If you follow me on social media, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve shared a few things recently about Fred Lorenzen and some pretty significant news that came out about him.
Fred Lorenzen was a NASCAR champion, a Hall of Famer and, as we recently learned, the first known NASCAR driver to be diagnosed with chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE, following his death. CTE is something we’re more accustomed to hearing about in football and hockey players. NASCAR? Not so much.
But the reason this story is so significant to me has very little to do with NASCAR. Fred Lorenzen was one of my dad’s very best friends. And his daughter Amanda one of mine.
Our families go way, way back. My dad and Fred were friends for decades. My mom was friends with Fred’s former wife, Nancy, and I grew up with their kids, Amanda and Christopher. Amanda and I were so close when we were little that we used to tell people we were cousins. And honestly, some of my favorite childhood memories involve the Lorenzen family.
They lived in Oak Brook in this beautiful house in what I thought was the coolest neighborhood ever. I spent plenty of nights sleeping over, and I remember they had a pet rabbit, which I thought was just about the greatest thing in the world. We’d ride our bikes around the neighborhood, sneak into Chris’s room to play with his Star Wars toys, and do all the things little girls did before cell phones and social media existed.
Although I have to say, our childhood entertainment was probably a little more dangerous than what today’s parents would approve of. Fred used to strap Amanda and me into a hammock with belts and spin us all the way around. I’m talking a full 360 degrees. Yes. Belts. A hammock. What could possibly go wrong?
We also spent a lot of time at Oak Brook Bath & Tennis Club. I remember the high dive, the pond, and this awesome little snack shack. To a kid, that place was paradise.
And then there was their basement. I remember listening to Madonna’s “Holiday” on vinyl, playing Ms. Pac-Man on their arcade machine, and spending hours down there. And yes, there was the famous trophy room.
In one of the recent articles about Fred, Amanda mentions that room, and I immediately remembered it. It was FULL of trophies. I mean, full full. Trophies everywhere. Now, you’d think that as a kid I would have been completely fascinated by all those trophies. Nope. I was much more interested in the pool table and this enormous stuffed shark Fred had mounted on the wall. Apparently, he’d caught it himself.
Of course, as I got older, I began to understand just how extraordinary Fred’s accomplishments really were. But back then, he wasn’t some famous race car driver to me. He was Amanda and Chris’s dad. And my dad’s friend.
As we got older, Amanda and I naturally drifted into our own lives, but she’s one of those people who will always be my friend. You know the kind. Life gets busy. Years pass. You don’t talk nearly as often as you should. But when you do reconnect, it’s like no time has passed at all. Although, to be fair, Amanda has always been much better about keeping in touch than I have. Sorry, Amanda. Love you!
I even remember being excited when Lyons Township played York in high school because it meant I might get to see her. If I’m remembering correctly, I was playing freshman basketball, and Amanda, who’s younger than me, was already playing varsity. Tall, gorgeous blonde. Athletic. The kind of girl who could have been a supermodel. And now she lives in California, where she is basically the epitome of a California girl. She married a great guy, and because the Chicago suburbs are actually one very large small town, Matt’s sister happens to be friends with his sister. And I think one of my friends may have briefly dated him in high school. Six degrees of separation? More like two.
But here’s where this story starts to come full circle. When we made my dad’s dementia diagnosis public, Amanda regularly reached out to check on me. She understood. Not because she’d read about dementia or knew someone who knew someone. Because she’d been living it with her own dad for years. And I knew that. Because even as Fred’s health declined, my dad continued visiting him.
I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog entry how my dad would regularly visit his friend in the nursing home, often bringing his dog, Loot, along. It was Fred. Fred had been struggling with dementia for many years and although he didn’t always remember everything or everyone, there was something that meant the world to my dad. Fred always knew it was Russell when he walked into the room.
My dad would tell me that with such happiness. And I can understand why. When you’ve known someone for decades, when you’ve shared adventures, laughs, probably a fair amount of trouble and watched each other’s children grow up, there’s something incredibly powerful about knowing that somewhere inside, your friend is still there. Still knows you. Still remembers Russell. I think about that a lot now. Especially knowing what I know about my own dad’s decline. And especially knowing what we now know about Fred.
My dad had a million stories. And some of my favorites involved Fred. Now, I can’t promise every detail is completely accurate because these stories were told by my father who never let a little thing like accuracy get in the way of a good story. But I can tell you they were entertaining.
One thing my dad always said about Fred was that he never bragged about being a NASCAR champion. In fact, according to Dad, Fred rarely even mentioned it. My dad, on the other hand? Oh, he was more than happy to tell anyone who would listen. Fred probably didn’t always appreciate my dad announcing to complete strangers that his buddy was a NASCAR champion. But that’s just who my dad was. He was proud of his friend, and whether Fred liked it or not, people were going to know who he was. I love that about both of them. Fred didn’t need anyone to know he was famous. And my dad couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t already know.
My dad and Fred used to frequent the bars around Rush Street and Division in Chicago. And based on what I know about both of them, I have absolutely no doubt they were quite the ladies’ men. I can only imagine the trouble those two got into.
Apparently, after a night out, they’d occasionally find themselves driving home on one of Chicago’s expressways. The Stevenson. The Eisenhower. The Kennedy. Take your pick. And naturally, because one of them was a professional NASCAR driver and the other was my father, they would race. Yes. Race. On the expressway. After being out on Rush Street. It was a different time, people. Anyway, my dad loved telling the story about the night he thought he’d finally beaten Fred. He was flying down the expressway, looked in his rearview mirror, and couldn’t see Fred anywhere. Not a headlight in sight. He was thrilled. He’d done it! Jim Russell had outrun Fred Lorenzen! Except… he hadn’t. Fred was so close behind him that my dad couldn’t even see his headlights. He was practically attached to his bumper. That’s a NASCAR driver for you.
And then there was the boat. At some point, Fred apparently had some kind of ridiculously powerful speedboat. If I remember the story correctly, he’d put Corvette engines in it, or something equally insane. And one day, he took my dad out on the water. According to Dad, they were going so fast he wasn’t even sure the boat was touching the water anymore. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was one of the very few times I ever heard my father admit to being scared. Which tells you everything you need to know about that boat. And probably a little something about Fred Lorenzen.
My dad was there for some of Fred’s NASCAR victories, and I believe Fred may have even joined him on one of those chartered trips to the Bahamas. And when Fred was inducted into the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, North Carolina, in 2015, my dad and Kathy traveled there with Fred and his family to celebrate. I love that they were there for such an incredible moment in his life. Especially knowing how much my dad loved telling everyone about his famous friend, whether Fred appreciated the attention or not. I can only imagine how proud Dad was that day.
They had a lifetime of memories together. Two guys who loved adventure, speed, a good time, and apparently pushing the limits of what was considered a reasonable way to stay alive. But they also had the kind of friendship that lasted through the years, through life’s biggest celebrations, and eventually through some of its hardest moments.
Fred passed away in December 2024. My dad was asked to be a pallbearer at his funeral. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with Grace graduating with her master’s degree from Arizona State University, so Kathy and I were out of town and unable to attend. Dad went on his own. And he got lost. I remember how stressful that night became, trying to figure out where he was and what was happening. Looking back, I think that was one of the moments when we began to realize just how much things were changing with my dad.
He’d spent his life going everywhere, doing everything, and figuring things out along the way. And now something as simple as getting to his best friend’s funeral had become a problem. It was heartbreaking. And in many ways, I think it marked the beginning of the end for him. At the time, we were still trying to understand what was happening to Dad. We didn’t yet have all the answers. But I knew something wasn’t right. And now, less than two years later, my dad is gone, too.
When the news came out about Fred’s CTE diagnosis, I immediately thought about Amanda. And Chris. And Nancy. And all the years their family spent watching someone they loved slowly change. Because I know a little something about that now. My dad had frontotemporal dementia. Fred’s diagnosis was CTE. They’re different conditions, but both can cause devastating changes in a person’s behavior, thinking, and ability to function. And both can leave families grieving someone who’s still physically sitting right in front of them. That’s something Amanda understood long before I did. And something I wish neither of us had ever needed to understand.
But what Amanda and Chris are doing now is extraordinary. They’ve announced a $1 million donation to support CTE research and establish the Fred Lorenzen Memorial HelpLine, helping families who are struggling with suspected CTE and the lasting effects of traumatic brain injuries. I can’t imagine a more meaningful way to honor their dad.
Because Fred Lorenzen was so much more than a NASCAR champion. He was a husband, a father, a friend. He was the guy who strapped two little girls into a hammock and spun them upside down. The guy who had a basement full of trophies and a giant shark on the wall. The guy who could scare the hell out of Jim Russell in a speedboat. And the guy who, even after dementia had taken so much from him, still recognized his old friend when he came to visit. He still knew Russell.
And for some reason, that means even more to me now than it did when my dad first told me. Because dementia may have changed both of these men, but it doesn’t get to erase who they were, the lives they lived, the friendships they shared, or the memories we have of them.
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