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Richmond International Raceway has never gotten the credit it deserves. In an era in which architects took over the design of race tracks and paid attention to everything except the actual tracks, the late Paul Sawyer knew the way to true fan happiness was through the modern short track.

Time has affirmed Sawyer’s intuition. He knew that he needed a race-track architect, not an architect designing a race track. He needed someone he could tell what he wanted done, and then have him draw up the best way to do it.

The .75-mile track is D-shaped and shallow-banked. Its circumference is small but its surface wide. It’s perfect for the final regular-season race because it is fair. The racing lacks the gaudy bull-dozing of Martinsville or the out-of-my-way brazenness of Bristol, but it’s a place where an honest night’s work is rewarded.

The first race I saw at Richmond was the last race Davey Allison won. Tony Stewart’s first win was there. The most memorable half hour I ever spent on the NASCAR beat was a session in Dale Earnhardt’s transporter with three other reporters almost exactly 16 years ago.

I got a tap on the shoulder as I walked in the media center, which was then a tiny cubbyhole for reporters contained within a vast area meant for smoking and socializing. The area for writing back then is the area where a drink cooler and folding tables are located now. (I haven’t been there in a while. It could have changed again. There may be an interactive fan experience, for all I know.)

“Earnhardt wants you in his trailer in five minutes.”

My first thought was, What in the name of Great Caesar’s Ghost is he mad about now? I just saw him yesterday, and he seemed fine.

Earnhardt was mad about the impending use of carburetor restrictor plates in New Hampshire, and he chose those with whom he would discuss the matter based on his judgment of which among us was most capable of giving NASCAR hell over it.

Based on the few times he summoned me, I gather I was near the top of his rankings in that category. Earnhardt protected himself by uttering very few words that could be printed in a publication minors could buy.

Bleep the bleepin’ bleepers who bleeped the bleepin’ bleeps. Bleepingly.

As much as NASCAR has tried to wipe this unfortunate race clean of its annals, there was indeed a restrictor-plate race in New Hampshire, one in which Jeff Burton led every single lap, and Earnhardt, who correctly foretold the disaster that would ensue, was dead five months later.

That scene occupies a place in my mental dictionary, next to the word “irony.”

The most memorable experience at Richmond was the most memorable experience of them all.