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The very first thought, when I awakened on the morning after Donald Trump had been elected president, was to wonder if Trump would name Brian France to his Cabinet.

I was trying to accentuate the positive. That was all. I needed coffee.

But enough nonsense. There’s a Chase going on! Jimmie Johnson and Carl Edwards are in the finals. One race, at Phoenix, lies between them and two others racing at Homestead-Miami Speedway on Nov. 20 for the Sprint Cup championship.

Based on his domination at Phoenix International Raceway, actually located at the foot of the Estrella Mountains in a place called Avondale, Kevin Harvick is likely to join Johnson and Edwards, but I’m not sure basing it on the past is valid. When one driver wins five races in a period of six at one track, it could be that the odds then favor someone else. Harvick can’t bat .833 forever. There’s this law of averages that is supposed to catch up.

I like Phoenix. I liked having a steak at T-Bones. I like driving up to South Mountain State Park to play my guitar on a bench overlooking the Valley of the Sun. I like driving most of the way to the track on Baseline, escaping the urban sprawl to drive through the Gila River reservation. In the middle of the race, I like training my binoculars on the hill behind the back straight, there to find a lone horseman, watching the race through binoculars of his own.

Those days are over. I watch the race on high-definition DirecTV. Nowadays, when I see Devils, they are wearing the red jerseys of Clinton High School instead of the darker ones of Arizona State University.

What I’m getting at is the races come across fine on TV. The places are what I miss.

It’s not as good at home. I don’t like what I see to be dictated by what TV chooses to show me. I miss those binoculars, which now come in handy to identify who recovered the latest fumble. It’s a lot less expensive, though, to watch at home.

I miss the tricks, jokes and unexpected occurrences that TV can’t duplicate.

NASCAR used to employ a fellow who was really good at what he did but, in other aspects, a bit gullible.

We’d sit around, hours before the race, and tell whoppers, most of which our friend believed.

“Man, did you hear the latest?”

“No, what?”

“This morning they pulled two dozen rattlesnakes off that hill.”

“No way I’d watch a race up there.”

“Apparently there ain’t been much rain up there in six months, and they’re swarming.”

“Did you know a Gila monster’s jaws were like a vise grip when they clamp down on a fellow’s arm?”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. A fan from Winnemucca, Nevada, had to have his lower left arm amputated yesterday.”

“A fabricator on the 27 team got stung by a scorpion in a golf cart.”

“Next year, I believe I’m going to get Johnny to sub for me when the circuit comes out here.”

“Aw, naw, man, you gotta be brave. This the West!”

That stuff doesn’t come across well on TV.