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I didn't watch the Food City 500. I was in my own race, one that started in Gainesville, Texas, and ended at my home in Clinton, S.C. The race was was about as long as I could manage.

When I left Texas, at 9:30 in the morning, I planned on stopping somewhere, Birmingham, Ala., maybe. I'd scouted it four night nights earlier, watching one ball team, the Smokies, beat another, the Barons, while I digested good Alabama ribs and turnip greens.

If Rub It Up had been open late Sunday night …

My race lasted 1,060 miles and took 14-1/2 hours. The Food City 500 took me across the state of Louisiana. Officially, it was in Bristol, Tenn. Carl Edwards, in a Toyota, won the race. My Dodge, a Dakota, was the only vehicle still running by the time my house-sitting nephew unfurled the checkered flag as soon as the garage door opened at Victory Lane Presented by 11185 Highway 56 North. If I ever planned to enter again, I'd probably lobby to have it called the Fifteen Hours of Strong Truck Stop Coffee Presented by Pilot and Flying J.

I think it best, though, to retire undefeated. I felt humbled as I hoisted the ceremonial guitar, which I'd played unceremoniously in Gainesville.

The Food City 500 had many wrecks. The Fifteen Hours of Truck Stop Coffee had many competition cautions. The reason Dutton Racing survived was timing. Every time my tank of gas ran out, my stomach of coffee filled up. Efficiently I refilled with gas, unloaded the remnants of coffee past and refilled the mug.

Then I rolled down Pit Ramp and rejoined the fray.

On the one hand, it was a great achievement. I can't wait to tell the boys back at the shop how my truck run good. They're going to change the oil and rotate the tires here directly. I might cut loose on Thursday and check her out again. A round trip to Ninety Six High School isn't even 96 miles. More like 70. Most of my races are sprints these days, and I only pit for ballgames. Across the lake and back is usually more my speed.

On the other hand, running that pickup from Texas to home wasn't the smartest plan I ever concocted, mainly because it wasn't planned at all. I got so inspired listening to Doug Rice, Mark Garrow, Wendy Venturini, Rob Albright, Brett McMillan and other smiths of the spoken word guide me spiritually across Louisiana that I just kept on getting it.

To paraphrase the late, great Hank Williams, along about Sunday I was checking out, along came Monday and I was nowhere about, here it is Tuesday and I got no clue. Now I got them lost but not forgotten blues.

I'm uh-law-uh-awn, go-uh-awn, now-eeh-ow, I'm law-uh-awn-some blue.

By gosh, I'm a-gonna watch the next race on the television. I got this wide-screen, high-definition Magnavox, and, so far, it's been a stomp-down good'un, and the folks at DirecTV build a dadburn stump-puller, unless there's a thunderstorm or something, and then they have to go under the hood, sort of like when I got to the Southern Connector at 2 a.m. Monday and had to wait while the fellow driving the Silverado from Alabama had to get change for a $100 bill at the booth.

By then, though, I could smell that checkered flag, and nothing was going to bother me. By then, I was near the end of my sojourn, and my wandering finally played out with Webb Pierce singing "Wondering" on SiriusXM 59, Willie's Roadhouse.

As Carl Edwards had said earlier, it was a blast.