All in the family for Cravens Newburgh racer knows when to hit brakes on life in the fast lane

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Editor’s note: First of two parts profiling a NASCAR weekend with Maine native Ricky Craven.

LOUDON, N.H. – When Ricky Craven needs information about his neon Orange No. 32 Tide Ford, he calls on his knowledgeable crew.

When he wants to figure out something bigger, deeper, or more important, he calls on his wife, Cathleen.

And when he wants a little perspective?

Well, that often comes from his 5-year-old son, Richard Everett – or just plain ol’ “Everett” to the Craven clan.

“Racing’s just so serious,” Craven says. “And then you spend 10 minutes with Richard Everett, and all the world’s problems are solved.”

This week – the annual summer stop at New Hampshire International Speedway – is no different.

“I flew in at 2 o’clock Wednesday morning from Indianapolis and [Everett] was bouncing on my bed at seven, saying, ‘What are we gonna do today?'” Craven says.

“I said, ‘I’m gonna sleep,'” Craven says, imitating the drowsy voice he used to try to end Everett’s early-morning bed-trampoline performance.

“He said, ‘Why?’ I said, ‘Because I’m oooold,’ Craven recounts, a grin already forcing his lips up at the corners.

“And he said, “Well, I’m NEW!’ I woke up [thinking], ‘That’s great!’

Things can get pretty hectic in the life of a NASCAR Winston Cup driver. The U.S. Senate has often been referred to as the most exclusive club in the nation: Only 100 men and women count themselves as members, after all.

But consider this: Winston Cup drivers – the top stars on the top circuit in the land – are even more rare. Only 48 or so exist. They jet across the U.S. each weekend from February through November.

When they head to “the office,” they strap themselves into growling, screaming, 750-horsepower cars that weigh 3,400 pounds. Then they take turns trading paint with each other at speeds of up to 200 mph.

Yes, this is a contact sport.

Sometimes they crash. Sometimes they get hurt. And sometimes, they die. That’s the cold, hard truth.

And ever since they were little boys, people like Newburgh, Maine, native Ricky Craven dreamed about getting the chance to do exactly what they’re doing.

When you do what these guys do for a living, a little bit of perspective can go a long way.

Behind the scenes at Loudon

During the third weekend of July, Ricky Craven and the rest of the sport’s elite drivers headed to New Hampshire International Speedway for the first of two races the track will host this year.

Some drivers hate competing on Loudon’s nearly flat, 1.058-mile oval. Two deaths in the past year on the same track have contributed to that attitude.

But for Craven, the two yearly trips to New Hampshire are something else entirely. They’re celebrations. Homecomings.

“[This place] fits like a comfortable shoe. It’s perfect,” Craven tells a group of media members who gathered for a breakfast interview session.

“You may not understand if you’re not a New England boy or girl. But the cool nights, the 60-degree water in the lakes, the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee? These things mean a lot to me.”

As does Loudon. When Craven comes “home,” to the only New England track to host a Winston Cup race each year, his people – about 100,000 of them – show up.

There are distractions here. Everyone wants a piece of the local boy. The governor honors him at breakfast. The media swarms around him on this weekend, instead of hounding Jeff Gordon or Dale Earnhardt Jr. or the others.

Ricky Craven meets and greets. He signs autographs and shakes hands and says “Hello. It’s nice to see you again, buddy.” And he means it.

Eventually (after all the distractions end), he slithers through the window of his snappy-looking Tide ride and heads out for an afternoon with the boys.

But it’s a long way from here to there. That doesn’t happen until Sunday. Right now? It’s still Friday. And Ricky Craven’s got a few problems he has to deal with. We’ll get to those in a bit.

Family values, Part 1

Everywhere he goes, Ricky Craven tells people about his New England roots. He tells them how perfect things can be in rural Maine, even when the weather changes by the minute, and the snow drifts are knee-high for four or five or six months out of the year.

Listen to him talk, quietly, earnestly, and you hear the same refrain, over and over and over.

Family … family … family.

Remember what it was like growing up? Ricky Craven does. He remembers walking in the door as a kid, after a busy day of exploring and climbing trees and doing the other stuff Maine kids get to do every day.

“What’s for supper,” he’d ask his mom.

Craven grins at the recollection. Sometimes his mother’s answer wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped for. But he always had a backup plan.

He’d call a relative.

“Hi. This is Ricky. What are you having for supper? REALLY? Yeah. I’ll be right over.”

Craven laughs at himself, loud, and deep. He’s 35 now – 25 years or so removed from those days – but it seems like yesterday.

“I always had my family all around me,” he says, smiling. “That was great.”

Troubles at the track

NASCAR Winston Cup weekends vary from track to track, and from year to year.

At Loudon, the weekend’s work begins on Friday for the Winston Cup crews. The truck that hauls Craven’s Ford Taurus – and another backup car – arrives at 5:45 a.m., and is parked alongside all the other Winston Cup “haulers” in the infield.

By the time the garage area opens at 7, Craven’s crew is ready to go, and begins preparing the car for the day’s practice.

Craven will hit the track for two hours and he and the crew will tinker with elements of the car’s setup as the session progresses.

At least that’s the plan.

After an hour and twenty minute break, the Tide team will put the lessons they learn in practice to work during qualifying for Sunday’s race.

But after meeting New Hampshire’s governor as the guest of honor at an 8 a.m. breakfast, Craven’s day goes downhill.

First he runs a few slow laps in a pack with the other drivers. Then he drives back into the garage area and lets his crew in on a couple of facts.

No. 1: His new helmet smells funny. Very funny. (“Take a whiff of that helmet,” he says. “I think the glue made me sick or something.”)

No. 2: He has detected a vibration in his brand new Taurus, and he has no idea what’s causing it.

After a few adjustments are made, Craven gets on the car-to-crew radio and gives them the bad news.

“I know you guys are working hard, but I am all over this racetrack,” Craven says.

That’s not good. As engineer Roy McAuley later explains, when a crew detects a vibration in the motor, it’s often tough to tell what the cause is. Especially when you’ve got less than two hours remaining before qualifying.

The initial solution: Put in another “qualifying” motor. Then word comes back from the hauler: There isn’t one.

That makes a difference.

Teams take different motors to the tracks, planning to use a higher-revving motor in qualifying. The motors offer 20 to 30 horsepower more than the lower-cranking “race” motors, engine specialist Mike Lewis says.

The tradeoff: “You’re physically pushing everything to the limit,” Lewis says. “You’re gonna break sometimes. That’s a perfect example today. I’m not sure what broke yet.”

But one thing is certain: Craven can’t drive the car as fast as he’d like, and he doesn’t want to qualify using the motor that’s vibrating.

Crew chief Mike Beam agrees, and informs the crew.

The team members nod, then get to work. They break out the “race” motor, a less-powerful, but more durable engine they had planned to install after they finished qualifying.

But there’s really no choice. The clock is ticking. An hour remains before qualifying begins. It’s going to be close.

Family values, Part 2

Ricky Craven remembers the lessons he learned from his grandfather, Vinal Smith.

Among them: When you shake a man’s hand, you’ve given him your word. Period.

Craven remembers how much his grandfather’s word meant to him. He remembers the time his grandfather, out of the blue, decided to stop drinking beer.

“He finished a beer,, put the can down, and said, ‘Last one,’ Craven recalls. “I just laughed. … he never had another.”

A few years later, he did the same things with cigarettes. “Last one,” he said. Young Ricky still didn’t believe.

Vinal Smith never smoked again.

Those lessons stick with Craven. Even at the track. Especially at the track.

And when people are less than straight with him? Craven thinks back to his roots, and gets more than a bit irritated.

“I’m from New England,” he says … again. “Where you call a spade a spade. It’s all you’ve got. It’s the way the whole world should be, but it’s not that way. … If you’ve got no credibility, you’re done.”

New motor, new goals

While his crew feverishly works on installing its new motor in time for qualifying, Craven stands atop the Tide hauler and watches the other cars begin to turn their two timed laps.

He’s lucky, in one respect: He drew a high number for qualifying. That buys his crew some more time.

The principal members of the PPI Motorsports team – Beam, engineer McAuley, and team owner Cal Wells III, along with Craven – met in the hauler’s air-conditioned lounge area, a cozy, cool haven on a hot, humid weekend.

Their decision to change motors also changed Craven’s goals for the afternoon qualifying session … but not his determination.

He thought he’d contend for the pole. Now? That’s probably not possible. Earlier, as the team began its work, Craven said he wasn’t all that concerned.

“You know – and I want people to understand this – there is so much to making up your mind in life,” Craven says. “You know? I make up my mind: We’re gonna get this thing in the top 20 today.

“But you say, ‘Well, you haven’t even been practicing in the top 20.’ But that attitude is so important.”

Craven thinks about it, then compares his attitude with the ones you’d find in winning locker rooms and clubhouses in other sports. The comparison fits, he figures.

“So, hell. I’ve made up my mind: We’re gonna get this Tide Ford in the top 20,” he says. “Now I have to go prove it.”

An hour or so later, Craven takes the track … the second-to-last driver to do so.

He drives fast. He knows the Loudon track. And he qualifies.

In 20th place.

Just like he said he would.

Back in the garage, engine specialist Lewis sits on the cool concrete floor, lets out a big sigh, and exchanges a high-five with another teammate.

From the time the decision was made to swap motors, it took Lewis and the rest of the team 55 minutes to successfully pull out one engine and install the other. Now, for the first time all day, he can relax.

“When you change that much stuff in that short amount of time and you don’t put it on the racetrack until you actually go out and qualify, you really don’t know,” Lewis says. “You’ve got to keep your optimism that you’re gonna be better. It worked out well today.”

Just like Craven thought it would.

“Man. That’s a lot of work,” Lewis says, reflecting on the day’s events.

But he’s smiling. So is the rest of the crew. What they don’t know is this: Their troubles aren’t over.

More problems await

It’s 8:15 a.m. on Saturday, and already the Tide Ford crew is at work.

Today’s pace isn’t as frenetic as it was the day before, but there’s one good indicator that everyone’s staying busy: A tin of breakfast sandwiches sits on a workbench, free for the taking.

But nobody’s eating.

Craven is the guest of honor in a media luncheon this morning, and two practice sessions are on tap.

Ironically, the previous day’s tribulations have served to lessen the crew’s workload.

Craven pointed out on Friday that the fact his team had to switch engines before qualifying meant it had one fewer thing to do after qualifying finished.

After working his way to the garage area by steadily walking (while signing autographs, and talking), Craven saddles up for the first practice session of the day.

“OK, Fatboy,” he says into his radio transmitter. “Where’s the 24?”

High above the track, “Fatboy,” tells Craven what he wants to know: Jeff Gordon’s No. 24 car is coming around turn three, and he’ll be able to hook up with one of the sport’s stars and turn some fast laps.

Donnie Epling, Craven’s spotter, is comfortable with his moniker, and the burly man introduces himself with a big grin, a solid handshake, and an explanation; Don’t worry about calling me the same thing everyone else calls me, his simple answer says. His actual words: “I am Fatboy.”

Fatboy’s purpose: Keep Craven safe by monitoring the track, and keeping him apprised of any hazardous situations.

When Craven’s in traffic, Fatboy tells him when he can slide down, or move out. When he’s not, Fatboy tells him about possible wrecks, or cars that are slowing down ahead of him.

In this practice, Fatboy’s expertise isn’t needed for long: Craven runs 10 laps with Gordon, heads back to the garage for some more adjustments, and sits out the remainder of the session.

Later, when “Happy Hour,” the final pre-race practice session, is held, things get worse.

Craven gets stuck in a line for fuel and misses the first 10 minutes, and then runs 10 laps and establishes himself as one of the fastest cars on the track.

But after pulling into the garage area with about 20 minutes for some final tinkering, Craven’s day is all but over.

A series of adjustments to the car is undertaken, with the goal of getting him out for a few more laps of work.

It doesn’t happen: At 11:42, with just enough time remaining for a quick five- or six-lap test, he pulls out of the garage. And oil starts pouring out from under the Tide Ford.

“That was just trying to get too much done in too little time,” crew chief Beam says in his soft Mayberry-RFD southern accent. “A line was left loose.”

Still, in the Tide hauler’s lounge a few minutes later, the crew is upbeat and joking. The car is better. It’s fast. And everyone feels good about Sunday’s prospects.

After dealing with the important topics, Craven dissolves into laugher after Beam adopts a favorite expression of team owner Cal Wells.

“I can’t believe it,” Craven says. “It took six months, but Cal’s got Mike bitchin’,” Craven says.

That’s bitchin’ as in, “that’s a bitchin’ car.” Wells, the Californian, nods proudly at his influence.

Family values, Part 3

Head onto the infield of any of the tracks that make up the NASCAR Winston Cup circuit, and somewhere – maybe it’s off to the left, just a couple hundred yards from victory lane – you’ll find the RVs.

They’re huge. They’ve been polished to a dazzling shine. And that’s where the drivers live, for three days a week, 39 weeks a year.

Craven has a monstrous, well-equipped Fleetwood. Open up the compartment on the bottom? Down where you’d store the luggage in a Greyhound? That’s where your “outside” TV is. Pull up a lawn chair, and you can sit outdoors and watch the race.

Inside, Craven’s RV sparkles. Comfortable black leather couches sit snug against the walls, but the owner opts for a chair at the kitchen table and gestures in different directions, around his “neighborhood.”

“That’s Tony Stewart’s home. That’s Terry Labonte’s home. We live in a high-rent trailer park,” he says

Craven says the RV makes no financial sense. It’s not like a house, he says. It depreciates as it bounces up and down the nation’s highways. It is expensive to maintain.

Then he stands up, walks across the room, and picks up a photo of Cathleen, Everett, and 9-year-old daughter Riley Diane.

“But what you lose financially, you gain,” he says, pointing at his family, smiling in the photo. “I sleep in the same bed every night. You see what I mean?

“This is home. I’ve got my two pounds of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in there at all times. I’ve got my Blueberry Morning [cereal for breakfast. … it’s just home.”

Tomorrow: race day.