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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That brings to mind another late-arriving driver.

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

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

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

It got a huge roar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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