Daytona Whatchamcallit

 Word has arrived at Blob headquarters that William Byron won the Daytona 500 for the second year in a row yesterday, somehow surviving the annual end-of-the-race crashes  that happen because everyone commences to drive like idiots in the last 15 laps or so.

So there was a red flag in there somewhere, per usual. It happened 11 laps after a Big One took out Joey Logano, Kyle Busch, Ryan Blaney and Chase Elliott, and it took out Bubba Wallace, Kyle Larson, Daniel Suarez and Brad Keselowski. That all happened before another Big One pushed the race into overtime for the sixth time in the last eight years, and before yet another Big One wiped out the front of the field in OT and allowed Byron to go from ninth to the checkers on the final lap.

All of this occurred  sometime last night, I am told. I say "I am told" because I wasn't watching by that time, having tuned in at 1:30 to watch Air Force One buzz Daytona International Speedway, and then watch our illustrious president take a ceremonial lap in his Brink's armored car before flying right back home.

(And, OK, so it wasn't a Brink's armored car. It was more like a stylish armored half-track. Or maybe a stylish Sherman tank.)

Anyway, that all happened, and the race started, and then, after just 11 laps, it rained. That's when I stopped watching, because it looked like it was going to rain for awhile. And then, later on, I just kinda ... well, forgot about it.

A gearhead like me, forgetting about the Daytona Whatchamacallit. This is what it's come to with the Great American Race, at least in this precinct.

Time was I used to go to watch parties on Daytona Sunday, and we'd eat wings and drink beer and hope that dweeb Jeff Gordon didn't win again. Daytona was appointment viewing in those days, back when NASCAR still mattered. It was Super Bowl Sunday, only faster.

And then ...

And then, I don't know what happened.

The watch parties fizzled out, gradually. I started watching the 500 (aka, "that silly car race" according to my wife) on the couch at home. Then I started watching only the first 50 or so laps and the last 20 or so laps. And then, yesterday, I watched 11 laps before the rains came, checked out, and never checked back in.

I don't know if that constitutes a eulogy of sorts. But it kinda feels like one.