Getting permission to do one-off events - like the Baja 1000 and the Pikes Peak Hill Climb - was tough.

The powers that be in AP's New York Sports Department kept a tight grip on the budget and trips considered unnecessary were usually met with firm turn-downs.

During the winter of 1990, as I was working on my schedule for the next season, I looked longingly at the opening race of the Indy Car season, scheduled in March at Surfers Paradise in Queensland, Australia.

It was the first visit to Australia by the American open-wheel series and, adding the fact that I had always wanted to visit "Down Under," I put the event on my proposed schedule, crossed my fingers and sent it off to my boss, sports editor Terry Taylor.

Amazingly, I didn't get a knee-jerk "No!" Instead, Terry called and said, "Get me some numbers - plane fare, hotel, etc., and we'll see."

The Wire Service Guild contract stipulated that we could fly first or business class on any flight over six hours and, obviously, the trip from the  U.S. to Australia would be considerably longer than that. But I checked the cost of business class ($3,400) and coach ($1,440), both on Continental, which was my airline of choice in those days.

I was told, unofficially, that, if I insisted on flying business class, I could forget the trip. But, if I settled for 17 hours in coach, I could make the arrangements. So, coach it would be. I didn't need to rent a car, since most of the media was at hotels next to the race circuit. And most of the other expenses - meals and incidentals - would be very similar to any other race weekend.

After the arrangements were made, I began to have second thoughts about that long, long trip in coach. Then I realized I had lots of Continental miles to possibly use for upgrades. It took a bit of bargaining with the airlines but, in the end, I was able to upgrade each of the five international legs of my trip to business or first class for a total of 30,000 miles.

Friend Lewis was making the trip, too, and got the same deal. Both of us were in Phoenix for a Formula One race before leaving for Australia. We began the long journey with the short flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles before facing hops from LA to Honolulu, Honolulu to Auckland, NZ, and Auckland to Brisbane, Australia before taking a one-hour bus ride to Surfers Paradise, the site of the race.

Our flight from Phoenix arrived six hours before our scheduled departure to Hawaii and we decided to see if we could get our boarding passes and check our luggage.

The Continental ticketing area at LAX was completely empty except for one clerk. He was a small, mousy-looking man wearing a gray cardigan sweater over his uniform and with thick glasses hanging from his neck on a croaky.

He smiled when we approached and said in a light, sing-song voice, "Can I help you?"

I told him we were traveling to Brisbane by way of Honolulu and Auckland and he looked up and said, "Are you going to the Indy?"

Surprised, we both said, "Yes." He then told us that he was a regular visitor to the Indy car race at Long Beach.

All was smiles and pleasant conversation until he tried to pull up our boarding passes. It turned out that both of us were listed for coach seats and had not been upgraded for any of the flights. Worse, all the first and business class seats were locked out.

Lewis and I looked at each other with something approaching despair, thinking about those 17 hours in coach seats with no leg room and people crushed in on both sides of us.

But this little man was not about to give up, particularly since we were fellow Indy car fans. We watched silently as he worked his computer screen, his face screwed up in concentration behind those thick glasses and his fingers flying over the keys.

Five minutes went by. Then ten. Still, we stood silently, watching and hoping.

Finally, he looked up with a broad grin and said, "You're all set."

That man's magic fingers had put us in first class - in the upstairs lounge of the first jumbo jet - for the leg to Hawaii, and in business class for the next two legs on a different plane. He also worked his magic for the trip home, setting us up in business class for the legs from Brisbane to Honolulu and Honolulu to LA.

We gave him our contact info and told him to get in touch with us and we would make sure he had access to hospitality for the next Long Beach Grand Prix. But, unfortunately, we never heard from him.

We were able to wait for that first flight in the first class lounge and the ensuing trip was pretty much a breeze, despite the length.

Upon arriving in Brisbane with great anticipation, we got off the plane among the first group and, as we started to head for immigration, I realized I had left my briefcase in the overhead compartment above my seat.

I told Lewis to go ahead and I turned around. Passengers were still streaming off the plane, coming down the metal stairs, and I realized there was no way I could go against that stream of humanity.

I told a Continental agent my dilemma and he looked at me like I was an idiot, saying, "Well, you can't get back on the plane. You'll just have to wait until everyone is off the plane and we can fetch your briefcase for you."

So I stood there, tired, embarrassed and thinking about missing my bus until the last passenger had left the stairs. Finally, the agent asked my seat number and went to get the briefcase.

When he brought it down the stairs, I felt relief. But then he made me tell him what was in it. It seemed to take forever.

Amazingly, I got to the bus to Surfers in time and got the last seat. And I found myself sitting next to Jim Hall, an Indy car team owner and one of the great innovators in motorsports. Strangely, instead of racing, we talked about shoes.

Jim had foot problems and noticed I was wearing a pair of Rockports. He said his foot doctor had recommended he buy Rockports for walking and this was our major topic of conversation for almost the entire hour-long ride to Surfers.

It was a strange way to begin the much anticipated visit.

If you want a description of Surfers Paradise, on the east coast of Australia, in 1991, think 1950's Miami Beach. With the palm trees, waterways, blue skies and big hotels surrounding the race circuit, Surfers, also known as the Gold Coast, looked just like the Miami Beach that my parents took our family to for winter vacations many years before.

It was mid-afternoon and we were able to pick up our credentials and check out the working facilities before checking into our hotel (a Hilton, just down the road). We ran into several people we knew, including PR man extraordinaire Michael Knight, who invited us to join him for dinner at a local restaurant called Grumpy's.

The restaurant was known for its seafood, particularly an Aussie east coast specialty called "Bugs" by the locals. They are also called flat lobsters, with broad heads, flattened antennai and no claws. Aussies eat them like we do blue crabs in Maryland or crawfish in New Orleans.

The bugs were delicious, but the most fun that night came when Michael tried to order iced tea. It seems that Australians, at least in Surfers, had never heard of such a thing.

After the initial shock at the waiter's lack of comprehension, Michael asked for a cup, a glass of ice, a pot of hot water and a tea bag. When it was brought to the table, he made himself a cup of iced tea. The audience, watching the process, included most of the amazed wait staff and even the chef, who came out of the kitchen to witness this strange ritual.

It was a great start to our Australian adventure.

The next day, with practice beginning on the temporary circuit, I met Dennis Passa, one of the local AP writers and the guy who would have covered the race by himself if I hadn't shown up. He greeted me with a smile and a handshake and said, "Boyo, I'm glad you're here. I know next to nothing about these guys."

He also said he had gotten "a good bloke report" on me from other AP writers who had visited the area.

The day went smoothly, with the highlight, finding out that there was a topless beach close behind the media tent, with the walkway to and from said beach going right past our open windows. I must say, though, that the novelty quickly wore off as the parade of lovely Aussie birds went past and the work inside the tent heated up.

That night, Lewis and I were trying to decide what to do for dinner when we saw a large crowd gathering across the street from our hotel. Walking outside to see what was going on, we found out that it was a free concert, put on as part of the race weekend, featuring Dionne Warwick.

I talked Lewis into eating some of the street food and watching the concert and it was a great evening.

The east coast of Australia is also known for the mining of fire opals. After reading up on the area before the trip, I was determined to buy one of those opals as a surprise for Judy.

The day before the race was reserved on track for the support series, which I was not covering. So that gave me the chance to head for the downtown area and find a jewelry store that had been recommended by a local.

The lady in the store was terrific, suggesting I just pick an opal and let my wife decide if she wanted it mounted in a pendant or a ring. Great idea. But picking the right stone wasn't easy.

I told her my price range - up to $300 - and she brought out a bag and proceeded to pour the contents onto a cloth table. There were dozens, in all shapes and sizes, to choose from, all ranging from $250 to $300.

Finally, I said, "You're the expert. Pick me one she'd like."

The lady zoned in on a beautiful stone, about the size of  raisin, that sparkled with many colors in the light. It was perfect.

We eventually had it made into a pendant that Judy wears for fancy occasions.

The race turned out to be an interesting one and the winner was even more interesting.

John Andretti, Mario's nephew and one of the good guys in racing, got his one and only Indy car win that day, beating Bobby Rahal in a race in which cousins Jeff and Michael Andretti finished seventh and 14th, respectively, and Uncle Mario crashed out in 17th.

It was a really good story for my one and only trip to Australia.

But the good times were not quite over.

Lewis and I were not scheduled to leave for home until late that Monday, so Dennis Passa invited us to have lunch with him and his wife at their farm about an hour away from Surfers. The ride to the farm proved daunting as the morning sun was right in the driver's eyes as we traversed a small mountain pass on a narrow, two-lane highway.

As we came around a 45-degree bend, a very large kangaroo bounded in front of the car. Dennis hit the brakes hard and missed the critter by inches. As we sat their momentarily, two of the kangaroos apparent offspring bounced past, looking at us like we were the strange sight.

We had a nice day and made our flight with time to spare. The trip home was long and generally uneventful, except for a few minutes of consternation in the Honolulu airport.

As the plane was being boarded for the flight to LA, I was called to the ticket desk and asked for my boarding pass. The woman took it and tore it up, which made me nervous. She said, "We're trying to sort out some seat assignments and I'll call you when we're ready for you to board."

I was still sitting there, waiting nervously, when I realized the lounge was empty except for the ticket clerk and me.

Finally, she waved me to the desk and handed me a boarding pass. I didn't even look at it before getting on the plane, figuring it didn't matter where I was sitting as long as I was in a seat.

A pretty flight attendant looked at my boarding pass, smiled and sent me to first class. It turns out that I had been upgraded from business to first. Strangely, Lewis, who was one of the first people to board, was sitting in the next seat over. He had been moved up to first class after getting to his original seat. But all's well that ends well!

By the time I got back to New Jersey, I was totally wiped. But it was a great trip and I loved the part of Australia that I saw and the Aussies that I met. I would love to go back some day with Judy and see the rest of the country.

One of the most interesting personalities I dealt with during my career was Dale Earnhardt.

He was already considered a rising star when I began covering NASCAR in 1980. The year before, as a rookie, he won a race, finished seventh in the points and began to build the reputation for aggressive driving that eventually made him "The Intimidator."

In 1980, driving for California real estate mogul Rod Osterlund, Earnhardt shocked the stock car world, winning five times and taking his first of seven Cup championships.

As you might imagine, I interviewed Earnhardt numerous times that year - but never one-on-one. Somehow, all our meetings were mass interviews or interviews arranged with other writers. At the start of the 1981 season, I wasn't even sure if Earnhardt knew who I was, despite all those interviews.

I decided to try to get to know him better and asked his PR person at the time to see if Dale would meet me for lunch at a Mexican restaurant near the Daytona track and, to my delight, he agreed.

As I sat there waiting for him _ I showed up 15 minutes early _ I was nervous. I had a list of questions, but I didn't know how he would react in a one-on-one situation. I needn't have worried.

Earnhardt showed up right on time, and without his PR person, which surprised me. We shook hands and went through the usual preamble of pleasantries. He was loose and engaging. But, as soon as the tape recorder hit the table, he turned to stone.

My questions were met with an icy stare and curt answers. After about five minutes of this, I knew something had to be done.

I picked up the tape recorder and put it in my pocket.

"Dale, since this is obviously making you uncomfortable, how about I just take notes?"

He looked startled, then smiled and said, "Yeah, let's try that."

The rest of the interview was great. He was alternately funny, charming and informative.

Finally, after my last question, I said, "Why did the tape recorder bother you so much? It's just a way to keep from misquoting you?"

He shook his head and thought about it for a moment. Then he said, "Last year, every day, I had those things pushed into my face. It got so I couldn't stand seeing them. They just make me mad."

I said, "Unfortunately, my friend, you're going to have to get used to it - especially if you keep winning."

He grunted and said, "I suppose you're right. But, for you and me, when we talk, how about you just take notes."

I agreed. And, for the rest of the time I knew Earnhardt, I never used a tape recorder in any of our one-on-one interviews.

Dale was more comfortable in a drivers' uniform or a hunting jacket, but he could dress up really nice.

He seemed at ease each December at the formal events in New York City. And he looked good in his tux.

I always rented a tux for the formal events. But, one year, I decided to buy a shirt to wear with the rentals because the ones that came with the tuxes never seemed to fit right. The new shirt came with some very basic studs for the buttons and the sleeves. But I was okay with that.

We were at a cocktail party prior to the awards dinner and Judy noticed that Dale's tux was highlighted by some very fancy studs.

She walked up to him and said, "Hi Dale. I don't know if you remember me. I'm Mike Harris' wife."

He greeted her kindly and she said, "Mike always leaves me some money for the household when he goes off to the races and I always hold some back to buy gifts. I really like the studs you're wearing and I'd like to get something like that for Mike. Can you tell me where you got them?"

Earnhardt said, "Well, Teresa, my wife, is the one who bought them. I think she got them at a store on Rodeo Drive in LA."

That didn't set off any warning signals for Judy, although it probably should have.

She found Teresa, who greeted Judy warmly.

Asked about the studs, she said, "Oh, I'm sure your husband would love some like that. I found those at Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive. They're emerald. I think I paid $10,000 for them."

Judy thanked Teresa profusely and quickly came to find me.

"You know those studs Dale is wearing?" She asked. "Well, you're going to have to settle for something a little less glamorous."

Eventually, Judy found a very nice set of studs in our more modest price range, and I have worn them on formal occasions ever since. But we both agreed that the Earnhardt situation proved we have good taste in jewelry.

The week leading up to the 2001 Daytona 500 was a busy one. One of the events I covered was a Wednesday luncheon to publicize that Saturday's International Race of Champions event.

By good fortune I wound up sitting at a table with Barbara and Jay Signore, the couple that ran the IROC series, Judy and Bobby Allison and Earnhardt, one of the favorites to win on Saturday and Sunday.

Barb and Jay, two of the nicest people in the world, didn't spend much time at the table because they were being pulled in a million directions. That left the Allisons, Earnhardt and me to ourselves and Bobby, an avid pilot, began to tell stories about flying to midweek races at local tracks with different drivers, including Dale.

At one point, Dale turned to Judy Allison and, with a big grin, said, "Hey, what ever happened to that paper bag?"

Judy blushed and changed the subject, turning to Bobby and saying, "You remember we had to rent another plane that time?"

But Earnhardt was undeterred. Seeing the quizzical look on my face, Bobby explained.

"We usually got show-up money from the tracks in those days, and it was always in cash,'' he said. "Dale came with us and we raced at some track in, I think, New York, and we got a nice chunk of change. We put it all in a paper bag and I told Dale we'd divvy it up later. Then we flew on to another racetrack.

"But Judy needed to get home to the kids or some family thing. So I got her a ride with another pilot and she took the bag with her. We never saw that bag again."

I looked over at Judy and she was smiling innocently.

"Don't know what you're talking about," she said.

At about that moment, Barb Signore tried to step up onto the elevated stage to begin the driver introductions. She stumbled and started to fall backward.

I've rarely seen anyone move as fast as Dale did, jumping to his feet, crossing the aisle in a flash and catching Barb before she fell. I don't think she even knew how close she came to disaster.

Dale sat down and I said, "Nice catch." He just smiled and shrugged.

That Sunday, he was in contention the whole race and was flirting with the lead on the final lap when his car went out of control and hit the concrete wall in turn four on the high-banked oval. Michael Waltrip and Dale Earnhardt Jr. continued to the finish line, ending up one and two.

Waltrip was already in Victory Circle when it became apparent something was terribly wrong. The senior Earnhardt had still not emerged from his wrecked car and it was surrounded by safety and track officials.

I was already well into my race lead when it became apparent that Dale was in trouble. Somebody poked my arm and pointed out that his car was being covered by a tarp, never a good sign.

Then word came that he was being flown to a nearby hospital.

And, long after it became apparent, we were officially told Dale Earnhardt had died in the crash, killed instantly by a whiplash injury.

It was devastating. One of those moments in your life that stands out like an all-caps headline.

I have read that some journalists do their best work when they are under the stress of a tragedy. It also may be because, to keep from crying or just freezing up in those moments, you have to concentrate harder and close your mind to the circumstances until you're done.

Normally, my editor on the race story would have been the senior person  at the track. Instead, I was told to dictate to deputy sports editor Aaron Watson in New York Sports, one of the best editors I ever worked with.

He kept me focused as I filed a half dozen ledes, each one with new information, quotes and color from the scene. Before I had finished for the day, at about midnight, I had written three separate stories and more than 5,000 words.

I hadn't taken time even to go to the bathroom until the last story was filed.

Lewis and I, sharing a room at a beach motel, stopped at the only chain restaurant that was still open near the track to get a bite to eat. It may have been the quietest meal the two of us have ever had. I was still in shock over the loss of a man I truly admired.

The next week was tough as we dealt with the investigation of the crash, the funeral and the race the next weekend at Rockingham, NC. It had to be covered thoroughly but, at times, I felt like I was just going through the motions.

Deaths in auto racing are inevitable and always terrible tragedies, but losing the biggest star in the NASCAR firmament was something else.

To illustrate how big that story was, one of the AP executives traveling in Asia that week, sent me the sports section from the English language newspaper in Tokyo. The headline, above my byline, in huge bold print: "EARNHARDT KILLED AT DAYTONA".

There was a pall over much of that season, although it did fade as we moved toward the end of the year.

And then, on a rare week off late in the season, I was playing golf when I got a phone call from sports editor Terry Taylor congratulating me winning the AP Sports Editors organization's Best AP Story of the Year and Best AP Deadline Writing _ both for the Earnhardt coverage.

It was bittersweet. I was extremely honored to win the awards and, at the same time, sad about the reason I had to write those stories in the first place.

Auto racing and NASCAR, in particular, lost a true icon the day Dale Earnhardt died in that crash. But the one big positive that came out of it was that the investigation and subsequent efforts by a number of people led to much greater driver safety equipment, including head and neck restraints that have probably saved numerous lives since.

Traveling with Judy and the kids in my early days on the auto racing beat was often an adventure.

I was set to cover a NASCAR race at Bristol Motor Speedway in Bristol, TN when the kids were about seven and eight. They had been begging me for a chance to come to one of the races and this seemed like a perfect opportunity to make it happen.

The race was going to be televised live in Bristol, so Judy and I made a plan to get her and the kids to the track for the first half of the race. Since I had a reserved media parking spot on the road leading up the hill to the press box on the outside of the track, they could leave after the halfway point, avoid the post-race traffic and watch the end of the race from the comfort of our motel room.

I caught a ride to the track from one of the other writers and would do the same for the trip home after I was done writing.

As the start of the race neared, I was in the press box but keeping an eye out for the car, hoping Judy and the kids got to the track and into their grandstand seats in time for the start and without mishap.

Our car, a Pontiac station wagon with a Sears clam shell carrier on top, was easy to spot. And I'm sure I got a big smile on my face when I saw the car turn into the track entrance. But that smile turned to a worried frown and I began to mutter under my breath when I saw Judy pass the road to the outside media parking area and continue straight toward the infield.

As I muttered, "No, no. Don't do that," she drove the car over the track and into the infield, where she was directed to a parking space.

First, I wasn't sure she and the kids would know how to get to their seats on the outside of the track before the gates were closed and, second, I knew if the car remained in the infield, she and the kids would have to stay, not only until the end of the race, but for at least an hour afterward, until the track opened the gates again.

Judy later told me she kept asking people where the media parking was and they just kept waving her forward. When she went over the crest onto the banked track, she knew she was in the wrong place but didn't know how to fix the problem.

I'm not sure I have ever run that fast in my life, before or since. Fortunately, I had an extra key to the car in my wallet. Taking the chance that the family had crossed the track and found their seats, I raced to the car and moved it back across the track to my reserved parking spot, just in the nick of time.

Now, I had to find Judy to let her know I had moved the car. But I had no idea where their seats were located in that massive crowd.

What I didn't know was that Judy had spotted the car leaving the infield and said to the kids, "Either somebody's stealing our car or daddy is saving us."

She watched to see where I parked the car and the three of them walked to the parking area to find me. But I was already back in the press box, waiting for the race to start and worrying about how I was going to contact Judy.

My wife is very resourceful. She tried to get to the press box but was stopped because she didn't have the right credential. Nobody was willing to leave their post to come tell me she was trying to find me.

Finally, though, Judy knocked on the door of the radio booth. Longtime friend Eli Gold was on the broadcasting team that day. He had somebody watch Tory and Lanni for a few minutes and walked Judy to the press box, getting her inside the door so she could find me.

Problem solved. Back to the original plan.

By the time the race ended, the kids were in their beds at the motel, sound asleep and very happy they had gotten to see a race - and eat all kinds of concessions food they normally weren't allowed to eat.

We took the kids most everywhere we went, but there were a few times we got a baby sitter.

One time, we were in Florence, SC for a race at nearby Darlington. Judy and I were invited to an awards dinner at a local country club, not a place for the kids.

The lady who managed the motel had a 15-year-old daughter who did baby sitting. And the manager also noted she would be just down the hall if there were any problems.

The kids were in bed by the time we got home and paid the sitter, who simply said the kids had been "just fine."

Moments after she left, Tory got out of bed and, looking very serious, said, "I have something to tell you."

It turns out that, when it was bed time, the sitter told the kids to say their prayers and be sure to say they took Jesus Christ for their lord and savior."

Tory told her, "We don't do that. We're Jewish." The sitter replied, "Well, I hate to tell you, but that means you're going to Hell and you'll be damned for eternity."

Lanni, lying in her bed, began to cry. But Tory told us he put his arm around her and whispered in her ear, "Don't worry, Lanni. We're Jewish. That that doesn't apply to us."

Apparently that was enough for Lanni and the two of them went to bed without further ado. But Tory obviously waited up for us to make sure we not only heard the story but assured him that he was absolutely right in his assessment of the situation.

A really good big brother.

A few years later, we were in Daytona Beach for a July NASCAR race. We were staying at an oceanfront motel that had a very nice pool area.

There were quite a few other writers and pr people staying there, many of them with their families.

Lanni had become quite friendly with one of the girls around her age and they were hanging out together by the pool when a black family arrived.

Two black kids went into the pool just as Lanni took off her cover-up and headed toward the water. The other girl said, "You can't go in now. There's n.....'s in there."

Lanni later told us she smiled at the other girl and said, "Oh, we're northerners. We don't care."

With that, she dove into the pool and said hello to the other kids. The other girl shrugged and followed Lanni into the pool and nothing more was said.

We're real proud of those kids - and not just for those moments.

Of course, they were not always perfectly behaved. In fact, Tory, who was 11 at the time, nearly scared us to death one year in Miami, FL, where I was covering an IMSA sports car event.

We stopped by what was then the brand new and very fancy Intercontinental Hotel in downtown Miami to pick up my race credentials.

The kids were squabbling that day and Tory was being a real pain to his sister. As we stood in line at the credentials desk, I barked at him to leave his sister alone and behave himself. He made a face and scurried away.

The last I saw of him, he was diving under a table, which was covered by an overhanging linen cloth. Judy and Lanni stayed in line with me and, after I got my credential, I walked over to the table to get Tory.

I looked under the cloth and he was no longer there.

I got a little perturbed and we looked around the room for him. Then we went out into the massive lobby area and looked for him there, calling his name. I stopped at the front desk and asked if they had seen a young boy wandering around. They hadn't.

At first, we were just upset that he had walked away. After about 10 minutes of searching, we got worried.

I had the desk clerk call hotel security. They asked if Tory would run away and both Judy and I assured them he would never do that. At that point, they took his absence seriously and began a room to room search of the 35-story, 641-room hotel.

My stomach was in knots and, not knowing what else to do, I walked out the front door and started to walk toward nearby Biscayne Bay, hoping against hope to spot him. As I walked I saw a head pop up behind the seawall and then quickly duck down. It was Tory - hiding from me.

I was so angry, I could have spit nails. I'm a fast walker normally and I did a power walk straight to where I had seen him. I found him hiding behind the wall and grabbed him by the back his shirt  collar and kind of frog-marched him back to the hotel.

Tory was trying to tell me that it wasn't a big deal that he had wandered off. Then the doorman saw us coming and asked, "Is that Tory?"

Suddenly, he realized this was probably more serious than he had expected.

I called off the hotel search and apologized to the hotel staff and security people, who said they were just happy he was safe.

Of course, we told him he was grounded for at least a month. But it was hard to stay mad at that kid.

At the previous IMSA event in Miami, we were staying at an old hotel in downtown. The race course included part of Biscayne Boulevard, just outside the front entrance of the hotel, and the media center was the meeting rooms at the top of the 28-story building.

I asked Judy to bring the kids up to the media center to watch a practice session. She was credentialed, but the kids were not. As she tried to get into the elevator in the lobby, security stopped her and said the kids could not go up.

My wife, always quick on her feet, looked the guy in the eye and said, "Well, do you expect me to leave them here?" She quickly ushered them into the open elevator and pushed the button before the security guy had a chance to respond.

The next day, Tory asked Judy if he could walk up the stairs from our room to the media center to be with me? It was only a couple of floors, so she said yes.

Unfortunately, all the doors in the stairwell were locked from the outside. When Tory got to the top floor, he couldn't get in. He knocked but no one heard him.

Finally, he walked back down to the floor our room was on and found that door locked, too.

He did not panic, though. He walked the rest of the way to the lobby, trying the door on each floor along the way before finally finding an open door on the main floor.

Tory then went to the elevator and told the security guy he was going back to his room on the 25th floor. Once in the elevator, he rode to the top floor, found me and stayed with me until I had to start writing.

At that point, I called Judy to take the elevator up and fetch him. She found she could not go up on the elevator without going all the way to the lobby and showing her credential or room key first. But it all worked out in the end.

When the kids got a little older, they often went with me to the races and the tracks put them to work. Sometimes they handed out notes and drinks and other times did whatever errands came up.

Tory never got into it all that much, preferring to read his comic books or find a TV to watch, although he did enjoy talking with the other writers and photographers. But Lanni found she liked helping out.

We were at the Pocono track one year when Lanni, about 14 at the time, saved the day. The only copier in the media center stopped working. Calls to maintenance to come fix the machine went unanswered for long enough to cause a lot of concern.

At the end of the long day, I walked into the office to pick up the kids and was met by the track PR guy who said, "Lanni saved us. She fixed the copier. She's really something."

Turns out she figured out how to open the top of the copier and was able to clear a paper blockage when none of the adults on hand could manage it.

Those days were certainly fun and interesting.

During my more than 40 years of covering sporting events, I got to eat in some of the finest restaurants in North America.

The meals were sometimes spectacular, but it was the people and events surrounding some of those meals that really made them stand out.

One of the restaurants that always brought a smile to my face was the Sardine Factory in Monterey, CA.

It is located on the site of one of the factories made famous (or infamous) by John Steinbeck's "Cannery Row." The restaurant is atop a hill overlooking Monterey Bay and just a short walk down the street from several of the hotels and motels that Judy and I stayed in over the years.

On our first visit to the restaurant, we walked past a demolition site next door and Judy spotted a pile of red brick from what we think was one of the original Cannery Row buildings. She grabbed up one of the bricks and said, "This is coming home with me."

We had been married long enough by that time that I just shrugged and asked, "What are you going to do with it at the restaurant?" She smiled and said, "It can come with us. I'm sure it won't eat much."

That "famous" brick made its way back to Westfield, NJ and has stayed with us through two eventual moves.

The meals at the Sardine Factory were always special. And, since we were always there on race weekends at nearby Laguna Seca Raceway _ one of the most scenic and beautiful tracks in the world _ we ran into lots of friends and acquaintances every time we ate there.

The Sardine Factory is also the home of my all-time favorite dessert: white chocolate mousse. Spectacular!

But the meals that most stand out in my mind were served in the private room in the basement of the restaurant.

The room is cozy, with a big fireplace on one wall. It was equipped with its own private kitchen and its own chef, so the food didn't have to be brought down the stairs and the menu could be anything the host wanted. There was one huge table in the room, seating up to 20 people.

The gigantic table and the chairs were made out of a single California Redwood. Redwoods in California can only be bought after they have died. They are then auctioned off. In this case, the restaurant had the successful bid on a huge redwood, brought it to the basement and had it made into the table and a set of chairs that were built right in that room.

My first time in there was at a party thrown by Porsche to celebrate the end of its participation in the CART Indy Car series. The food and ambiance were great and the company even better.

But, thanks to Mike Neeley, the longtime promoter of the Portland, OR, Indy Car race, the best was yet to come.

I was walking through the paddock at Laguna Seca when I spotted Mike talking to a representative of one of the series sponsors. I stopped to say hello and Mike said, "Oh, I'm glad to see you. Is Judy here with you?"

When I told him she had accompanied me on the trip, he beamed.

"Each year, I have a little gathering at the Sardine Factory for some of my friends," Mike explained. "I try to invite different people every year. We serve a special meal and have some great conversations. Would you and Judy like to join us on Saturday night?"

Of course, I said yes.

He went on to say that meal would be a little different.

"Seagrams recently bought a French winery and we have a representative coming to the dinner. He's going to pair their wines with the different courses and explain the reasoning behind his choices," Mike noted.

Although Judy hardly drinks, I knew the idea of the pairings would intrigue her. So I asked Mike to, if possible, seat her near the Seagrams rep. He put them side-by-side.

The meal and the wines were both spectacular and, making it even more special for me, Judy had a ball chatting with the Seagrams rep and taking notes, as she often does. It was a wonderful and memorable evening. Maybe the best meal we've ever eaten.

During the years that NASCAR held its annual awards dinner in the ballroom of New York's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, there were some very fine meals served. The most memorable for me, though, had little to do with the food.

The waiters at the Waldorf were all old pros. They were friendly, helpful and very good at their job.

Judy, Lanni and Tory took turns coming to the banquet as my plus-one. And, whenever Judy was there, she would chat up the waiters - usually two or three per table - and wind up taking uneaten desserts back to the room to share with the maids the next day.

After a while, the waiters got to know Judy and would put together a box of desserts for her when the meal was finished.

NASCAR's visit to New York City was always the first week in December and coincided with the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and the opening of the Christmas displays at the major department stores. Even being Jewish, it was a very lovely time of year in New York, with so much color and music and energy in the air.

Most of the media people were put at tables on the first balcony of the three-tiered Waldorf ballroom. It was nice to be above the crowded main floor because it was a great place to people watch and also easier to slip out to the bathroom or to make a call to the office without disturbing anyone around you.

One year, the meal had barely begun when a large piece of Christmas bunting, covered in white powder, let loose from the facia of the tier above us and floated down onto our 10-person table. It covered all of us and everything on the table in white powder.

Most of us sat in shocked silence before trying to clean the powder off our heads and our clothes _ tuxes and evening gowns.

But those old pro waiters didn't flinch. Within seconds, half a dozen of them had surrounded the table and began to take all the food and utensils away. As the table was cleared, a gleaming new tablecloth was brought out and laid down. Within moments, all new silverware and utensils were put down in front of us.

Food followed shortly after, with everyone getting exactly what they had ordered, hot and fresh.

It was an amazing display of professionalism. And hardly anyone in the ballroom, other than those of us at the table and those at the tables beside us, even knew it happened.

Another great meal had only a peripheral connection to my racing career.

It was July of 1988 and Judy and I were about to celebrate our 20th anniversary. We got a call from old friend Dan Luginbuhl, who was Roger Penske's right-hand man and had become a good friend. He also lived in New Jersey at the time.

Dan invited us to dinner at Chez Catherine, our local French bistro and one of his favorite restaurants, to celebrate our anniversary.

I told him we had to decline because Judy's mom and her Aunt Irene were going to be visiting at the time. Without hesitation, Dan said, "Bring them along. I'm sure they'll enjoy the restaurant."

I wasn't so sure Dan was right. Mom 'Rosee and Aunt Irene were the type of people who rarely order an appetizer and dessert at the same meal, unless it was a special occasion. I doubted that either of them had ever eaten at a French restaurant.

But Dan insisted and I accepted.

The meal was amazing, and not just because of the food.

Dan was and is a wine connoisseur. Mom and Irene rarely drank anything with alcohol, although Mom liked a beer on occasion. But, as the different wines came out and Dan explained what they were tasting, the two women sipped and appeared to enjoy themselves.

And both of them were starting to get a bit tipsy and silly.

At one point, Dan excused himself to go to the bathroom and Judy and I overheard the ladies whispering to each other, one of them saying, "He's so handsome. Like a young Robert Redford."

Now Dan's a nice looking guy, but that might be a bit over the top.

The highlight of the meal was yet to come. As we finished our main course, Catherine, the owner and primary chef, stopped by the table to ask about the meals. Of course, we all raved about the food.

Catherine said, "You must have dessert, though. We have some very fine specials tonight."

Just then, the waiter brought out the dessert tray, laden with eight or nine different choices, each one more inviting than the next.

Irene said, "They all look so good. I don't know how to choose."

Dan shrugged and said to the waiter, "Just leave the tray."

The ladies gasped and beamed and Catherine, seeing the reaction, said, "I'll send out the specials, too."

Mom Rosee said, "Well, we'll never eat all that. But we can take some home to the kids."

Sure! The five of us, Dan and his date finished off every one of those luscious desserts. And I don't think any of us felt guilty about it.

Dan got hugs and kisses on the cheek from both of the older ladies as we got ready to leave. Then, on the way to the car, Mom leaned over, grabbed my arm and asked, "How much did that meal set him back?"

I said, "I don't know, but it wasn't cheap." Mom shook her head and beamed saying, "Well, that was something."

We repaid Dan for that meal with another night at Chez Catherine a few months later. But, unfortunately, Mom and Irene weren't able to join us.