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William Wright

Turns Out, It’s Not About NASCAR or IndyCar — It’s About Us

Me and my teen watched another Indy race documentary. My son was glued to every pass. I caught myself less focused on which series was “better,” and more on him — his grin when a car dove three-wide into turn one, how he elbowed me in disbelief during a pit blunder. That’s when it clicked. My dad didn’t drag me to NASCAR races for the decals or the crashes. He did it because it was time together, shoulder to shoulder, letting engines drown out life’s worries. So if my kid loves IndyCar more? Fine by me. The magic isn’t under the hood — it’s in the moments we share. Watching him live what I once did, just in his own way, feels like coming full circle. Maybe that’s the real victory lane. #Parenting #RacingFamily #IndyCar #NASCAR #FullCircle #Parenting

Turns Out, It’s Not About NASCAR or IndyCar — It’s About Us
William Wright

Maybe It’s Not NASCAR — Maybe It’s Me

A few weeks later, we watched a NASCAR race together on TV. I found myself droning on about how things were tougher back then, when drivers settled scores with bumpers, not press conferences. My son just gave me that patient look. It hit me: maybe it’s not NASCAR that changed, maybe it’s me. The Next Gen cars look slick, but I can’t name half the grid. The drama feels manufactured — stage breaks, overtime restarts — almost like reality TV. Meanwhile, IndyCar seems alive, teetering on the edge of disaster at 230 mph. The strategy’s sharp, the coverage crisp, the fans younger. It’s what hooked my son. I realized I was chasing a ghost of my own youth, trying to make NASCAR today feel like my Saturdays with Dad. But times change. Maybe I needed to meet the sport where it’s at — or follow my kid’s lead to something new. #NASCAR #IndyCar #Generations #FamilyTraditions #RacingNews

Maybe It’s Not NASCAR — Maybe It’s MeMaybe It’s Not NASCAR — Maybe It’s Me
William Wright

My Dad Raised Me on NASCAR. Now I’m Raising My Son on… IndyCar?

Some of my best memories are dusty afternoons in the stands with my old man, watching Dale Jr. charge through the pack. The roar of stock cars, that smell of burnt rubber mixed with cheap hot dogs — it’s stitched into my childhood. So imagine my gut punch when my teenage son recently told me NASCAR was “kinda slow” and he liked IndyCar better. At first, it felt like a betrayal, like he’d traded our family tradition for some flashy open-wheel circus. But we made a deal: I’d take him to an Indy race. Honestly? The speed was unreal. Those machines flew by so quick it rattled your chest. Different than NASCAR’s thunder, but thrilling in its own right. Still, part of me missed the chrome horns, the door slams, the payback at Martinsville. I left that day torn — proud to share racing with my boy, but quietly longing for my own golden era. #NASCAR #IndyCar #Parenting #RacingDrama #RacingMemories

My Dad Raised Me on NASCAR. Now I’m Raising My Son on… IndyCar?My Dad Raised Me on NASCAR. Now I’m Raising My Son on… IndyCar?