In a development that has sent shockwaves through the world of internal combustion and tyre smoke, Kyle Busch, the enfant terrible of American stock car racing, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the tender age of 41. The news, confirmed by his family via a statement that was almost certainly drafted by a publicist with a tear in one eye and a calculator in the other, has prompted an outpouring of grief from the British motorsport establishment. Yes, the same British motorsport establishment that spends most of its waking hours pretending that NASCAR is just a lot of Yanks driving in left-hand circles while eating deep-fried butter. But death, that great leveller of petty sporting rivalries, has forced them to put down their Pimm's and admit that the man could drive a bit, couldn't he?
Busch, a two-time Cup Series champion and possessor of a record 231 wins across NASCAR's top three series, was found dead in a pile of burnt rubber and broken dreams. Early reports suggest that his heart simply gave out, having been forced to pump pure octane and resentment for four decades. His final moments were spent arguing with a crew chief about tyre pressure, which is exactly how he would have wanted to go. The cause of death has been officially listed as 'insufferable smugness, complicated by a sudden lack of victory lane.' I'm paraphrasing, but the coroner's office has a sense of humour.
British tributes have poured in with the thin sincerity of a politician at a funeral. Lewis Hamilton, a man who has won more championships than Busch has had hot dinners, released a statement calling him 'a fierce competitor.' This is code for 'he once punched a wall so hard the drywall patched itself out of fear.' Jenson Button, ever the diplomat, described Busch as 'a character.' This is British for 'he was an absolute bell-end, but he could drive.' The BBC's obituary will inevitably include the phrase 'colourful personality,' which is the corporation's way of saying 'he once threatened to burn down a rival's motorhome.' They will conveniently omit the time he compared NASCAR's governing body to the mafia, or the time he told a reporter that his face looked like a used tampon. Actually, the BBC might include that one. It's terribly evocative.
The tributes have been as hyperbolic as a NASCAR commentator on the final lap. 'He was the greatest of his generation,' said one ex-driver, wiping a tear with a $100 bill. 'He made the sport what it is today,' said another, conveniently forgetting that the sport is now a series of gimmick-filled races watched by a dwindling audience of truck enthusiasts and people who think the Chase is a banking product. But let's be honest: Kyle Busch was a magnificent bastard. He was the kind of man who would win a race, then crash his car into the garage door out of sheer boredom. He was a walking, talking, flame-throwing caution flag. And now he is dead.
The funeral, I am told, will be a private affair, but there are rumours of a 21-HP salute involving 21 engines revved to their redline. The hearse will be a modified Toyota Camry, because irony is not dead, even if Kyle is. His final resting place will be a mausoleum shaped like a championship trophy, with a permanent fog machine and a sound system playing the national anthem on loop. Or maybe they'll just scatter his ashes at Talladega, which is the same thing, really.
In the end, Kyle Busch was a man who lived his life at 200 miles per hour, and died at a speed that the rest of us can only aspire to. He was a cautionary tale about the perils of success, the dangers of unchecked testosterone, and the importance of having a good publicist. But most of all, he was a reminder that even the most obnoxious among us can leave a void when they're gone. A void shaped like a burnt rubber donut. So raise a glass of something high-octane, and toast the monster. He was ours. And he was brilliant.
