Dodgy Business: Dodgins goes to Disneyland

This week, I'm afraid, you can probably tell me a lot more about what's going on in the F1 world than vice versa. I'm over in the US of A, taking the kids to visit Florida's Disney parks at a time when you can actually move. Every day I've been nervously logging in to see if Formula 1 still exists.

Disneyland would no doubt seem the ultimate fantasy if I didn't spend much of the year in the F1 paddock... Visiting America though, would be good preparation for a world without F1. It's just not on their radar.

Disney character on stage during the IRL awards on the Disney Wonder cruise ship

I'd promised that I'd forget about motor racing for a fortnight. I was doing my best, save for the odd furtive log-on when everyone else was in bed, to keep up with the changes proposed at the latest World Motor Sport Council session. Then, as we arrived for the first time at Magic Kingdom, we passed the Richard Petty Driving Experience...

"I'm just going over there for a look."

"No you're not. The kids want Mickey's autograph, my mobile's not working over here and we'll never find each other again."

Drat. She saw straight through that one...

One of the things kids love to do in Disney parks is to join great big queues to get an autograph from some bloke dressed up in a furry suit pretending to be Donald, Goofy, Mickey, etc. Sure, you've done it yourself, but it was Gilles, Niki, Didier, Jacques & co and you didn't have to stand there for 45 minutes in 80 degrees. At Disney when you do finally get there, Chip & Dale are sweating more than Pironi used to!

For the kids, it rapidly turns into a quest to see how many signatures/happy snaps they can get. There's a lot of waiting with nothing going on. It's worse than watching a grand prix at Barcelona. I tried a more subtle approach, suggesting that it might not be a good idea for a seven-year-old and five-year-old to get it into their heads that adults impersonate people, so close to Christmas. But that didn't work either.

During the interminable wait for Ariel, I think it was, you could at least sit on a wall. I got talking to an American guy, mentioned the Petty Experience and he said he'd done it.

"My Gaaaad, it was aaawe----some!"

Richard Petty © LAT

Worthwhile, then, I said.

"I guess you guys just don't have anything like that in Europe," he said.

"No," I smiled, "we have proper motor racing..."

It turned out he was into his NASCAR but didn't have much feel, or time, for F1. He did know two things. He knew that Bernie Ecclestone had said that Danica Patrick should be dressed in white, like everything else that belonged in the kitchen. And he knew, or thought he knew, that F1 cars were not strong enough to take a banked turn at Indianapolis and that only six drivers had the balls to start the race.

Well, no, it wasn't quite like that, I told him. He went on to enlighten me as to why NASCAR was so much better than Formula 1 and asked if I'd ever seen a NASCAR race live.

Yes, I said, relating that the year I went freelance I visited Atlanta to witness Petty's final race. I couldn't resist telling him that I'd actually also got to meet The King too.

"My Gaaaad! You actually met Richard Petty? My Gaaaaad! How cool is that!!"

Not very, as it happens. What actually transpired was that we were on a bit of a lads trip to Las Vegas which was interrupted by my hairbrained plan to schlep back east to see the Atlanta race. I got away with it because my mates were also racing fans. Better than that, a chap working for Eurosport sorted out some passes for us.

So there we were before the race, having a beer in the hotel bar, when the Eurosport chap comes up enthusiastically and says, "I've got you a slot! For the Petty presentation. You're on at 11.46. It will be exactly a minute."

"You've done what? I've got to do what?"

It turned out that there was to be a formal celebration before Sunday's race, where numerous organisations were to have the opportunity to say a few words to bid Petty farewell and make a presentation to him up on a dias in front of the crowd. I was to go up on behalf of Autosport.

Richard Petty makes his final NASCAR start in the 1992 fall race at Atlanta

Oh, err, thanks...

Firstly, what I knew about NASCAR would not have filled the back of a postage stamp. Second, what in the world was I supposed to present to The King? I can't remember whose idea it was but, to the massive amusement of my mates, part of Saturday afternoon was spent in the houseware section of JC Penney in downtown Atlanta, buying Richard Petty a crystal fruit bowl.

My mates were loving it: "You can't buy him that one - he won't even get a couple of satsumas in there!" And, "Bloody hell, no, have you seen the price of that! That's our blackjack money. You'll never get that back on expenses!"

Blazer and smart trousers, of course, had not figured among the requirements of a few days in sin city and so, there I was in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt (at least it had a collar) as I joined the president of this and the chief operating officer of that, in the line-up ready to go and greet the King. The guy before me had a garment of the softest leather intricately embroidered with 'STP', '43' and other meaningful Petty Racing logos which, although it sounds dreadfully naff, was actually a really nice, expensive jacket. The guy to my left was standing there with a real, live, golden eagle on his arm.

My mates had clocked all this and, within heckling distance unfortunately, had fallen into hysterics at what The King would make of his JC Penney crystal fruit bowl. I was just wishing like hell that the clock would tick around to 11.46. Ever since I'd seen Hitchcock's The Birds when I was about seven, I'd not felt too good around flappy things and the bird of prey to my left was looking a bit unimpressed with proceedings, although it might just have been the fruit bowl.

I've no recollection of what I said when I was finally handed the mike, spoke a few words, presented The King with his fruit bowl and got the hell out of there. Petty did however shake my hand and accept his piece of glassware graciously. On deeper reflection I should have given him the receipt so he could take it back and change it for some Trill or whatever you feed golden eagles.

"My Gaaaad! Bet you felt like a bit of a dick!"

Well, yes, you could put it like that...

"Petty never struck me as a fruity kind of a guy. You should'a given him a pot to spit out his chewed bits of beef jerky."

His laughter was interrupted: "Daddy, daddy, come and get a picture with Ariel..."

It was a relief.