There comes a point in every man’s life where silence begins to feel like complicity—where holding back your truth only serves to empower the lies being told about you. That point came for me years ago, but out of respect for the sport I loved and the people I once trusted, I stayed quiet. Today, I’m done with that.
Let’s set the record straight: I’ve been labeled a racist, a murderer, and a pariah—not by those who know me, not by those who raced alongside me, but by voices behind keyboards and figures with agendas. They didn’t just go after me; they aimed to dismantle everything I built—my reputation, my legacy, and worst of all, the connection I had with my fans.
What most people don’t know is how coordinated and deliberate it all felt. I didn’t wake up one morning with a target on my back; that target was painted on me slowly, subtly, and strategically. At first, it was whispers and innuendos, passive remarks in media circles questioning my “values” or my “attitude.” Then came the accusations—completely baseless—about my views on race and inclusion in NASCAR. The irony? I’ve spent my entire life in locker rooms, garages, and dirt tracks with people from every background imaginable. What I’ve cared about is effort, respect, and talent—never skin color.
But that wasn’t enough to protect me from the narrative being crafted. The more I kept quiet, the more they twisted my silence into guilt. And when the tragic accident with Kevin Ward Jr. happened, they saw the perfect opportunity to turn perception into punishment. Never mind that a court of law and a grand jury cleared me. Never mind that the toxicology reports showed drugs in Kevin’s system that influenced his decision to walk onto a hot track. That didn’t fit the story they wanted.
Instead, I became “the killer driver.” They didn’t just go after my decision-making—they went after my soul. The media ran with it. NASCAR distanced itself. And the fan base I had cultivated for decades—hardworking people, blue-collar Americans who saw themselves in me—was fed the idea that I was something I never was. Slowly, some began to believe it.
And yet, when the dust settled, NASCAR called me back. They wanted me to invest, to lead, to bring credibility and old-school grit back to the sport. I said yes—not for them, but for the fans. But even then, it was clear that the same forces that tried to ruin me were still at play. Boardroom politics, quiet alliances, veiled threats. It wasn’t just that they didn’t want me in the room—they didn’t want me speaking at all.
I don’t tell this story for pity. I don’t need sympathy. What I need is truth. What I need is for fans—those who once knew me, and those who never got the chance—to hear it from me, unfiltered.
I’m not a racist. I’m not a murderer. I’m a racer. I’m a fighter. And I’m still standing.