WINSTON-SALEM, N.C. -- The rednecks and the gearheads huddle at the cinderblock shack at the entrance to pit row, on top of a scraggly hill, looking scraggly themselves, with thin beards and cigarettes rolled up in T-shirt sleeves. "Is Junior's boy runnin'?" one asks. His buddy nods. The air is charged at the old racetrack. The man himself is coming.
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