Pita and I sat side by side, our backs to the cabin’s façade, sheltered by the porch roof. We both had pulled our knees to our chests, wrapping our arms around them, in an attempt to retain our body heat. I remained alert, my eyes scanning the devastated jungle, the shadows dancing beneath the wind-frenzied trees. Yet as the minutes ticked away, and there was no sign of anybody lurking in the night, my mind began to drift, and I found myself reflecting on the racing accident that had ended my career. I didn’t like going there. It filled me with sadness and resentment and regret. Nevertheless, sometimes I couldn’t avoid it.

It was the third race of the 2000 NASCAR Winston Cup Series, the Daytona 500 at Daytona International Speedway in Florida. I won the Pole, and with the help of my teammate I ended up leading the field for the first ninety laps. But a miscue from my pit crew and a couple of other mishaps saw me fall back as far as twelfth at one point. However, I made a late charge, and with two laps to go I was running second to Ed Melvin in the No. 93 car. On the inside of Turn 1 I attempted to pass him. We made light contact, both cars veering up to the wall, my Chevy leaning on his. As soon as I cleared him I pulled off a bump ’n’ run to take the lead. By Turn 4 Melvin caught up and we were at a virtual dead heat. At the white flag he pulled a car length ahead. I stuck directly behind him through Turns 1 and 2. I tried an overtake during Turn 3 but couldn’t get around him. My chance came in the final turn. I’d entered it low and Melvin high. I cut to the bottom groove, straddling the double yellow out of bounds line, and drew even with him as we exited the turn for the front stretch. As we sped for the checkered flag at two hundred miles an hour, we were so close our side panels traded paint, and then somehow his car caught mine in such a way air got under me. The next thing I knew I was looking at my roof for a long time—and then waking in the ICU with the immediate and uncanny memories of floating above my body while I’d been dead.

I mentioned what happened to the surgeon who’d operated on me, more in passing than anything else. He didn’t agree with my neurons dying theory, as the observations occurred while the EEG was recording a flat line, and he wanted to bring in a specialist to see me. I declined. I wasn’t going on record as a near-death-experience survivor and an out-of-body nutter.