People tend to think that because I covered auto racing for so many years that I was a car guy.

Not so! I can change a tire and pump gas, but not much more when it comes to the mechanical end of the car.

As I got into the beat, I was trying to learn as much about cars as quickly as I could. I had no idea how much there was to learn.

I was driving from Atlanta to Talladega for the July NASCAR race at the Alabama superspeedway that first year when it occurred to me that a lot of people who were reading my stories didn't know the difference between a stock car and a street car.

At that point, I didn't, either.

I decided to find out for myself and then write a feature telling everyone just what makes something a stock car.

As I walked through the garage area that Friday morning, it was buzzing with activity and everybody looked too busy to talk. Then I noticed Junie Donlavey, a legendary car owner and mechanic, standing by himself outside his hauler.

I figured if anybody knew what made a stock car distinctive, it would be Junie, who had been around almost since the beginning of NASCAR in 1948.

I introduced myself and told him the story I was working on. Then I asked the question: "What's stock about a stock car?"

Junie, the grizzled lines on his face becoming even more furrowed as he peered up into the bright sky for a few moments, rubbed his bristly chin for a long moment and, finally, looked me right in the eye and said, "Well, steerin' column. But it's beefed up."

That, my friends, is when I knew there was really nothing "stock" about a stock car. Several of the mechanics I got to know showed me how the chassis were built from the ground up with steel tubing and how the cars were weighted for balance with lead and how pieces of foam were used for cushioning. It was quite the education and gave me a new appreciation of these cars that raced at speeds approaching 200 mph on the big tracks and, generally, kept the drivers safe in horrifying looking crashes.

That first year on the beat was eye-opening in many ways.

I was starting to get the sense that being the AP's guy in auto racing was a big deal and I also was starting to get a little full of myself. When I arrived at a new track and identified myself, it seemed the red carpet was rolled out just about everywhere. It was fun and a little heady.

It was also amazing and somewhat sobering to realize that literally millions of people were reading my stories.

Then I went to the Canadian Grand Prix in Montreal.

It was my first time in Montreal and only my second Formula One race. My first F1 event, in Long Beach, had been a great experience, so I was really looking forward to this race.

But, somehow, I didn't realize I had never gotten a reply to my credential request. That meant I had no parking pass for that first morning, so I talked my way onto a press shuttle from the hotel to the panoramic track on Ile Notre Dame in the midst of the mighty St. Lawrence River.

The man-made island, across from downtown Montreal, was built for the 1967 Canadian Expo and the rowing and canoeing events in the 1976 Olympics were held there. It was a beautiful venue.

I was really happy to be there until I walked into the credential office and found a long line of people. It took quite a while to get to the front of that line and, when I did, the woman behind the counter asked me my affiliation.

When I proudly said "Associated Press" she stared at me blankly and said, "Is that a magazine?" Still feeling confident, I replied, "No, it's based in the U.S. and it's the world's largest news gathering organization."

"Oh, you mean Reuters," she said.

"No, the AP."

She shrugged and said, "We have nothing under your name or the name of that organization, except for a couple of photographers."

"Is there someone I can talk to," I asked. She walked into a side office and said to an unseen person, "There's a guy here who says he's supposed to have a credential and I can't find anything."

A man walked out of the room, looked at me hard and said, "Sorry. If we haven't got a confirmation for you, then there's nothing we can do."

At that point, I was heartsick. I really didn't know what to do next.

Then I heard a voice behind me say, "You'd better check with the race director. The AP is a big deal and he's the AP racing guy."

It was my new buddy Lewis Franck. His credential for F1 was assured because he was a member of  ARPA (Auto Racing Press Association), an international group which I soon joined. He was wearing his ARPA armband and that gave him immediate status with the credential people, who decided maybe they ought to check with the race director.

Grudgingly, they ushered Lewis and me into another office, where Lewis explained to the race director who I was. At least the race director knew about the AP. Within minutes, I had a credential and a parking pass. Crisis averted, thanks to Lewis, who has never let me forget it.

That incident also taught me a lesson about taking myself and my position too seriously.

There were a lot of firsts for me in 1980. I found I loved going to new tracks and new cities.

It was fun to learn my way around and meet so many great new people. And I quickly realized that racing people were mostly exceptionally nice and welcoming.

One of my last races in 1980 was the IndyCar event in the Phoenix suburb of Avondale, nestled at the base of the scenic Estrella Mountains and built alongside a reservation.

My first day at the dusty little one-mile oval, I was told that before each race, the track hires some of the native Americans to collect the rattlesnakes that populate the hills surrounding the track so that people can sit on those hills for the races.

It was a just a folksy tale to me at the time.

My first day at the track was filled by practice, qualifying and interviews. By the time I finished my writing, I was the last person in the infield media center. The sun was setting in the west as I walked to my car, the only one left in the blacktop-covered media parking lot, 100 yards or so from the media center.

It was a gorgeous evening and I was just taking in the sunset when I looked down and realized I was stepping over a good-sized rattler. I think I looked just like one of those cartoons where the guy is suspended in the air with his legs churning until he hits the ground and speeds away.

I guess the snake was sleeping on the warm tarmac and didn't pay any attention to me. But he sure caught my attention. And I was very careful where I walked the rest of my time at the Phoenix track.

Toward the end of that first year on the beat, a PR man invited Judy and me to a dinner at Palm II, a great and very expensive steak house in Manhattan. I found out the guy was trying to find support for an IndyCar street race in Manhattan.

We got a sitter and drove into the city and found that the dinner party included some well-known writers from the New York newspapers as well as artist Leroy Neiman, who was doing some F1 and IndyCar posters, and his latest assistant, a pretty woman who had dated Lewis at one time.

They sat Judy and the other woman together, but she was not very friendly or talkative.

When it came time to order, they started with Judy, who was a little embarrassed after seeing the menu prices. She picked something like a hamburger steak, the cheapest thing on the menu, and nothing to go with it. The other woman went next and ordered a filet mignon, just about the most expensive thing on the menu, plus a shrimp cocktail and a salad.

Of course the drinks flowed freely and several other people at the table ordered lobster, which is what Judy would like to have ordered if it wasn't so pricey and if she hadn't been first to order.

The filet looked like half a cow when it arrived and the young woman ate maybe two bites. Meanwhile, Judy dutifully ate her hamburger steak with a smile and joined happily in the conversation, although a lot of it centered on racing.

When the meal was finished, the waiter asked if anybody wanted to take their leftovers home. The other woman said, "No thanks" and Judy practically jumped out of her chair.

"Would you mind if I took it home," she asked the woman. That was fine with her.

The waiter brought back the leftovers wrapped in foil and made to look like birds. He put the steak down in front of Judy. Minutes later, I looked around and she was gone.

I assumed she had gone to the bathroom without saying anything. But after a fairly long absence, she returned with two other foil bags of leftovers.

It turns out my eagle-eyed wife had spotted three businessman finishing up their meals in the corner of the dining room. All of them had ordered lobster and two of them had take-home packages in front of them,

Judy walked up to them and said, "I have an almost untouched filet here that I'd love to trade for some lobster."

One of the guys said, "Sure, you can have mine." But his friend said, "You had hardly anything left and I've got a couple of untouched claws that she can have to go with yours."

When we opened the packages at home, those claws were so big they looked like first baseman's mitts. The next day we had a lunch of cold lobster and Fritos. Don't knock it if you haven't tried it. Delish!

As usual, Judy's resourcefulness paid off, big time.