In the early eighties, my wife, Mary Pat, and I were living in Montgomeryville, PA, north of Philadelphia. I had been to an Indianapolis 500 open-wheel race, but not any NASCAR races since the one in Richmond.  I asked Mary Pat to go with me to a race at Pocono, near Scranton, in Northeastern Pennsylvania. That was a terrible decision on my part. She agreed to go.  We had infield tickets. We did not know what to expect. There was virtually no pavement in the infield. It had rained that morning as it often does at Pocono. There was tons of mud. Did you hear me? Tons of mud. Mary Pat had “dressed to the nines.” Shame on me for allowing her to dress up to go to a NASCAR race, especially at Pocono. The mud ruined her nice new dress and new high heels. She lost her beautiful Estee Lauder umbrella somewhere in the infield. We came home early, suffering a total domestic disaster. She never went to another race as long as she lived. The moral of this story, obviously, is, don’t dress up for a NASCAR race.