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I can't drive 165
Posted: Thursday November 19, 1998 04:08 PM
One good way to measure the danger, or the stupidity, of
any sporting activity is by the size and scope of the
liability waiver you must sign before you start. With that
very thought in mind, standing near pit row at the
Charlotte Motor Speedway the
other day, I scanned a release form for the Richard Petty
Driving Experience that was roughly the size of Starr
Report. As part of my never-ending quest to kill, maim or
humiliate myself for your Internet enjoyment, I decided to
jump in a Winston Cup stock
car and, while sitting on 630 horsepower, take three laps
around the track at speeds topping 165 mph.
"I scanned a release form for the Richard Petty Driving Experience that was roughtly the size of the Starr Report." Phil Harris | |
Even though the insurance forms scared the bejesus out of
me, I was told that the RPDE has been giving people rides
since 1990 and no one had ever crashed. Oh sure, many
people have vomited (the chunks are supposedly vaporized by
G-forces -- if only I
had known that in college) and one banker-type guy in a
pinstriped suit actually wet his pants at Daytona, but
there have been no
casualties.
So I initialed and signed and signed where I initialed,
then printed where I had signed and O.K.'d where I had
initialed until my wrist was sore. Finally, after filling
out a next-of-kin section, I put my pen down and slid the
form back to the nice
young lady behind the
counter.
"You're not done yet," she said. "You forgot
the back."
In all there where 22 places that required my signature. I
had to sign fewer things when
I bought a house.
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"I am by no means a racing fan...But don't tell me that drivers aren't athletes." Phil Harris |
Having signed my life away, it was on to the car. I passed
a rack of red, white and blue jumpsuits on the way out. I
volunteered to put one on but was told it wouldn't be
necessary, and in an instant the Speed Racer fantasy I had
been working on since
second grade vanished. All I needed to wear was a helmet.
Still, putting it on really made the experience come to
life for me. Not because it was cool or anything, but
because the inside was still soaked with the sweat of the
last drive-along
doofus.
As I waited to go, a car sped away from us and disappeared
like a dot on the horizon. A second later it had come all
the way around the mile-and-a-half track and zipped by us
again in a rainbow blur. I turned to the guy from the RPDE
and said, "Wow,
that must be a real driver out practicing, right?"
"No," he shouted, "that's your car."
Richard Petty himself has been known to show up and drive
people around, but on this day my chauffeur was Curtis
Miller, a former race car driver who is now a fire fighter
in Charlotte. I was fitted with a neck brace and then
strapped into my chair,
which resembled a space-age baby seat with six heavy straps.
Inside the cockpit the car feels as if it is simply a
monstrous engine with a couple of lawn chairs welded on
top. A bright orange diagram with the correct shifting
pattern was stuck to the
dashboard; it didn't inspire my
confidence.
Curtis flipped an ignition switch, the side panels rattled,
and instantly my head was stuck to the back of the seat.
His feet and hands working in a whirl of synchronicity,
Curtis had us up to full speed and banking nearly sideways
into the first turn
in about three seconds. The turns in Charlotte are banked at
24° and can produce nearly two times the normal G-forces along
with a renewed relationship with the god of your
choice.
"Ever had your car fishtail on you in the snow or rain? Know that helpless, sickening feeling? Well, that's what it's like inside a race car, ALL THE TIME." Phil Harris | |
But the speed. Oh, the speed. How to describe it? The ride
made the fastest roller coaster seem like a row boat. Had I
been able to move my arms I could have reached out and
touched the wall of the track as we zoomed down the first
straightaway and the
car -- somehow, incredibly -- slingshotted to a whole new,
unimaginably scary velocity. The force seemed to push all
my organs into the bottom of my spine and squeezed my eyes
into tiny little slits.
By the time we exited the second turn I couldn't hold back
anymore. Full of joy and fear and adrenaline, I exploded
with a scream that rendered me hoarse for several days. No
one heard. Not even me. A bomb could go off inside that
cockpit and you
wouldn't be able to hear
it.
With the ride halfway over, I wanted to take back every
joke I had ever made about NASCAR. By the last lap I had
been truly humbled by the power and precision of the car.
More than gas, grease and good ol' boy guts, what's keeping
these cars on the
ground is a delicate, ingenious balance of physics and gravity
and horsepower. I was in total
awe.
I am by no means a racing fan. And what I like the most
about my own automobile is that it's paid off. But please
don't tell me that drivers aren't athletes. Yeah, Michael
Jordan has hit some clutch shots during his career. But
never, not once, was his
life on the
line.
Ever had your car fishtail on you in snow or rain? Know
that helpless, sickening feeling in your gut just as you
realize you are no longer in control? Well, that's what it
feels like inside a race car, ALL THE TIME. And most races
last three hours or
more. The whole time on the track it felt like we were hanging
way out over the edge and, if we had hit one tiny pebble or
gone one mph faster or missed the correct turn angle by a
fraction of an inch, the car would have spun wildly out of
control.
And I'd be
dead.
I know, after last week's sports dorks
column, that's the ending you were hoping for here. Instead, we
rolled safely to a stop and I peeled myself out of the
seat. With my legs wobbly but still buzzing from a mighty
endorphin rush and the realization that there are still
experiences waiting for us
out there that are truly unique and wondrous, I floated
back to my car and headed home.
You have no idea how difficult it was to climb behind the
wheel of my Honda Civic and putter away, 135 mph slower
than racing
speed.
Spanning the strange and wonderful world of sports, the Flem File has visited
a nudist colony, investigated nasal strips, tried out for the Olympic bobsled
team and endured injury and humiliation at the NFL Experience. What, or who,
should we riff on next week? If you've got a suggestion, a comment or a
question, don't just sit there, bring it on! Click here to send an e-mail to
Flem, or address it yourself: flemfile@aol.com.
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