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Perhaps you have noticed that I tend to be cynical at times where NASCAR is concerned. I have been told occasionally that it leaks out.

I mean no harm. I do not consider myself omniscient. My goal is for readers to realize that when I criticize NASCAR, I do so out of love, not hate. I have followed stock car racing, most sanctioned by the Lords of Daytona, from my earliest memory.

When first I managed to finagle a job writing about NASCAR, I thought my knowledge of its history stood me in good stead. I came along when one guard was changing and stayed until a new guard relieved me. I didn't get escorted out of the fort and have my sword broken in a ceremony of dishonor. I just stopped getting a paycheck.

It wasn't personal, just bidness. Even while I was out, traveling about and writing what I saw, the bidness was getting bad. By the end, it was hardly worth doing. I didn't have the courage to strike out on my own. Events dictated my course.

Now I write about NASCAR from the privacy of my home, with a guitar leaning against the couch in the event of bad weather. I became a better guitarist in 2015.

In some ways, it's eerily familiar. In the increasingly barren press boxes of the circuit, I used to crank up the assembly line and churn out copy as information arrived. First I'd work on a notebook, and then, after the media conferences, I'd write the race story (generally referred to as the "gamer," since "racer" was already taken), and, finally, having digested most of the information, I'd write my column.

It's still an assembly line, only a matter now of a column that evolves as the requisite information -- results, transcripts, fun facts -- flow into my laptop via email and websites. A night race often keeps me up to 3 in the morning.

I usually write this column a couple days later, allowing me to ponder all that has occurred and offer a differing take, one that is most often intended to be humorous.

I had a guitar with me when I was on the road, but it was back in the hotel room because it would have been frowned upon at the track. It was frowned upon quite a bit even when it wasn’t there, mainly because I’m not the only sportswriter who is a smart-ass. Sometimes it was in the car, but that was only to party in the parking lots while the crowd cleared out at places like Bristol, Richmond and Charlotte.

The crowds got smaller, and they cleared out more quickly, and post-race parties deteriorated right along with fellowship among the scribes.

I don't miss the road one bit as a general state of affairs. I miss friendships and shared ordeals. I miss camaraderie. It hadn't entirely disappeared when I left. I expect it's gone now, and if it's not, they're probably spelling it "comradery" so often that the infernal dictionary will now accept it.

I miss words I don't have to share with others. I miss others with whom I'd share because I liked them. I miss my friends in the garage area. I miss the people who work in media centers and press boxes, including even the odd NASCAR employee who isn’t also an operative.

Hindsight teaches lessons. The ones who stay in touch were the true friends all along.