Dale Earnhardt's Grief Dressing

I never thought I'd get schooled in mourning garb by a NASCAR hero.

Hi all! Taking a break from grieving to think about how dudes rock. My boyfriend entreated me to watch the new mini docuseries Earnhardt, which chronicles the NASCAR racing career of the legendary Dale Earnhardt, also known as “The Intimidator.” As you might imagine from the moniker, his racing style was aggressive, unpredictable, and foolhardy, often running fellow racers off the track and causing epic accidents that it’s shocking anyone survived. Eventually, he got into a crash that he did not, and he died at the 2001 Daytona 500 race in the climactic last lap.

The documentary is an emotional excavation of daddy issues and single-mindedness, but the thing that inspired me the most was how goddamn cool Dale looked both on and off the track. Dale’s fashion wasn’t particularly interesting, but it was powerful. He encapsulated the insouciant, louche, devil-may-care look of a Manly Man in the 80s, and in this moment where I can barely bring myself to care about fashion in the face of grief, I am intensely drawn to this careless approach to dressing.

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Dale’s entire self-image was predicated upon his prowess in racing, which he proved time and time again, ending his life while in a three-way tie for most Winston Cup championships won across history. His obsessive preoccupation was with impressing his dead father, which I found to be a heartbreaking curse upon a man unable to deal with it in any way except for getting high off the adrenaline of courting death.

What struck me the most beyond the brooding stares and rattletrap poetry of North Carolinian masculinity was how committed Dale was to the bit. Dale believed in the mythology of himself, and in our age of irony and arch self-reference, there’s something radical about that. He meant it, the sunglasses, the mustache, the quiet. The brute outlaw. Of course, it was largely a maladaptive coping mechanism (as the series makes clear), but there’s something about watching a man race straight into death that makes you wonder what the hell you’re doing folding laundry on a Tuesday. I don’t believe in glamorizing burnout, but I do understand the appeal of throwing yourself fully into a thing—especially when everything feels fractured.

Homage T-shirt - $34

Unsurprisingly, this bitchy little T-shirt has about a million different bootlegs online, but this tight, ultra-fitted silhouette felt most true to Dale’s look to me. I also like the awkward kerning of “I’m,” which feels very 80s.

Dale’s first big sponsor was Wrangler, so many of his early on-track looks feature buttery shades of yellow contrasted with denim-coded cobalt. That side-parted, puffed, brushed-out mullet (is that a mullet? Sound off in the comments) was careless, rakish, and impossible to wreck with a helmet. Today’s TikTokified mullets feel unavoidably referential, but Dale’s was matter-of-fact. Man of the people in the back, mascot earning many people millions in the front.

It’s a dream of mine to just own five cohesive-colored, patch-riddled jumpsuits that I cycle through throughout the week. Unfortunately, I pee too often to realize that vision. I love how he pairs similar suits with opposite-hued sneakers (four stripes, not three—are they Kinney? Weigh in if you know 70s/80s footwear).

Now, THESE might be Adidas kicks.

I love the checkered underside of this collar—a brilliantly devious little detail referencing the checkered flag that signifies the end of a race. The wraparound sunglasses, often via Oakley or similar brands, became a signature part of his look. They hid his eyes from competitors and fans alike, underlining his mystique and evoking the cowboy-like stoicism that many admired. The sunglasses, paired with a thick mustache and stern expression, created an instantly recognizable icon that transcended the racing fandom and was known by the likes of Britney Spears and Dubya (both of whom make cameos in Earnhardt).

To dress like Dale, you’d need aviator sunglasses, but not the Ray-Ban redux with ultra-polished lenses and logos. The real ones with a smoky tint, things that look like they might’ve fallen out of your dad’s glove box. Dale wore them like armor, not accessory. Famously emotionally withholding, Dale’s glasses were just another facet of unavailability, not only to the public, but to his poor, POOR kids, all of whom grew up desperate (as seen in Earnhardt) to earn that stony-faced man’s approval, largely through following in his racing footsteps.

Above, the beleaguered Dale Jr. with his dad, actively being traumatized. Unfortunately, Dale looks amazing—he dressed like he was in his own action movie and IMPORTANTLY, his pants always fit FLAWLESSLY. It’s an easy way to look hot, creating a streamlined silhouette, lest we forget in the era of puddling denim and single break trousers.

Thank GOD Dale was not the anomaly of a 70s and 80s man who was too shy to wear a teensy cutoff short.

If you’re unsure of a summer look in the coming months, take it off and throw on a vintage elbow or 3/4 length ringer tee + the shortest denim shorts you can cut without baring your crotch.

Dale didn’t believe in moderation. Sometimes, when I feel empty, I want to dress like I have nothing to lose. No frills, no fuss, no fear, just purpose and speed, no matter how thin a veneer that would be for my grief.

In my mind, this is grief dressing. Not in black lace or quiet luxury, but in the loud, irreverent nostalgia of American grit. Dale Earnhardt didn’t dress for approval, he dressed for utility and myth, and for the unrelenting specter of his dead father. In this moment, after saying goodbye to one of my best friends forever, I want that clarity.

Thank you so much for your patience while I process my loss. I hope to get more posts out soon and restart the paid subscriber program.

<3 ESK