NASCAR movie script, or for ourselves … if we thought it was actually believable.
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Another word that came up in that room last May is one has been attached to Biffle like a lugnut to a tire for more than a year now.
Hero.
In late September 2024, after Hurricane Helene unleashed an unprecedented amount of floodwater and damage to the same states that have long served as the heart of NASCAR, Biffle was so moved by the struggle of those affected that he jumped into the cockpit of his personal helicopter and flew into the Appalachians looking for people to help. He did so without request or permission. The same spirit of that kid in front of his high school, this time seeking not to outrun those in uniform, but to aid their efforts.
He plucked stranded victims off mountains, posted videos of those he couldn’t get to in the hopes that someone else could, and dropped supplies anywhere and everywhere they were needed. Biffle did that for weeks.
«I had a guy ask me the other day: How much is all of this costing me?» Biffle said at the height of it all, when he was flying dozens of missions per day, most out of the same airport where he, his family and three others died in a plane crash Thursday morning. «Man, do you realize how fortunate I have been? The life I have been able to live since Jack [Roush] took a chance on me, that was my dream. My dream came true. I have more than I ever could have wanted. How much is this costing me? Think about how much this hurricane has cost those people up there, and so many of them are NASCAR fans.
«We have talked about this before, that I worry about being able to give back to the people who are the reason I have been able to have this life. Well, maybe this is the answer I was looking for. Because it sure found me, didn’t it?»
His last Cup Series start was back in 2022. I was standing with him during the prerace ceremonies for the Daytona 500, where he was starting 28th in an HBCU-sponsored Chevy. He knew wasn’t going to win, but he also knew this was probably his last start in the Great American Race. That morning, we talked mainly about the aircraft flying overhead: the Goodyear Blimp, the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds, the times that Air Force Once has buzzed the track. He was obsessed with being in the air.
That, too, is very old-school NASCAR. Biffle was a product of the 2000s, when every racer owned at least one airplane and many had a helicopter, too. Even as his career was moving further into the rearview mirror, unlike so many of his contemporaries, he kept his aircraft. He loved flying too much not to figure out a way to keep on doing it.
Back in the day, NASCAR legends such as Curtis Turner and Joe Weatherly were known for flying themselves to races, despite little or no formal training. They would bang wings as they raced to the track and eyeball the roads below for navigation. Cale Yarborough once simultaneously flew his plane while fending off a bear that he thought was asleep in the back but had woken up and moved into the cockpit.
Private air travel is a necessity to live a racer’s life, especially at the peak of their careers and sponsor obligations, but lost amid what becomes routine is that it is also scary stuff. There is danger that we forget about until something goes wrong, someone gets careless or that lack of experience that once seemed charming suddenly becomes exposed as danger. Alan Kulwicki and Davey Allison. Hendrick Motorsports. The near-tragic incident involving Dale Earnhardt Jr. and his family. Even Roush, who has crashed more than once, for which Biffle loved to poke fun at his old boss.
In other words, NASCAR flying is much like NASCAR racing itself. We become so used to the risk that we forget about it, until someone is taken away. Greg Biffle and the six others on that plane were taken away from us.
But the real lesson here is to appreciate the here and now. Hug the necks of the ones you love while you can. Take those chances to try to make your dreams come true, even if they seem as far away as Vancouver, Washington, is to Daytona International Speedway. And hell, why not drop the hammer in front of the principal’s office with the police chief looking?
The last time I talked with Greg Biffle was two weeks ago. I had driven through Chimney Rock, North Carolina, an area that he frequented after Helene, and I wanted to tell him that they still couldn’t believe everything he’d done for them.
«Use what you earned to help those who lost what they earned,» The Biff said to me. «We only get one shot at this deal. Why waste it?»
