• Ryan McGee

Feb 18, 2026, 09:35 AM ET

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“Most people only know me as Bobby and not Bobby Dale, because yes, I am proud of last name and of my family, but carrying that name also comes with a lot of other things that can be difficult,” Earnhardt continued. “My family hasn’t given me any sort of advantage. I work on everything and we pay for everything. We have to do it the blue-collar way. And I like that, because that’s how my grandfather did it.”

The last time Bobby saw his grandfather was the day before Dale left for Daytona in 2001. Bobby was 13. They went hunting. The kid bagged his first buck. The following week, he was at his granddad’s funeral.

“When I first went out on that track, honestly, it felt good. Quicker than I expected. When I am out there, I feel like he is out there with me.”

On Sunday, Dale Earnhardt was everywhere. He was tattooed on the thighs of three best friends from Central Florida, all younger than the 25 years that have passed, but all raised on the tall tales of the Intimidator. “We got these last year the night before the race!” one of them proudly revealed as he yanked up a leg of his jorts and pointed to the words inked below the black outline of Earnhardt’s unmistakable likeness.

“RAISE HELL! PRAISE DALE!”

That same phrase has become an internet meme, used by so many others of that generation who never saw Earnhardt turn a lap. Last weekend it was splashed on T-shirts and hoodies throughout the Daytona grandstand. Those same words hollered through the infield like some sort of rough-hewn Morse code, echoed from the roofs of infield RVs, by people standing beneath black No. 3 flags blown stiff by the 25 mph winds.

“All you need to know about Dale Earnhardt is that he has been gone 25 years and yet he still outsells all of us when it comes to merchandise,” said Ryan Blaney, laughing, as he pointed to a cluster of those flags. The 2023 Cup Series champion was 7 years old on Feb. 18, 2001. His father Dave finished 42nd in that race, behind the wall long before Earnhardt’s fatal crash with a blown engine. “But the real legacy of Dale Earnhardt is what he has done for us who race today, and for everyone who has raced since that day 25 years ago.”

And what did he mean by that?

“I mean that we are still alive. Hell, we rarely even get hurt very bad.”

You see, that is where Dale Earnhardt actually still lives, at Daytona and anywhere stock cars are raced. In the extra roll bars. In race car crush zones and fire-resistant door foam. In reinforced belts and harnesses. And damn sure in head and neck restraints.

“I think we all grew up wanting to emulate Dale, wanting to make all of these badass moves and push our cars to the limit like he did all the time,” said fellow seven-time Cup Series champion Jimmie Johnson, who never raced on the same track as Earnhardt, but met him after first moving to North Carolina from California and sleeping on the couch of Earnhardt’s Truck Series ace, Ron Hornaday. “But it’s because of his death that led to all of the safety innovations that are in our cars now that we feel like we can try to do that stuff, and if it goes wrong, we’re probably going to be OK.”

There was nothing OK about this day 25 years ago. There will never be anything OK with that day. It still hurts. The sting of 2001 might not be as sharp, but it is still indeed a sting.

That’s why the memories shared and stories told over the weekend at Daytona and in the days since — as they have for the past 25 years — have, on some level, been therapeutic. Group hugs by statues, “Raise Hell! Praise Dale!” callbacks from Winnebagos. Beer-powered races in GM Goodwrench decal-adorned wheelbarrows. A conga line of fans pointing and clapping when they spot a homemade bar-slash-grill fastened atop a tarp-covered Airstream, all in Earnhardt awe.

Strength in numbers. OK, one number. The one lined in neon on the side of that grill. The number three.

On Lap 3 of this 25th Daytona 500 without Dale Earnhardt, a sellout crowd, nearly 200,000 people, stood and held three fingers in the air in silence. Just as they did to try to emotionally survive those dark race days after the worst race day of them all.

“I can’t barely ever do this without breaking down and crying,” confessed Van Hunter of Charlotte, North Carolina, standing with his family, kids and grandkids, all dressed in old-school throwback Dale Earnhardt jackets. They stood among the hundreds in the Fan Zone located adjacent to the Cup Series garage. Beneath a jumbotron screen where they watched video of the race that was rolling though that third lap on the racetrack in the distance.

“It has been 25 years, but it still feels like he might just come walking through here, headed out to go get in his race car,” Hunter said as he kept one hand in the air and the other around his granddaughter’s shoulder. “It feels like Dale is still here.”

Because he is. Now, 25 years later, it’s hard to imagine that he never will be.