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What hooked us all, I suppose, was the romance of racing, that weekly step into the unknown. And that is what brings us back, time after time. 
He had been everywhere and won everything, so upon hanging up his helmet he had a right to stop and smell the flowers
He was the best storyteller who ever walked through a dusty pit area, or sat down in an air-conditioned media center. 
It all seems to run in loops, nice and tidy circles, for Kyle Moyer.
This was sometime in late April, during the puzzling month-long gap in the NTT IndyCar Series calendar.
Another January has come and gone, and with it the favorite winter pastimes of dirt-track people: competing in or watching the Lucas Oil Chili Bowl Midget Nationals, and then spending hour upon hour bitching about the very same Chili Bowl.
On all three nights there was a nip in the air and a dampness that gnawed right into you. There was no getting around it, autumn was elbowing summer aside.
Here he came, quietly, no fuss, no fireworks, a baby-faced kid with nothing remarkable about him.
The problem with repeatedly crying wolf, said an old bench-racer named Aesop, is that when a real wolf finally wanders past, no one pays any attention to the fuss you’re making.
This one is for the guy in the parking lot, firing up a grill or throwing a Frisbee or digging into the cooler in the trunk of his car, reaching deep into the ice because the beer at the bottom, he believes, is always the coldest.

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