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.

Before NASCAR drivers began bringing motor homes to the tracks, it was pretty routine to run into them in hotel lobbies and restaurants.

It was easy to strike up a conversation and, sometimes, that led to dinner invitations and a chance to get to know the drivers better.

For several years, I stayed at an old, antebellum-style motel outside of Florence, SC called The Swamp Fox Inn. It had no coffee shop or restaurant, so you had to go elsewhere for meals.

Heading out one night with no particular destination in mind, I ran into PR man Tom Roberts, a friendly and pleasant guy who did a great job of promoting his driver, Bobby Allison. As we talked for a few moments in the hotel lobby, Bobby walked up.

The two of them were also headed out for dinner and asked me to join them, which I immediately accepted.

Bobby was one of the biggest stars in NASCAR, but he was and is a very friendly and approachable man. I didn't know him very well, yet, but he was easy to talk to and had a great sense of humor.

Bobby loves his beer - which he calls barley pops - and he was sponsored for many years by Miller High Life.

We went to a small Italian restaurant in downtown Florence, which was a familiar place to Tom and Bobby but new to me.

When the waitress came to the table to ask for our drink order, Tom and I ordered wine and Bobby smiled and said, "A Miller beer, please."

Moments later, the waitress returned looking sad. She said, "Sorry Mr. Allison, we're out of Miller." She then named a list of other beers that were in stock. But Bobby wasn't about to be seen drinking a competitor's brand.

"Just bring me what they're having," he said, nodding at us. But he didn't look happy about it.

Moments later, we saw a man, apparently the owner, who was also the cook, hastily heading out the door. Meanwhile, the waitress brought our wine. Bobby took a sip of his, made a face and said, "Think I'll drink water."

About 10 minutes went by before the owner rushed back in carrying a paper bag.

The man walked up to our table with a big smile on his face, reached into the bag and pulled out a six-pack of Miller cans and plopped them onto the table.

"Nice and cold, Mr. Allison," he said. "Now, what can we make you for dinner?"

Bobby thanked him profusely and shook his hand. After the man walked away from the table, Bobby leaned toward Tom and me, grinned and whispered, "I was only going to drink one tonight, but I don't want to insult him."

During that same time period, the early 80s, Bobby and I bumped into each other in the garage area around lunch time. We stopped to talk for a moment and Bobby said, "I'm heading over to the Darlington Grill for one of their famous hamburger steaks. You want to join me?"

The Darlington Grill was located just outside the racetrack and was a hangout for drivers, crews and media people on race weekends. And, yes, the hamburger steak was awesome.

It would have been an easy walk, but Bobby knew he would be stopped and asked for autographs every couple of feet, so we took his car, which was parked in the lot just behind the garages.

We got in, he put the key in the ignition and sat there looking at me. It was an uncomfortable silence and I finally said, "Is something wrong?"

Bobby continued to look at me without saying anything.

"Are we waiting for someone?" I asked. Again he just sat quietly, staring at me.

Finally, he said, "I know it's just across the parking lot, but I don't go anywhere in a car until everyone is buckled up. Put that dang seat belt on and we'll get going."

I put the seat belt on and Bobby, satisfied, winked at me, started the car and we headed off to lunch.

Since that day, I have adopted Bobby's policy. When I'm driving a car, everyone in it has to be buckled in before we go anywhere. Safety first.

Another Darlington story involves Dale Earnhardt, certainly one of the biggest stars of all-time in NASCAR.

Again, staying at the Swamp Fox, I ran into Dale, his PR lady and a friend heading out for dinner. We stopped to talk for a few moments and, to my surprise, Dale said, "You want to get some dinner with us?"

Of course, I accepted. He said, "You drive."

We decided to go to a restaurant in downtown Florence and, after buckling in, of course, I headed out onto the four-lane road in front of the hotel and started towards town. I was cruising along at about 40 mph in a 35 mph zone and telling some story.

I looked over at Dale in the front passenger seat and he was grinning broadly, although I didn't think my story was that good. Suddenly, he reached over and threw the gearshift lever into park. The car bucked and swerved sideways and it was all I could do to get over to the side of the road and stopped without losing control.

Dale started howling with laughter. "Man, you should have seen your face."

The two in the back seat didn't seem surprised or upset and the PR lady later told me that Dale often pulled this trick on newbies.

I was a little shaken and also worried about what kind of damage that could have done to the transmission of the rental car. But, after a moment to compose myself, we continued on to dinner. There were no more hijinks that evening and I did get to know Dale a whole lot better.

Dinnertime was often a great time to get to know racing people better and I tried to take advantage of that as often as I could, often accompanied by Judy or my good buddy Lewis Franck.

Lewis and I were in Denver in 2002 for an Indy car race and staying at the famous Brown Palace Hotel. It was dinnertime and we had decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. Wandering through the lobby, we saw Brazilian driver Cristiano da Matta standing by himself in a corner.

We stopped to talk and asked if he would like to join us for dinner. He said yes.

The three of us headed toward the restaurant and ran into two other Brazilian drivers, Tony Kanaan and Christian Fittipaldi, who also agreed to join us. By the time we got to the restaurant entrance, Canadian driver Paul Tracy, Mexican driver Mario Dominquez and Scottish driver Dario Franchitti were all part of the dinner party.

I don't remember what the food was like, but the conversation was lively and fun, with everybody telling stories. When we were done, the waitress put the bill in the middle of the table and there it sat, waiting for someone to take the initiative and grab it.

Drivers, particularly when they are at race venues, are used to PR people and team owners picking up the tab. And most drivers are, shall we say, tight with a buck anyway. That bill sat there like a land mine waiting to be stepped on.

Finally, I thought, "What the hell. It's good PR" and I grabbed the check.

There were oohs and aahs from the assembled drivers and Tracy said, incredulously, "Are you buying? I've never had a journalist pay for a meal before."

I said, "No, the AP is."

There were smiles all around.

The bill wasn't too bad, considering that it was a race weekend and nobody was drinking liquor or wine. But it wasn't small, either. And, since it hadn't been authorized in advance, I wondered if putting it on my expense account would raise red flags in New York.

I made sure to label it as a "business meal" and write in all the drivers' names as my guests.

I was a little nervous until the expense check was deposited in my account a couple of weeks later with no backlash. But it would have been worth paying for that meal myself, considering the way the drivers reacted to it.

There were nice comments and thank yous from the drivers numerous times the rest of the season. And I had great relationships with all of them the rest of my career.

Another worthwhile evening meal.

Getting famous people to sit down for one-on-one interviews is sometimes near impossible, especially if they don't want to be interviewed.

Paul Newman was interview-shy. He hated talking about himself, particularly about the movie business or his personal life. The first few times I managed to corral him for a short sit-down, I was told the ground rules were no questions about family or his movie career. He only wanted to talk about auto racing or his charitable endeavors.

But he was obviously a multi-faceted person and, as our relationship became a bit stronger over the years, I kept up my hopes that some day he would let me do a real in-depth interview.

It was in Portland, Ore., in June of 1991 when I ran into Newman on the Indy car pit lane. We chatted amiably for a few moments. He was driving in the Trans-Am Series full-time at that point and I asked when his next race was.

He said it was in Cleveland the following week and asked if I would be there? I said, "Sure, that's my old home town. I wouldn't miss it."

His eyebrows raised and he said, "You know I'm from Shaker Heights."

At that point, we started talking about places we both knew on the east side of  Cleveland, including Corky and Lenny's deli, where Judy had waitressed and my family had hung out over the years.

He stopped talking and looked at me hard for a moment and said, "You want to do that interview you've been talking about? We start practice Friday morning at 8. If you come by the motor home at 7, I'll sit down with you."

Pushing my luck, I said, "Can we talk about things other than racing?" He smiled and nodded.

I was thrilled and also nervous. I wanted to do a good job on the interview and not come off as obsequious or fawning. Normally, I just asked questions as they popped into my head. This time, I prepared a list of possible questions ahead of time, writing them on the first page of an unused reporter's notepad.

I showed up at the motor home at 6:45, 15 minutes early and waited. Finally, at 7:30 Newman showed up and brushed past me.

"I'm late. We'll talk another day," he said brusquely and disappeared into the motor home.

I was disappointed and a bit angry.

After the practice session, I waited for Newman at the motor home. I stopped him as he walked up and said, "What about the interview you promised me? Are you still going to do it?"

He shrugged, stared at me with those clear blue eyes and said, "All right. Tomorrow before practice."

Again, I showed up early and waited. This time, Newman arrived on time, sighed and grudgingly invited me to follow him into the motor home.

Once inside, he began getting into his driving uniform. I began to ask him questions and he was replying in monosyllables. I was getting virtually nothing.

Scott Sharp, his 23-year-old teammate and the son of Newman's good friend Bob Sharp, was also getting ready for the practice session. After about 10 minutes of listening to Newman avoid answering my questions, this wonderful young man turned around and gave Newman both barrels.

"Paul, you're not being fair to Mike," he said. "You agreed to an interview and then you brushed him off yesterday and told him you'd do it today. Now you're just stone-walling him. You know Mike is a journalist you can trust. You've known him for a long time. Talk to the guy."

I was astounded and Newman appeared abashed. He turned to me and said, "I'm sorry, Mike. Let's start again."

He sat down and began answering my questions in great detail.

We talked about his racing career, of course, and his upbringing and Joanne, his wife. He told me stories about working with his close friend Robert Redford and we filled up the 45 minutes before he had to leave for the start of Trans-Am practice. As he left, he said, "If you need anything else, let me know."

I hugged Scott and thanked him before he followed Newman out the door.

The story moved as a weekend news feature and turned out great. It got used in hundreds of newspapers. The best part of the story was when I asked Newman if he had ever played other sports. He said, "I really wanted to be a great tennis player when I was younger, but I had two left feet. The only time I ever feel really graceful is when I'm dancing with Joanne, and that has little to do with me."

A few days later, I was sitting in a press box when the phone rang. The voice on the other end said, "Mike, this is Marty. I just wanted to congratulate you on the Newman story. It was really good work and very appreciated."

I hesitated for a moment and asked, "I'm sorry, who did you say you are?" He replied, "Oh, sorry. This is Marty Thompson. I'm the AP's managing editor."

It was the first and only time I ever talked to him.

Another memorable interview took place in Montreal during the Formula One weekend sometime in the early 90's.

I only covered F1 when the world-hopping series was in North America and I never got to know most of the drivers except in group interviews. And the PR people who worked for the drivers weren't very interested in giving a writer from the U.S. access to their guy for one-on-ones.

I often had to be sneaky to get face-to-face with the drivers.

That weekend, I decided I wanted to find a way to interview F1's biggest star, Ayrton Senna. I had talked with him in small groups a few times and he seemed like a good interview subject.  But his PR lady wasn't having it.

"He'll be doing the international writers interview at 4 p.m. on Friday. You can talk with him then," she said.

The Team McLaren PR person was even more negative.

"Could I possibly have a one-on-one interview with Ayrton sometime before the race?" I asked. "No!" he said. But, then he smiled and invited me to eat lunch in the McLaren compound, an invitation which I gladly accepted.

As I sat and ate, I watched the activity buzzing around me in the compound. The team was being fed and there were numerous languages being spoken. As I finished and stood to leave, Senna walked into the compound, said hello to a number of crewmen and walked up to the buffet table to grab some food.

His PR lady was nowhere in sight, so I sidled up to him, took a plate and started putting food on it. He looked over and I said, "Hello, Ayrton. I'm Mike Harris from the Associated Press in the U.S."

He shook my hand and I said, "I've been trying to get an interview with you, but it seems impossible."

Senna looked surprised and said, "I'll talk to you. Come here tomorrow morning at 8 and I'll give you 15 minutes."

I thanked him as he walked away. I was elated and a bit nervous that the PR lady would show up and put the kabosh on the interview.

The next morning, I was there waiting at 8 o'clock. The security guard in front of the compound eyed me suspiciously. But I showed him my credential and told him I had an appointment with Senna. He looked leery, but let me in. I guess I didn't look dangerous.

At precisely 8 a.m., the door to the motor home opened and Senna waved me in. We sat down and he said, "You have 15 minutes. Let's get started."

I had thought about my questions beforehand and began. He was a great interview and things were progressing well when the door opened and his engineer walked in. Senna looked up and said, "Not now. I'm talking to Mike. Come back in," he glance at his watch, "seven minutes."

The engineer left and I finished the interview. That, my friends, is true focus and perhaps the reason Senna was the youngest three-time F1 champion.

I thanked Senna, shook his hand and left as the engineer walked in. As I walked through the compound, Senna's PR lady saw me and gave me a very nasty look. I just smiled and waved goodbye.

As I was working on my racing schedule for the 1989 season, I noted that there was a great opportunity in October to build in a visit with my youngest sibling, Bob, who lived in San Francisco at the time.

The trip started with an Indy car race at Laguna Seca Raceway just outside of Monterey, CA. I was then scheduled to cover an IMSA sports car event at Del Mar Racetrack near San Diego the following weekend.

I often stayed out West between races when there were consecutive events in the same area, rather than spend the time and money to fly back and forth to New Jersey.

Bob is as big a baseball fan as I am and I got really excited when I realized my visit to San Francisco was going to coincide with the SF Giants-Oakland A's World Series. In those days, AP was allowed to buy a small allotment of tickets to the Series and I called my boss in NY Sports to see if any were still available.

Lo and behold, I was able to buy two grandstand seats for a game at Candlestick Park. Bob was elated when I called to tell him.

I arrived in San Francisco the night before the game and Bob suggested we leave the car at home and take an express bus to and from Candlestick.

"It's just so much easier," he noted. "No parking worries or expense."

We walked the mile or so from his apartment in the Haight-Ashbury District to Market Street in the downtown area and jumped onto an express bus headed to the ballpark. Cheap and easy.

We made it to Candlestick in time to watch batting and fielding practice and just enjoy the general ambiance of what was a beautiful evening.

Our seats were great, almost exactly between home plate and first base and only a few rows behind the box seats.

The game was just about to start as the A's were coming off the field to get ready to line up for the National Anthem when there was a low rumbling sound. At first, it just sounded like a big truck rolling past. But it kept building in volume and the entire stadium began to shake.

Bob, who was a real Californian by that time, looked at me and said matter of factly, "It's just an earthquake." But, as it seemed to continue to rumble and shake for a long time, his face turned white and he gripped my leg with his left hand - hard enough to hurt.

We were sitting in the middle of a long row of seats with nowhere to go, and I looked up and saw the upper deck overhang, just above our heads, swaying wildly at that point. My senses were fully activated and I seemed to see and feel everything all at once.

I noticed the light standards swaying like huge palm trees and the field itself appeared to ripple under the feet of Oakland stars Jose Canseco and Mark McGuire, very big men who were momentarily lifted a foot or two into the air as they strolled in from the outfield.

It was only a few seconds, but it seemed much longer before the noise and the movement stopped. The quiet afterwards was just as eerie. Then the crowd came to life, talking and moving and looking around frantically.

Bob and I didn't know what to do at that point. We squeezed out of the row of people and walked up to the rim of the stadium to see if we could spot any damage around the area. We found ourselves just above the players' parking lot and watched as several Giants players, still in uniform, ushered their families into cars and sent them on their way.

By this time it was clear that the game was not going to be played. Somebody near us, who had been listening on a transister radio, said, "It was bad. One of the bridges is partially down and there's fires."

I had no credential, but I decided to see if I could get to the press box and perhaps find a way to help cover the situation. But I got no further than the entrance to the press elevator.

"You know, if there's an aftershock, it could be bad in the stadium," Bob said. "Let's get out of here."

We walked out and saw a very long row of buses waiting outside the gates.

"Which one do we go to?" Bob asked. "I said, "Let's just go to the first one and see where he's going."

It turned out the driver was just as anxious as us to get out of there and said, "I'm going to Market Street." We said, "Let's go!"

He drove out with only about 20 people on board. It was one hell of a ride, with most stoplights not working and people driving like maniacs. At one point, we got held up in traffic and the driver went up a down ramp and down the other side back onto the road, past the traffic snarl.

We made it to Market Street in what I felt was record time. As we got off, I asked the driver what he was going to do now.

"I'm going right over there and wait it out," he said, pointing to a candle-lit bar across the street. "I live in Oakland and I don't think I'll get home tonight."

Downtown San Francisco was surreal, with only headlights, flashlights and a few battery operated lamps lighting the darkness. People, apparently afraid to stay indoors, were gathered on the sidewalks, many of them listening to reports about the earthquake on radios or watching battery-operated TVs.

We got off the bus near the AP's office in a downtown high-rise and I tried to get there to see if they wanted some help. But the building was locked up. I tried calling from a pay phone, but there was no signal.

Finally, Bob and I decided to walk back to his apartment. His place was mostly untouched by the earthquake. And, amazingly, his phone was working.

First, I called home to let the family know I was okay. Judy sounded very relieved, although Tory had pointed out to her that it had been reported on TV that there were no injuries at the ballpark and that's where Bob and I were.

At that point, I called the General Desk, the AP's news hub in New York, and asked if they would like a first-person account of our walk from downtown to the Haight? I dictated a story, which made it onto the wire.

There was no electricity in the area, but I carried a hand-held Casio TV with me on the road. It had enough battery left to allow us to watch the aftermath of the quake for a while before heading for bed. Even the TV stations were on generator power and were using candles for light in the studio.

I was scheduled to fly to San Diego the next afternoon, but I wasn't confident the airport would even be open by then.

The next day, we took a walk to get breakfast. It was a warm, pleasant morning and, as we walked, we saw some evidence of the quake - bricks on the sidewalk, windows broken. But it didn't seem real.

I called the airlines and was told my plane was scheduled to leave on time.

"The plane and the crew are both here and the airport is open," the lady said. "You should be just fine."

I had thought about just keeping the rental car and driving to San Diego, avoiding what I figured would be a hassle at the airport. But when I called Hertz to ask if that would be a problem, I was told there was a $200 drop-off charge if I took the car to San Diego.

I knew my boss wouldn't be happy about that, so I decided to risk the airport. Big mistake!

There was no problem getting to the airport or returning the car. But, when I arrived at the check-in, I was told my non-stop flight to San Diego had (surprise) been canceled. Instead, I was put on a plane leaving about the same time to LA, with a connecting flight to San Diego.

Oh well. That's just the way it goes in the life of a traveling man.

The plane to LA, to my amazement, left right on time. And the connecting flight was waiting and on time. But, as we made the short hop from LA to San Diego, the pilot came on the intercom and said, "There's some fog in San Diego right now and we're going to have to circle for a bit and wait for it to clear off."

We circled for nearly an hour before the pilot came back on the intercom and said, "Sorry, folks. San Diego has closed the airport and we're going to have to go back to LA. But, don't worry, we'll have buses waiting for you to get you to your destination."

There were lots of moans and groans, but I shrugged my shoulders and said to my seatmate, "I guess we'll get there eventually."

After landing in LA, we were told to go out a certain door and wait for the buses. When we walked out that door, there were no buses and several hundred very unhappy people from several different planes clustered together and getting more pissed off by the moment.

Finally, after about 15 minutes, the buses arrived in a convoy. People began pushing and shoving and swearing, trying to get to the first bus in line. After about a minute of this chaos, a uniformed man - possibly a pilot - stood in the doorway of the first bus and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Shut up!"

To my amazement, everyone went silent.

At that point, the man said in an authoritative tone, "This is the way it's going to work. People from flight ??? will line up and get on the first bus. Those from flight ??? will do the same for the second bus" and so on.

And, again amazingly, that's exactly what happened. Chaos turned to order and people actually began to line up. We showed our boarding passes at the door of our appointed buses and were quickly on our way..

Once on the bus, I wondered where in all of this was my suitcase, which I had checked. "Oh well," I thought, "I can always buy a toothbrush."

The two-hour bus ride took us to the San Diego Airport where we actually found our luggage waiting for us, apparently trucked on ahead.

By this time, it was around 3 a.m. I went to the Hertz counter and found a long line of people waiting for cars. And one person on duty.

That poor guy had to check everybody in and then bring the cars up from the parking lot. It was a very slow system and he was catching hell from some people, which slowed it down even more. I finally got to my hotel in La Jolla at around 4:30 a.m. I jumped into bed, set my alarm for 7 and caught a couple of hours of sleep.

I had to be at the track in Del Mar for the start of practice at 9 a.m. and I was a total zombie that day. But I did get there. It had certainly been one of the more interesting days of travel I ever had.

And, sitting at my work station around mid-morning, it occurred to me that, if I had kept the car and paid the drop-off fee, I would have had to explain it to my boss, but I would have been in San Diego hours ahead of that bus.

Oh well, the exigencies of business travel.

And, by the way, I left the ticket stubs with my brother and he and a friend wound up going to the game when it was finally played the following week. Bob then sent me the ticket stub as a souvenir. I still have them.

The weekly racing schedule kept me very busy but, once in a while, I was able to sell the bosses in New York Sports on a feature idea as a change of pace.

That happened in 1983 after I spent part of an afternoon with young Indy car star Al Unser Jr. I was doing a preview for that year's opening of practice for the Indy 500 and Al, son of four-time Indy winner Al Unser and nephew of three-time winner Bobby Unser, was one of the favorites to win the race for the first time.

We talked about his racing lineage and his love for the sport and, during the wide-ranging conversation, he mentioned that he was going to attempt to win the Pikes Peak Hill Climb that July.

Pikes Peak in Colorado, which soars over 14,000 feet into the sky, has been called "Unser Mountain" because the racing family from Albuquerque, NM has dominated it over the years. Louis Unser, another of Al Jr.'s uncles, won it nine times. Bobby also had won it nine times and Al Sr. twice.

"It's our family's heritage and I want to carry it on," Little Al told me that afternoon. "Besides, it's just a lot of fun."

I came away from that interview thinking what a fascinating story Little Al's attempt to conquer "the hill," as he called it, would be.

I was able to sell the idea to NY Sports, saying I would cover the event as a news story and then write it as a weekend feature. So I found myself driving into Colorado Springs that July without a clue on how to cover a hill climb.

What better way to get some insight into the event than ask the local sports reporters? My first stop was at the offices of the Colorado Springs Gazette. Not only did the two sports writers covering the hill climb welcome me, they offered me work space for the weekend in their office.

"So, how do I cover this thing?" I asked. They looked at each other, turned back to me and one of them said, "You get started early tomorrow. It's practice day."

When he said early, he meant it. Since the road up Pikes Peak is a public thoroughfare, it can be used for racing only for limited times. The one and only practice on Friday began at dawn and had to be completed by 10 a.m.

I drove to the base of the mountain in the dark, parked near a line of cars and got out. Then I stood there, unable to figure out what to do next. There seemed to be a lot going on, but I couldn't tell what it was.

It was dark, cold and the people I could see I didn't recognize or even recognize what they were doing.

Finally, the sun began to peek over the horizon and, just then, a familiar voice sounded from behind, "Son, what are you doing here?"

It was Bobby Unser, the latest king of the mountain, walking up to me with a big smile. I said, "It's my first time here, Uncle Bobby. Where's the media center?"

He laughed. "The media center is in Colorado Springs. There's no place for you to work here. You just go up the hill and talk to people."

At that point, I must have looked very confused. Bobby said, "C'mon, I'll drive you up the hill and show you where Bobby Junior nearly went over a cliff last year."

How could I turn down an invitation like that?

We got into Bobby's pickup truck and began our drive through the 156 turns to the top. I found out about "blue sky turns," meaning you couldn't see anything on the side of the road but blue sky. There are no fences or barriers on what was then mostly a dirt road, and Bobby, driving with one hand, was going up faster than was comfortable for me.

I've never been good with heights, but I kept thinking, "The guy's won here nine times. He know what he's doing."

Meanwhile, he began to mutter a bit about how the steering on the truck was a little loose. "Man, it just doesn't feel right today," he complained. Every few turns, he would swing the wheel from side-to-side and say, "This steering just ain't right."

All the while, he was pointing out all the spots where people had driven off the mountain or had come close to doing so.

He seemed to be speeding up and I was about to say something when Bobby uttered a loud expletive, swung the wheel to the left and we soared into space, flying off the mountain. I stopped breathing and the thought popped into my mind, "Judy will never forgive me!"

Suddenly, the wheels hit solid ground and we were on a little side road. I was hyperventilating and had tears in my eyes as we stopped a few feet short of a shack where they apparently kept winter snow-clearing materials.

Bobby braked to a halt and began to laugh. "Son, you did good. I've had some people faint dead away."

It turns out that the "king of the mountain" liked to introduce newcomers to the hill with this trick. The side road, marked only by a couple of tall sticks so the snow removal people can find it in the winter, is slanted away from the main road and impossible to see until you drive onto it.

The rest of the ride to the top was uneventful, although I don't really remember much of it. We parted ways when we got to the peak and I quickly found the two local writers, who apologized for not telling me about Bobby's traditional greeting for newcomers.

I recovered quickly, especially after I found out that there is a small building at the top of the mountain where there is hot coffee and freshly baked sugar doughnuts.

Walking around, I saw that one of the benefits of being on the top of the mountain was that the drivers who had completed their practice runs had no place to go. They had to wait until practice was over to head back down, so I had unlimited access to the competitors,,a fact which also gave me an idea how to cover the actual hill climb.

Eventually, Bobby, still grinning widely, walked over and asked if I needed a ride back down the hill. I thanked him and said I would hang with the local writers for the rest of the morning.

Many of the competitors rent garages in residential areas around Colorado Springs and the local guys offered to take me to several of them to meet with the drivers and car owners.

One of our stops was at a garage being rented by Roger Mears, another former hill climb winner and the older brother of Indy car star Rick Mears.

Roger laughed when I told him about my ride up the hill with Bobby.

"He did that to me, too," Roger said. "I fell for it and it scared the hell out of me."

That made me feel better. But then he added, "I tried the same trick on some of my buddies the next year. I was doing the whole loose steering thing and I saw the sticks by the side road and was going to speed up and fly in there. But something told me not to do it and I hit the brakes.

"As I drove onto that side road, there was a truck parked there with a couple of guys putting things in the shack. If I had come over that hill full speed I probably would have hit t he truck and killed us all."

That did not make me feel better at all.

On the day of the hill climb, I again went early. But this time I drove all the way to the top of the mountain - within the posted speed limit. I spent the rest of the day watching the competitors flying up the hill _ you could see many of the turns _ and talking with them once they got to the top.

There was no way to send a story, so I just took notes and decided I would go back to the Gazette to write after everything was done.

The peak area isn't huge, so it was like a party, with everyone walking around and talking.

And my idea paid off big when Little Al won the overall title in record time. He was elated and the scene and the quotes were great. Now all I had to do was get somewhere to write it up and send it.

The official word was that the competitors would go down the mountain first but, apparently, no one told the spectators. The road was suddenly a parking lot and I knew it was going to take a while to get down.

Worse, I hadn't drunk enough water during my time at 14,000 feet and I was starting to get a raging sinus headache. It was hard to even keep my eyes open as I sat in traffic for what seemed like hours.

Finally, though, I got to the Gazette, took a couple of headache pills and began to write. The race story, with Al Jr. winning, was used just about everywhere and my ensuing feature got a big enough play the next weekend that I got a nice "atta boy" letter from the boss.

Little Al went on to win the Indy 500 twice and he and I had a very friendly relationship for most of his long and successful career.

There was a while, though, when he didn't talk to me.

That was after one February in Daytona Beach, when he was participating in the IROC Series. He and cousin Bobby Jr. had rented souped up cars for the weekend and decided to race back to their hotel in nearby Port Orange. They darted in and out of traffic, even driving in the oncoming lanes of the Port Orange bridge.

Unfortunately for them, they caught the eye of a policeman and were stopped and ticketed, lucky not to be arrested.

I heard about it from one of my racing contacts and called and got the police report. Of course, I wrote the story for the wire.

Little Al was furious with me.

"I thought you were my friend," he said. I explained that it was my job to write news stories and that he and Bobby Jr. had made news.

Al avoided me until the week of the Indy 500 that year, looking at me coldly any time I tried to talk to him. Finally, though, in the lead-up to the 500, I was interviewing all the favorites and knocked on Al's motor home door with some trepidation.

His then wife, Shelley, who was a wonderful person, greeted me with a smile and said, "I told Al you were coming and he was okay with it."

Al then walked into the front of the motor home, grinning and said, "Hey, Michael!" and I knew we were were fine again, although to this day I don't know why. I wasn't going to question it, though.

The summer of 1988 brought one of the favorite assignments of my career - and a very eventful one, at that: The Olympics in Seoul, Korea.

The adventure began with a very long plane trip on Korean Air from New York's Kennedy Airport to Seoul, by way of Anchorage, AK, where the plane stopped for fuel. Passengers had to deplane during the refueling process and I took the opportunity in this pre-9/11 era to walk out of the security area and out to the driveway in front of the terminal.

I strolled down the driveway for a couple of hundred yards so I could say I had actually been in Alaska. It might be cheating a bit, but I can honestly say I've at least put my feet down in all 50 states.

The trip to Korea, along with about 100 other AP people on the plane, was one of the best I've ever enjoyed, despite the length. My seat was unfortunately in the middle of the five-across part of the main cabin. But it was so smooth that the cabin crew set up a buffet at the rear of the jumbo jet and I spent a good portion of the flight from Anchorage to Seoul standing by the table, nibbling on a variety of treats and chatting with other AP types. That was a lot of fun and it made the trip go much faster.

We were taken by bus from the Seoul airport to the Olympic press compound, where we checked into a brand new three-bedroom condos in a pair of high-rise buildings. They all had indoor-outdoor carpeting on the floor, which we were told later was to protect the hardwood from scuffing, since all of the condos were sold and would welcome their Korean owners immediately after the Olympics.

It was a few days before the start of the Olympics, so we all had time to acclimate and do a little sight-seeing.

A couple of us went to the Etaewon District that first day. Etaewon is known as a great shopping area for tourists and had just about any kind of product - most of them counterfeit. Rip-offs of Adidas and Nike were big at the time.

As we strolled along the bustling street, we were approached by a young and very pretty Korean girl. She looked at my companion, who shall remain nameless, said, "You want Michelob?"

He looked at her, smiled and said, "It's too early for beer." She looked totally confused and walked away.

Suddenly, we both realized that what she had actually said was, "You want maka love?" For the rest of the trip, he was known as "Mick."

A friend of my dad's had told me that, while I was in Seoul, I had to buy a made-to-order suit. I had never had any kind of made-to-order clothes, but I was told they were inexpensive and well made. He even gave me the name of the shop in Etaewon where he had his suits made.

It was a heady experience as I picked out the suit material and the material for the lining as I was measured in the most extensive way. I had to pay up front and the tailor said he would gladly deliver the suit to me at the press compound in a week or 10 days, long before we were scheduled to leave.

The next day, the Main Press Center, where I would spend the first 10 days or so before freestyle wrestling began, opened. I immediately ran into lots of people I knew from newspapers and other wire services and it was very social.

There were tons of places to eat nearby and we were also able to dine in the cafeteria in the press compound, which was open 24 hours a day and served an international menu, giving everyone choices that might be familiar or ones that were totally foreign.

By the second day, all the AP people were on the ground in Seoul and one of my roommates, who I had heard of but never met, showed up looking terrible. It turns out he was already homesick and miserable and literally could not sleep.

By the third night, I heard him wandering around the apartment at around 3 a.m. and went out to see what I could do. He looked like death warmed over and I suggested we take him to the medical office, which also was open 24 hours. He fainted on the way and I and a passerby carried him the rest of the way.

The medical staff checked him out and said he just needed to sleep. They gave him some pills and sent us home. It was time for me to go to work, but he was not on duty yet and was still sound asleep when I came home that night. He was okay for the rest of the time in Seoul, but it was a scary start.

My time in the Main Press Center was spent mostly writing about the results of minor sports, doing rewrites and taking phone calls. The best part was lunch time.

Just down the street from the MPC was the high-rise Hyundai Department Store. It was a high-end store, but the basement was an amazing food court that had, among many other things, a booth that sold more than 100 types of kimchi, i.e. fermented cabbage.

I found I really enjoyed the free tastings. Most of the choices were very spicy and each day I would buy a different one and take it back with me to the MPC for anyone who wanted to try it. I've tried it in the U.S., but it doesn't taste the same.

Different groups of AP people would get together in the evenings for dinner or drinks and one foray was particularly fun, although it didn't start out that way.

Someone had told NY Sports staffer Marv Schneider about a really good Korean restaurant a cab ride from the MPC. He gathered up a group including me and two other NY Sports staffers.

Before getting into the taxi, Marv handed the cab starter a piece of paper with the name and address of the restaurant. The starter showed it to the cabbie, who nodded as if he knew the place. We're not even sure he could read because he simply cruised around the streets of Seoul for the next 20 minutes, finally stopping at a crowded bus stop to show the piece of paper to people there and ask if they knew the place.

No one did.

Marv tried to converse with the driver, but he just smiled and nodded and kept driving. Finally, he spotted another taxi from the same company and flagged it down. The next thing we knew, we were being ushered into the other cab. We tried to give the guy some money for his time, but he turned bright red and refused, simply saying, "Go, go!" and pointing us toward the other cab.

It took less than five minutes to reach the restaurant from there. It was in a mostly residential neighborhood and the menu was entirely in Korean, although it did have pictures of the food. It was a mom and pop place, with only mom and pop working. They spoke no English.

We pointed to the meals we wanted and waited. Within minutes, food started pouring out of the kitchen. It was very, very good and just kept coming. Apparently, they decided to make us everything on the menu.

I said, "I wonder how much this is going to cost us?" We all checked to see how much Yuan we had among us, knowing they were not likely to take a credit card.

When the bill finally arrived, after we were all totally sated, it figured out to about $8 U.S. apiece, which was ridiculous. We left a giant tip and managed to flag down a cab nearby. Going back was easy because everyone in Seoul knew the MPC.

Finally, my sport began. And, this time, I was covering it by myself.

I knew U.S. coach Dan Gable and several of the wrestlers from my time covering the LA Olympics and, again, the Americans had a very strong team. The wrestling venue was on a small college campus outside of Seoul.

This time, the grandstands were full for every session and it was loud and fun to cover the matches. The breaks were fun, too, because I got into the habit of ordering a bowl of raman noodles for my lunches and dinners. After buying the bowl of dry noodles, you walked to a nearby kiosk, where a vendor poured VERY hot water into the bowl and mixed it with a wooden spoon,

Once it cooled down enough, it was one of the most delicious things I've ever eaten. Korea was definitely a great eating experience.

The last day of the wrestling competition proved challenging.

I found myself the last person in the arena by the time I finished writing after the finals. I had taken one of the MPC buses to the arena, probably a five or six mile ride. When I walked outside, there were no buses and not a single person anywhere to be seen. I tried to get back into the building to use my phone, but the doors were all locked.

I walked around the building and stood by the quiet main road out front for several minutes. The school was out-of-session for the Olympics and not a car went by. I wasn't sure I could find my way back to the MPC, even if I could walk that far. Finally, I noticed what looked like a farm house about a quarter mile away. I walked to the house and knocked on the door. A middle-aged Korean man appeared and started chattering in Korean. With only two or three words of Korean in my vocabulary, it was almost impossible to make him understand that I wanted him to call me a cab. Then I happened to mention my destination was the Main Press Center.

The local news was full of Olympics coverage and the MPC was being mentioned continuously. He held up his hand in a gesture that I assumed meant wait here. Moments later, wearing a jaunty hat and a smile, he waved for me to follow him. We got into his pickup truck and, without any further conversation, he drove me to the MPC. I tried to thank him as I got out of the truck, but he just smiled and waved and was gone.

I really wish that I had had enough Korean to at least properly thank that man.

The night after the Olympics ended, Sports Editor Darrell Christian and Deputy Sports Editor Terry Taylor hosted a dinner cruise down the Han River. It was a beautiful evening and we cruised all the way to the security signs announcing the North Korean border before turning back. There was plenty of food, but we ran out of beer and talked the captain into stopping at a small village along the way to restock.

Another interesting part of the trip was the fact that the Jewish High Holy Days - Rosh Hoshanah and Yom Kippur _ fell during my time in Seoul. One of the AP hierarchy was able to get an invitation from Yongsan, the  U.S. Army base in Seoul, to allow Jewish staffers to attend services. The security was high, but our Olympic credentials and a passport were enough to get us in.

The services were conducted by a orthodox rabbi from Chicago, who was also a Naval officer with the Sixth Fleet. He flew to Seoul along with a dozen or more Jewish sailors. The services were also attended by a couple of Korean Jews, dressed in traditional costume, as well as several U.S. athletes.

Finally, it was time to leave and I realized that my suit still had not shown up. I tried calling the shop, but got only an answering machine with a message in Korean. I left several messages, just hoping for the best.

We were scheduled to leave for the airport after breakfast on that final morning. The phone rang in our apartment at 5:30 a.m. Worrying that something might be wrong at home, I jumped out of bed and answered.

It was a security officer telling me that a Korean man was at the entrance to the press compound, trying to deliver a suit to me. I quickly got dressed and raced out to get it. Talk about timing. And I wore that suit for years, although it had to be altered several times.

 

The trip home was a 13-hour, non-stop from Seoul to Kennedy. Judy met me at the airport and she later said I was in and out of consciousness on the drive back to New Jersey. I don't even remember the day after arriving home. The jet lag was the worst of my life. But the trip was incredible.

Anyone who travels for business knows that, no matter how well you plan, things can sometimes go awry.

It was the mid-80's when I flew into the Greensboro airport on my way to a race in Martinsville, VA, just over the North Carolina border. I didn't realize until I walked into the terminal and saw a multitude of welcoming signs that it was "Furniture Week" in nearby High Point, a hub of furniture building and home to several big wholesalers.

I wasn't very aware of the significance of that until I stepped up to the Hertz counter and told the young lady my name. She looked at a very short list in front of her and said, "Sorry, you don't seem to have a reservation."

Shocked, I said, "I made a reservation and I got a confirmation."

Unfortunately, it was long before cell phones and I hadn't brought the confirmation number with me - a lesson learned the hard way.

The young lady said, "I'm sorry, but we have no cars to rent and I don't think anybody else does either. It's furniture week."

She turned away and made herself look busy as I stood there unsure what to do next. It was a 40-mile drive to Martinsville and I was supposed to be there in time for afternoon qualifying.

I walked from rent-a-car counter to rent-a-car counter getting the same reply: no cars until Monday.

My next thought was to call the track and see if the PR people would send somebody to pick me up. But how would I get around during the weekend with no car?

An idea popped into my head. It was pretty desperate, but I couldn't think of anything else.

I walked to a pay phone and asked information for the number of Hertz headquarters in Oklahoma City. A woman answered and I asked to speak to someone in media relations, figuring they might be more sympathetic to my plight.

The receptionist said, "It's early here and I'm not sure anybody is in yet. Oh wait, Miss Johnson just came in. I'll put you through."

The woman who answered said, "Karen Johnson. Can I help you."

I told her that I worked for The Associated Press and rented from Hertz just about every week and that I was stuck without a car in Greensboro, NC. After a bit more explanation, I added, "Is there anything you can do to help me?"

"Are you calling from one of our phones?" she asked. I told her I was calling from a pay phone. She asked for the number and said she would get back to me within 10 minutes.

"Just stand by. I'll see what I can do," she said.

I stood there by the pay phone sweating and pacing in circles, probably looking like a crazy person, I'm sure. That was a long 10 minutes before the phone rang.

Miss Johnson said, "Mr. Harris, wait about five minutes and then go back to the counter. I think they'll take care of you now."

After thanking her profusely, I waited the five minutes and headed back to the counter. The young lady saw me coming and got a look on her face like "Now what?" But, as I reached the counter, a very harried looking middle-aged man came rushing through the nearest door.

"Are you Mr. Harris?" he asked. When I acknowledged it was me, he held out a set of keys and said, "It's right outside the door. Drive carefully."

I said, "Don't I have to sign something?" He replied, "We'll take care of it. You have a good weekend, sir."

The young lady looked stunned and I didn't ask any more questions as I walked out the door and found a Ford Taurus, still dripping from being hastily washed, waiting at the curb.

When I turned in the car on Monday morning, there was another young woman on duty at the counter. She grinned and said, "So you're the VIP."

I said, "What do you mean?"

She explained that a vice president from Hertz headquarters had called the regional manager, who brought me his company car to use for the weekend.

Thankfully, I brought it back without any dents or scratches. And I sent a letter of thanks to Miss Johnson, the vice president of corporate relations for Hertz.

A less desperate moment came around that same time, again with a car from Hertz.

The Phoenix track did not have a tunnel in those days. So, when the cars were on track, you had to wait to get into the infield.

It could be a very social time as people got out of their cars to spend the waiting time chatting. I was standing next to my car, talking with someone, when I felt something zing past my ear and heard a popping sound.

I look around and saw the passenger-side driver's window on my rental car was shattered. Something had flown off the track and smashed into the window, barely missing my head. That thought gave me a moment of apprehension, but I was really lucky.

If it was my car, I would have taken it somewhere for repair. But this was a rental and I wasn't sure how Hertz would feel about having their car damaged at a racetrack, even though I wasn't racing it.

I called Hertz and told them that something had hit the window and broken it as I drove down the road. They said to bring the car in and they'd swap it out for a new one, no questions asked.

Fortunately, the weather was nice. So the drive on Interstate 10, with no glass in the window, was an easy one.

Around that same time, and long before GPS, I first went to Sanair Super Speedway, a short track located in Saint-Pie, Quebec, about 50 miles northeast of Montreal. The Indy cars ran there for several years.

I flew into Montreal, picked up my rental car and, after looking at a map, I headed for Saint-Pie.

After about an hour of driving, I realized I was lost. I wasn't sure if I had missed a turn or gotten on the wrong highway, but I wasn't seeing any familiar signs and the map was doing me no good.

It was a very rural area and I was even thinking about stopping at one of the farms I was passing to ask for directions. But, finally, I came upon a gas station.

I pulled in and saw two men in the garage, one working on a car on the lift and the other sitting nearby. They barely looked up when I walked in.

"Could you help me? I'm trying to get to Sanair in Saint-Pie?"

Both men shrugged their shoulders and replied in unintelligible French, looking totally disinterested.

I said, hopefully, "Saint-Pie?"

Again, both shrugged and went back to ignoring me.

I got back in my car and looked at the map again. No idea where I was, but I did know the roads I had taken to get there. So I started to double back, figuring I'd eventually return to Montreal and start again.

About five miles down the road, I saw a sign that I had missed the first time: "Saint-Pie 10 km," with an arrow. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the press box at the track.

When I told the story to the track PR person, she made a face and said, "A lot of people out here in the rural part of Quebec don't like English speakers. They probably knew exactly what you were asking and just didn't want to help."

Besides lost luggage and delayed, cancelled or missed flights, which happen to anyone who travels regularly, those were about the worst things that I had to deal with on the road over the years. So, not so bad, right?

 As I was thinking about what I wanted to write today, my mind ran through a whole panorama of random adventures. So, today's blog is just that - a random selection of stories.

Bill Brodrick, a big man with a thick head of orangish-red hair and a beard to match that made him stand out from the crowd was known for years in NASCAR as "The Hat Man."

Bill, who worked for Union Oil Co., NASCAR's fuel supplier for years, had the difficult - almost impossible - job of organizing and managing the Victory Circle celebrations after the Cup races. Among other duties, he made sure that everyone wore the right hats with the right logos in each of the many photos that were taken during the celebrations: Hence "The Hat Man.

Al Pearce, who has written for Auto Week for many years, wrote a piece about Brodrick for the magazine in 2015. He wrote, in part: A burly 6 feet 3 with swept-back hair, a flowing orange beard, designer shades and rings aplenty, he turned post-race celebrations into performance art. He told cameramen where to stand and when to shoot. He decided who greeted the winner and in what order. He tossed around sponsors’ hats and told crewmen which ones to wear and which cameras were hot. As live television became a force, he ensured that directors got what they needed when they needed it. He became a rock star who signed autographs, had his own trading card and registered “The Hat Man” trademark. He was hailed at speedways around the world and helped the Associated Press at 20 consecutive Super Bowls and during the 1989 inauguration of President George H.W. Bush."

Bill was also quick to organize a party or invite an eclectic group of racing people to dinner. The conversations at those gatherings were some of the best I ever was part of.

One year, during a Riverside, CA, NASCAR weekend, Bill invited a small group of writers to join him for dinner in LA at the Magic Castle, a meeting place for professional magicians. You had to be a member or be an invited guest to go there.

We all rode the 60 miles to LA in a van and, along the way, Bill explained that part of the evening's entertainment didn't begin until midnight. We were going to take part in the "Harry Houdini seance."

Part of the charm of the Magic Castle is the private shows by members. We were ushered into several small rooms during the evening and a magician would soon show up and put on a show in that intimate setting. The food in the dining room was great as advertised and the evening seemed to fly by.

Finally, it was time for the seance. Our whole group sat around a large oval table. The lights were turned down and we were instructed to hold hands. The "medium" running the seance was calling for the spirit of Houdini's wife, Beatrice, to make herself known.

As I had seen in movie scenes about seances, the table lifted off the ground and there were noises like bells and scraping chains as part of the show. Still holding hands with my neighbors, I was enjoying the show and laughing a bit at the silliness when something really eerie took place.

My mom's name was Beatrice and we were very close. She had passed away just months before and nobody in that room had known her or, as far as I could tell, knew her name.

As the "Medium" called for Beatrice to make herself known, I  felt a hand caress my cheek and I also felt a strong presence as memories of my mother flooded my mind. When the lights came back on, I felt very peaceful and happy.

I asked several people if anything had touched them during the seance. They all said no.

Then I asked the "Medium" and she shook her head and said, "We're not allowed to touch anyone. That's not part of the show."

To this day, I believe that mom was somehow in that room and letting me know she was still part of my life.

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The Long Beach Grand Prix was sponsored for many years by Toyota, which also supplied the cars for a Pro-Celebrity race as part of the support show each year.

Several professional drivers were invited to race against a group of celebrities on the street circuit in downtown Long Beach. Some of the amateurs had racing experience. Most didn't.

There was a practice session each year at Willow Springs in the California desert. But that really didn't prepare them for the street circuit, with it's menacing concrete walls and tight turns.

Each year, the PR people from Toyota would hook me up with one of the celebrities for a feature story. Most years, it was just a brief sit-down with the celebrity in the Toyota compound at the track. But, one year I got the bright idea of trailing the celeb for the whole weekend and doing an in-depth piece about their experience.

For whatever reason, Patrick Stewart, the intrepid Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek Next Generation and Professor Charles Xavier in the X-Men series, agreed to let me hang out with him, starting with the Thursday practice session.

He could not have been nicer or more open, giving me real insight into his nervous anticipation of racing on Sunday.

We met in his hotel room across the street from the track and spent quite a bit of time standing at the window looking at the narrow race course as we spoke.

"I just don't want to crash and I don't want to finish last," Patrick said, his words sounding strange in that wonderful deep voice and British accent that lent itself to so many years as part of the Royal Shakespeare Company.

The desert practice session had gone well for Patrick, thanks at least in part to his new and unlikely friendship with Bill Goldberg, a mountain of a man who had played pro football and was making a living as a pro wrestler.

The three of us had lunch that first day and Bill kept reassuring Patrick that he was going to be "just fine" if he kept his cool and his focus in the race car.

The next day was busy for me, with qualifying and covering some preliminary events. But I eventually got to spend some time in the Toyota paddock with Patrick, who was pleased with his practice that day.

"I wasn't very fast, but I kept it off the wall," he said, grinning broadly. "This is just so much fun and so frightening at the same time."

He was very nervous as the race drew closer. But also very determined to do his best.

Finally, it was race time. As Patrick put on his helmet, he smiled at me and Bill and said, "I hope I don't make a fool of myself."

Bill laughed and replied: "Just follow me and you'll be fine."

Unfortunately for Bill, he made a big mistake midway through the race and crashed out. He was so mad, he slammed his fist into the steering wheel and broke a bone in his hand.

Patrick made it to the end, finishing well behind the leaders. Still, he was very proud of himself and very concerned about Bill,

The big man walked into the room with his hand in a cast and went straight to Patrick, lifting him up in a bear hug and saying, "You did it, man. You were great out there. I'm so happy for you."

Patrick was speechless. It was a wonderful moment between new friends.

And I got a great story out of it. I also got a nice thank you letter signed by Patrick, although it sounded a little impersonal and may have been written by an assistant. Still, it was fun to spend the time with the captain of the Enterprise.

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My family and friends know that I have an uncanny ability to look at the outside of a restaurant or just the name online, on a flyer or on a billboard and know if it's going to be any good.

I rarely miss. But I missed badly one time in Montreal.

Saturday nights during the grand prix weekend in Montreal can be insane, especially if you're trying to find a restaurant where you don't have to wait hours for a table.

I got the bright idea of getting out of the heart of the city, where we were all staying, and finding a restaurant in one of the rural areas where it might be less crowded.

Looking through the phone book (remember those?), I spotted a place that looked ideal. The ad said they served seafood, steaks and a variety of Italian and Greek dishes. And it had the word Garden in the name, although I can't remember the rest of it.

Lewis Franck, Dennis Morgan, the editor of the Toronto Star's "Wheels," the auto section, and also the paper's auto racing writer, Walt Stannard, a PR man and a longtime friend, and I hopped in my car and headed out of downtown for the 8 p.m. reservation.

When we walked into the restaurant, I knew I had messed up. We were the youngest people in the place by at least 30 years. But we had little choice at that point.

Walt is a very big, good-looking guy with long hair and a bushy beard who was getting lots of attention from the plethora of older ladies in the restaurant. Many of them were outright ogling him,

The best moment of the evening came when Walt was walking back from the bathroom. A tiny, very old woman using a walker was directly in his path back to our table. She stopped still as he approached, looked him slowly up and down from head to toe and said, with a thick yiddish accent: "My, you're a beeg vun. Are you beeg all ovuh?"\

He turned bright red, grinned and said, "Yes, maam!" He then made his way carefully around her and sat back down.

We didn't stop laughing for the rest of the night. Not surprising, the food was mediocre at best. But it was still a fun night.