The thing that would get you about Junior Johnson is how he was exactly who you thought he would be and nothing at all like you thought he would be at exactly the same time. I think now about the time he invited me to his home for breakfast. It was in his garage out at his North Carolina farm, with car parts strewn everywhere you turned and with so many different kinds of bacon and sausage on the long wooden table that nobody seemed entirely sure what we we were eating.
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