my family stayed in the hotel most of the day and that the room we had been assigned was not even adequate.

To my surprise, her reply was, "No problem. Let's move you and your family to one of our newly renovated floors." All I could do was smile and say, "Thank you."

In a flash, we were relocated to a huge room on the top floor of the hotel, overlooking the pool deck and ocean, with all-new furniture and a beautiful balcony. Everyone was happy.

We were all asleep early the next morning, with the drapes closed to keep out the bright sunlight, when there was an insistent knock at the door. I struggled out of bed, still half asleep, wondering who could be knocking a this hour. I opened the door to the hall and there was no one there.

I cussed to myself and was walking back toward the bed when the knocking began again. In my sleep-befogged state, it took me a moment or two to realize the knocking was from the balcony door.

I walked to the door, pulled the drapes back and there, standing in pajamas and robes and looking very unhappy, were two young men looking back at me through the glass.

I slid the door open a few inches and asked, "What's this all about?"

One of them explained to me that they had gone out onto their balcony in the room next to ours to drink their morning coffee and had locked themselves out. We were too high up to attract attention from the pool area, so they had taken their lives in their hands, climbed up on the railing and stepped across to our balcony.

I let them into the room, where Judy and the kids awoke to find two strangers in bed clothes with embarrassed looks on their faces. I then called the front desk and asked they send somebody up with a key to the next door room.

After an uncomfortable silence of about five minutes, the bellman arrived and asked if the young men had any identification to prove the room next door was theirs. I intervened and pointed out they were in their PJs and robes and unlikely to be carrying ID.

"How about letting them into the room and letting them get their ID from their wallets? He looked a bit startled but nodded in agreement and ushered the men out of the room. They left with a stream of apologies and thanks.

Another luxury hotel we stayed at for a number of years was the Waldorf-Astoria on Park Avenue in New York City. It was a grand dame of a hotel and had undergone several big renovations and was still something special.

The first couple of years the NASCAR Awards Dinner was held at the Waldorf, we were still living in New Jersey and didn't need a hotel room. But, after moving to North Carolina in 1995, that changed.

The first year we flew back for the dinner on the first week of December, we stayed at a midtown motel a cab ride away from the Waldorf. It wasn't particularly convenient, but I figured the cost of staying at the Waldorf would not be appreciated by my boss.

I was wrong.

When I stopped in the office in Rockefeller Center for a visit, the boss, Sports Editor Terry Taylor, asked me where Judy and I were staying. I told her and she asked where everyone else was staying? 

I said, "Most people are staying at the Waldorf because that's where all the events are."

"Why aren't you staying there?" she asked. "I thought it was probably too expensive," I replied.

"Well, next year, stay where everybody else is staying," Terry said.

We wound up staying at the Waldorf for the NASCAR festivities for nearly a decade. Each year the cost of the room went up, finally topping out at $420 a night. I had great trepidation when I turned in my expense accounts. But nobody said a word about it _ until the last year.

Finally, I was told, "Find someplace less expensive to stay. There's lots of hotels in New York."

But, by that time, we had enjoyed a lot of luxury, compounded by the fact that the Waldorf kept track of its guests and upgraded you to a better room each time you returned. By the last year there, we were in a huge junior suite that looked out on Park Avenue. It was impressive.

There was a jewelry store in the lobby that had some very expensive and unusual items displayed in the windows. Among them was an ornate necklace with figures tumbling down the chain. It was the centerpiece of the display and Judy's favorite.

She got to know the ladies that ran the store, telling them from the start, "There's nothing in here I can afford. But I love looking." 

Each year when we returned, she would walk into the jewelry store and get a greeting from the ladies as if she was their best customer or an old friend.

Finally, she got up the nerve to ask to try on that necklace that she had been gazing longingly at for so many years.

Once it was placed on her, she looked up at the ladies and asked, "What is this supposed to represent?" Much to her surprise and embarrassment, they said, "It's the Kama Sutra."

We both looked a little closer at the tumbling figures and probably blushed. But Judy got a big kick out of it.

She also got to know the hotel's concierge very well. Judy would just stop by for a chat and, after a while, the guy, who had been very formal, warmed up to her and told her a lot about the business of being a concierge at a major hotel.

During the summer before our last year at the Waldorf for the NASCAR banquet, we went on a cruise out of the Port of New York with my brothers and sisters and their significant others. Upon returning to New York, several of the family members decided to stay at the Waldorf overnight before heading home.

I used some Hilton points to make it affordable and we joined them. Again, we got a big, luxurious room, thanks to our long history of staying at the Waldorf.

We were in the sitting room area with my brother Bob when Judy noticed something moving on the floor. It turned out to be a gigantic cockroach. It was the Waldorf but, hey, this was also New York.

Judy, quick as a flash, grabbed a water glass and trapped the cockroach.

I said, "What are you going to do with it now? We're on the 15th floor. You going to put it in the toilet or out the window?"

Nope. She wanted it taken outside and let go. But she also wanted the hotel people to know about the cockroach.

She called her friend, the concierge, and told him what was going on. He said, "I'll send somebody up right away."

Moments later, a young assistant manager appeared at our door, looking perplexed. He looked at the cockroach under glass, grimaced and said, "What would you like done?"

Judy told him that she wanted to take the cockroach outside, but she knew it probably would not be a good idea to ride down the guest elevators with the bug visible to anyone. He agreed and said, "C'mon, we'll take the service elevator."

Off they went, much to the dismay of several maids  who saw them with the cockroach under glass. They walked out a service door and Judy saw a small, grassy area across the street. That's where she deposited the cockroach, which quickly scuttled away. 

Judy speculated later that it probably beat her back to the hotel to tell its family the story of its strange trip.

The assistant manager brought her back to the room and asked, "What can we do for you to make up for the inconvenience?"

As much as Judy wanted to ask for one of the beautiful terry cloth bathrobes that came with the room, she was too embarrassed to ask for something that expensive. Instead, she picked up a souvenir jar with the name of the Waldorf etched on it and hard candies inside it and said, "Could I take this home with me?"

He smiled and said, "Of course."

After we checked out a few days later, Judy lamented that she hadn't asked for that robe. Months later, on our last visit to the Waldorf from the NASCAR dinner, she visited the concierge and reminded him of the cockroach story.

There was a package on the bed when we returned from dinner that night. Wrapped nicely in brown paper and with a note that read, "Hope you enjoy this gift from us here at the Waldorf," was one of the plush robes.

Traveling for business was often fraught with hazards, things like late or cancelled flights, traffic tie-ups when trying to get to a flight, booking hotel rooms and rental cars on busy race weekends and terrible hotel/motel rooms.

A couple of things that worked in my favor were the fact that I didn't let delays get to me - I figured I'd get where I was going eventually, so why raise my blood pressure? - and I didn't care what a hotel/motel room looked like as long as it had a decent bed, working AC and heat and hot water.

But it was a different story when I was traveling with Judy and the kids.

Since I often left them in the room while I went off to work, I tried hard to stay at places that were well appointed and located in convenient areas for eating and shopping and possible entertainment.

And we definitely had some interesting adventures when it came to hotel/motel rooms.

For some reason, Jackson, MI was our little piece of hell.

We stayed in Jackson for a number of years because of it's relatively close proximity to Michigan International Speedway, about a 30-minute drive away.

Since Jackson is a small city, hotel rooms on race weekends were at a premium and we often wound up using rooms booked for us by the racetrack or the sanctioning body, although AP paid for them. We took what we could get.

The first few years that Judy, Tory and Lanni traveled with me in the summer, we stayed at a motel on the outskirts of Jackson. It changed names several times but its first entity was a Quality Inn. It became known to us as the "No Quality Inn."

It was pretty no-frills, but it seemed like a decent place at first. So, when we were booked there the next year, I had no qualms.

We checked in and the room looked okay until Lanni remarked about the pattern of the wallpaper that covered most of the room. Judy took a good look at it and said, "Oh my God, that's not a pattern. That's fly specks."

Apparently people had been swatting hordes of flies on the wall, leaving lots of dirty spots.

She called the front office, told them about the fly specks and asked to be moved to another room. Apparently, the room clerk balked at this and I heard Judy said, "Fine. I'll just call the health department and have them come out and take a look."

We were moved to another room where there were at least no fly specks.

That night, Tory, who was about seven years old at the time, went to the bathroom. Moments later, we were all awakened by pounding on the bathroom door, which had jammed shut when he had closed it. I managed to get it open and we all went back to bed.

In the morning, I called the front desk and told them about the door and was promised someone would come and fix it.

About 15 minutes later, a young man, who looked about 15, showed up with a step ladder and a hammer. He got up on the step ladder and began banging on the top of the door with the hammer, apparently trying to make it fit more easily into the frame. That was the fix I was promised.

Several Indy car drivers were also staying at the "No Quality" on that trip and the wife of one of them reported that a pair of leather pants was missing from her room. It turned out that one of the maids had taken a liking to them and took them home with her.

The next year, we stayed there again _ although I had tried hard with no success to find another place.

One of the good things about the "No Quality" was the pool and pool deck. When we showed up, the kids raced to the pool area to check it out and came back looking confused. The water was a bright orange.

No problem, the front desk people said.  "It's just chemicals."

Needless to say, there was no swimming for our kids on that stay.

The next year, I finally managed to find a different place to stay in Jackson. This time, it was a new high-rise hotel in the heart of the city.

The rooms were large and well set up and I thought we were out of the woods. Not so.

On the night we checked in, there were thunderstorms and, in the middle of the night, the big floor-to-ceiling windows began to leak. Pretty soon, water was gushing in and we had deployed all of our towels to stem the tide.

They moved us to a different room the next morning along with profuse apologies.

That night, Judy and the kids had gone to sleep - Judy in our queen-size bed and the kids in sleeping bags on the floor. I stayed up to watch TV for a while.

Finally, I was tired enough to get some shuteye. The kids were sleeping in front of the TV table, so I leaned over them, put my left hand on the glass top of the table and reached for the TV off switch. The table began to flip up, with the TV sliding toward me.

I tried to take my hand off and keep it from flipping over, but I couldn't stop from falling forward and the TV slowly slid down the glass top and then down my back.

There I was, laying on top of Tory and Lanni with a 25-inch TV resting on my back.

The kids didn't wake up, I was not hurt and I was able to move the TV to the floor without damage. But it was definitely a scary moment.

When I told the hotel manager what had happened, he apologized for the TV not being secured and offered to give us a free night. I took it, but that didn't really do anything for me since AP was paying for the room.

The next few years on our trips to Michigan, we managed to stay at much nicer motels in Jackson or Adrian, MI, a small college town which was about 30 minutes from the track in the opposite direction.

The hotel where the TV incident occurred went bankrupt and closed. Several years later, under new management and with a new name, it was scheduled to open again. It was not quite ready for guests, but the track convinced the new owners to open early for the media and some of the NASCAR officials.

This time, it was just Judy and me. The kids were with grandma Rosee in Chicago. We showed up with some trepidation and found construction still going full-bore in the lobby area.

There were no luggage carts available, but Judy found a stray grocery cart in the bare kitchen area to help us take our stuff to the room.

The room was pretty bare, too. There were no curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows, although the rods were hung. The guy at the front desk suggested we use sheets to cover the window.

There was no closet, but the shelf and hooks that were going to be installed on the wall were lying on the floor.

I left Judy there the next day as I headed to the track. When I got home, Judy was bursting to tell me her adventure that day.

With no knock or any warning, the door to the room was suddenly gone as Judy sat and studied inside. Workmen had removed it to replace the old lock with a card key system. But nobody had told them people were staying in the rooms.

So there sat Judy with sheets covering the windows, no closet and no door. All she could do was laugh.

Finally, there was a new parking system at the hotel, with the lot shared with a local business. To get out, you had to use quarter-size tokens that the hotel provided.

That worked for most of our stay. But, when it came time to check out, the desk clerk said, "Sorry, we're out of tokens. You'll have to use quarters."

I said, "Fine, give me some quarters." He look at me like I was from outer space. I repeated, "Quarters please," sticking out my hand.

He shook his head, grimaced and finally reached in a drawer and handed me four quarters. It only took two to get out that day, so I was ahead of the game.

Judy decided to call the place Hotel California. Like the Eagles song, you could check out but you could never leave.

Another of our interesting motel stories took place in Watkins Glen, NY., a small, charming village in the Finger Lakes District.

I had booked a room at the Watkins Glen Motel in the downtown area. I told the lady who ran the place that we weren't going to arrive until late in the day and she said, "Our desk closes at 9 p.m., but you can pick up your room key at the police station. They're open all night."

No problem, I thought.

But, when were arrived at the motel, I looked around and could not spot the police station, which I assumed was nearby. We drove around hoping that we would see somebody to ask. But it was about 11 o'clock and the streets were empty.

It must have been on the third or fourth trip around the block that Lanni pointed to the second floor of a brick building across the street from the motel and said, "Is that it?"

Sure enough, there was a small sign "Watkins Glen Police Dept" hanging below the second-story window.

I found the entrance, trudged up some dark, dingy stairs and found a police officer sitting in  quiet room at a small desk.

"Do you by any chance have a room key for me from the motel across the street?" I asked. "He said, "Mr. Harris. I've been waiting for you. I was supposed to make my rounds 30 minutes ago."

So, we now had the key and went to the room. Happily, there were two beds and a rollaway cot, as I had asked. Everyone was tired, so we immediately went to put the kids to bed. Lanni jumped into one of the doubles and I unfolded the rollaway, which was all made up and ready.

Tory went to lay down and the rollaway flipped up on end, nearly dropping him onto the floor. It turns out one leg was missing from the cot.

We all started laughing. It was ridiculous.

Judy pulled out a lower drawer in the nearby dresser and propped the corner of the rollaway so Tory was able to get in and go to sleep. There were times you had to have ingenuity.