No, Speed Racer, No

My Daddy is a huge NASCAR fan. My childhood memories are blotted with Sunday afternoons in the car or at home, with Daddy chain-smoking and blaring the race at man volume. The memories of that “Nee-yong, nee-yong, nee-yong” sound still makes my head hurt.

Well, I will never make fun of NASCAR again. I used to think it was not a sport, just people driving around in circles. I stand corrected.

Back in the heady boom days, I worked at a national advertising agency on the Audi of America/Canada account. Perks from vendors were unbelievably lavish back then. In the fall of 2001, because we placed so much media with them, Car and Driver/Road & Track magazines bought us five spots at the Richard Petty Driving Experience at Charlotte Motor Speedway.

This is from my diary after the experience. Someday I hope to go back and make it all past tense to match my blog style, but for now, here it is.

I drove a stock car around a professional speedway.

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Five of us McKinney girls (the one guy on the team didn't know how to drive a straight-shift) went to the Richard Petty Driving Experience today. I rode with my friends Jennifer and Laura. We took an S4 Avant, a six-speed, 250 hp performance wagon. I drove there, and we got to Charlotte in 2 hours and 10 minutes, including one smoke break in Greensboro.

Met up with the other two and our Car & Driver/Road & Track rep at Lowe's Motor Speedway at 10 AM. Got suited up, signed approximately 241 insurance release forms and watched a five-minute video, then got broken into groups for training. I was separated from my people, but it wasn't for long.

So my group of nine goes out to get into a van to go around the track. As we're filing in, the instructor tells me to get in the front, that I'm the team captain! I realized later that he was just flirting with me, but it's been a while since anybody flirted with me. We set out around the track and the first thing he points out is the flagstand. He tells us to watch the flags for information, that they are the same as in a real race. Since I was team captain, I felt it would belittle my position to speak up and say that I had never actually watched a race. He flew through the flags and what they meant for the only other woman in the group, but I was a little giddy from the flirtation.

He starts to drive around the track, pointing out markers and talking about the maneuvers required at each, but I was in awe of the sheer size of the place. We drove up to the top of a curve and stopped. He started explaining how your natural instinct is to turn away from the curve as you go up toward the wall and that you actually have to turn into it. I was looking out his side, straight down, figuring out the grade and wishing I had paid more attention in geometry.

We start to head toward pit row. He's explaining how, when we actually drive, the instructor in the pace car, who we follow out of pit row at one car length, then stick behind at four car lengths in our laps, will give us hand signals, indicating when to start slowing into the pit and at exactly which point we throw it into neutral, as we can't downshift or brake. He points out the rough lane on the inside and tells us that under no circumstances are we to drive in it, as it will cut up the treadless tires. I noticed a huge billboard, a green tree air freshener on a yellow background with the words "Little Trees" in quotes, and it amused me.

Next, our group goes for cockpit training. The instructor shows us the gauges and lights and explains what they do. He tells us to rev the engine to 2500 rpms before letting the clutch out, and to shift at 4000 until we get into fourth. The car is parked right in front of the spectator area. Some of the other students have brought friends and family to watch, and there is an employee whose job it is to tell them jokes with a very loud microphone. I laugh at some of them.

The instructor shows us how to climb into the car, as the doors are welded shut. The steering wheel is removed when the driver gets in, then pops back on. He relates an anecdote about a driver whose steering wheel came off during a race. The driver died. I am very hot in my jumpsuit and become paranoid that my deodorant will wear out. He shows us the fire extinguisher and tells us not to pull the cord unless we actually see flames.

I am reunited with my friends as we await our turns at the wheel. The first of us is #23, so we have quite a wait and I call my Daddy and let him listen to the “Nee-yong, nee-yong” sounds in the background. Stadium music is blaring on the amplifiers, and for the first time, "Who Let The Dogs Out" sounds more inspiring than inane. We girls swagger about in our butch jumpsuits and anticipate our turns at the wheel. As I listen to them talk, I become aware of the fact that I don't remember anything I have been told to do.

My turn finally comes. I crawl through the window of the car. The crew guy, Chuck, straps me in and puts cushions behind me to help me reach the pedals. This is not a car, it is a machine of gears, gauges and metal. I begin to tremble. Then I begin to babble..."How do I not spin out? Where is the flag stand? What do the flags mean? How many car lengths? How do I stop? I really do know how to drive a car. Well, not a stock car." He rapidly answers my questions and tells me "Don't worry, you can do it! Chuck says you can. Just go fast!" 

And with that, he starts the car and fastens the net window closed.
The engine roars and the sheer power of the car throbs through every part of my body. I am summoning my super-powers to break free of my restraints and jump through the net and out onto him like a cat in a bath. Chuck starts running along the car, propelling it forward, then yells "Punch it NOW!!"

The pace car is ahead of me, and on top of my horrible fear of stalling out, I fear slamming into it. I want to scream, but I have to find the rpm gauge, keep accelerating and not let out the massive clutch too fast. It hits 2500 rpm in a couple of seconds that feel like minutes, then I fly through the gears from first to fourth. As the car only has four gears, I am relieved to have one less thing to think about.

I keep my hands at 11 o’clock and four o’clock, a minute detail I remember from the van ride, although I don’t remember why these positions are important. I keep my eyes on the pace car in front of me. All I have to do is follow his path. I have to try to do everything he does, as I am being watched and judged on how well I mimic his moves.

The pace car driver goes up the bank as we’re coming into a turn. He looks as if he’s purposely aiming for the wall. My instinct is to close my eyes like I would on an amusement park ride, but my brain reminds me that I am responsible for my own life at this moment. The pace car driver sweeps down the incline to the edge of the part I remember being told not to drive on, as it will tear up the treadless tire.

The car feels like it is fighting against me, defying everything I need it to do. The car is stronger than me, and it seems determined to drift off to the right and fly away. My fingers seem looped around the steering wheel twice, hanging on for dear life. I manage not to crash, and somehow stay behind the pace car as it settles back onto a flat surface in the straightaway.

Suddenly, I am awash in blissful yellow. I see nothing but bright light. “Go toward the light, Carol Anne” flashes through my mind. Maybe I didn’t make it around that curve. Then the light is gone, and I am back in the car, fighting the car. The glare on the track is behind me now.

Up and down another turn and we approach the flag stand. The flagman is giving me a rolled up green flag. Keep going. Close up the distance from the pace car. I have passed the first test. They are giving me permission to go faster, when all I want to do is stop and go somewhere for a nice cocktail.

We speed up a little. Up the bank, down the bank. The guy in the pace car obviously has no regard for his own safety, let alone mine. My job is to stay behind him, I keep reminding myself. Then I remember that I am not being paid for this job, and that lunatic is going to get me killed. The car I am trapped in hates me and wants nothing more than to break free and take me with it. My right foot is firmly on the gas, but my left is providing the leverage for the rest of my body to pull the steering wheel to the left, keeping the car on the track.

Through the glare again, past the flagman. “Keep going and step it up,” he tells me with his green flag. Around we go again, the sadist in the pace car dragging me faster and faster into his sinister plan. As I follow his moves, I become aware of muscles in my jaw and neck that I never knew I had. My teeth are clenched and my face is twisted into a grimace I hope will force out every drop of concentration left in my brain.

By the third lap, I mentally rush through all the busy-work required in tying up my existence. I think about my nephews, my beneficiaries. The equity in my home, in addition to my 401K, may pay for books and a year’s tuition in community college for each of them.

An adrenaline rush reignites my will to live on lap five. I will stay the exact same course as the pace car, come hell or high water. He’s all over the place, I’m right there with him. There is no moment of blissful exhilaration, like driving 85 on a state highway with the sunroof open and a Social Distortion cd blaring. This is sheer survival.

For the love of God, let this end is my mantra through laps six and seven. Salvation comes through a checkered flag, although I don’t realize that at the time. The pace car driver gives me a wave. I remember the instructor in the van saying “And when he gives you the signal, he’s not waving at you, so don’t wave back,” but I don’t remember what the signal means, so I pull into the farthest inside lane. The pace car guy is flailing about, trying to tell me something, but I’m zipping along, trying to remember how to stop this crazy thing.

It dawns on me that I am driving in the tear-up-the-tire lane, so I pull back out behind the pace car. I keep tailing the pace car, although the little figure beckoning me in the distance is one lane over on the left.

We drift into the pit-row lane and I hold my breath, waiting for the concrete pad to come up. At the concrete pad, I throw the car into neutral and wait for the car to slow itself down, as I am not to use the brakes. I am quickly approaching the pit crew, and I am nowhere near being stopped.

I panic and stomp on the brakes with all my might. I approach the pit guys, expecting to roll right on by them, but they grab the car and ease it to a complete stop. Somebody unhooks the safety net and pulls out the steering wheel. I am vaguely aware of two sets of hands undoing my shackles. I want to dive through the window headfirst, so anxious am I to get out of this steel trap, but I am guided up and out. I smack my helmet on the top of the door.

My feet hit the ground. Chuck’s hand is comfortingly on the small of my back and he’s telling me I’m some sort of champion, but all I want to do is find my friends’ faces in the crowd and get to them. My muscles and bones are having a hard time reuniting, and I stagger drunkenly and blindly toward the stands. Flashes are going off. Words are flying by me and I am being patted. I want to put my head on the ground and embrace the still earth.

I reach the bleachers and throw my body down. Jennifer hands me some water, but my hands are shaking too hard to hold the cup. “Get her out of the suit,” somebody yells. My helmet is pulled off, almost taking several earrings with it. I unzip the suit and let it fall to the ground. I slink off to the stands and sit trembling and drinking water for about 15 minutes before I’m able to talk to the girls.

After all 60 people in the “experience” had their turns driving, we had a graduation ceremony. Each of us got a diploma and found out our top track speed. Mine was 129.75 mph. My girl Laura was the valedictorian with the top track speed of 140. That’s right, a girl, a badass chick beat all the boys.

We had dinner with the rep at an Alabama (the band, not the state) theme restaurant near the speedway and drove back to Raleigh. I sat in the back and let the other girls play with the performance car. I was humbled at losing and terrified to get a speeding ticket.