Brought Up to Speed in Middle Age

A NASCAR Novice Feels Reinvigorated When There Is Danger at Every Turn

Asingle bead of sweat can kill you.

It appears on my forehead, slips down an eyelid, the salty sting forcing my eye shut. I can't wipe it away; both hands are busy gripping the wheel. And now, at 140 mph, I negotiate the 24-degree banked curve one-eyed, like a crazed pirate in a full fire suit and helmet.

Driving a race car is counterintuitive. Most of the things I recently taught my older son about driving go out the window. Tailgating, passing on the inside and nudging the car in front of you out of the way are all part of the deal, along with the crazy speed.

I discovered the thrill of NASCAR by accident. A few years back I was hired to record the sound for an Imax film about the sport and walked into the Daytona Speedway. At that point, the loudest noise I had ever recorded was a space shuttle launch. At a distance of three miles, the shuttle shakes your chest in rolling waves. But the sustained roar of tens of thousands of NASCAR fans mixed with 43 screaming Chevy, Ford and Dodge engines was like nothing I'd heard before. It envelops you. I was hooked.

On the eve of my 50th birthday, not wanting to be relegated to spectator as life raced by, I return to the oval palace.

At Lowe's Motor Speedway in Charlotte, I wait to take my turn behind the wheel of a modified Chevy Monte Carlo. It's 91 degrees today. But that's up in the grandstands. Trackside, where the ambient temperature is magnified by the expanse of asphalt, it's closer to 105. In a Nomex flame-resistant suit, gloves, shoes (I bought these really cool Simpson racing high-tops) and a helmet, I'm cooking.

I'm one of a bunch of mostly middle-aged guys being shepherded by Sheldon Holman, chief instructor for the Fast Track Driving School and our "drive master." He has the easy manner of a Southern gentleman, with a touch of drill sergeant. The speedway is an "unforgiving goddess," he warns as he walks our group around the 1 1/2 -mile track.

Some of the guys in the group have been coming here for years. There's John, a retired New Jersey policeman; Leroy, a neuroradiologist from North Carolina; "Moondog," the group cheerleader, who has brought along his special "racing" shoes: brown leather low-tops with orange and red flames licking at his toes; and Lenny, a trial lawyer from New Orleans, who calls the experience "controlled chaos."

Why are we here? The most common answer is "speed."

The cars we'll be driving are painted in the familiar colors of the most famous race teams, including Dale Earnhardt's No. 8 and a stunt car from the Will Ferrell movie "Talladega Nights." I climb into Jeff Gordon's No. 24 and belt up. The smell of gas, grease and sweat is thick, like humidity. The seat belt is a Marquis de Sade corset that holds me at five points: each side of my waist, one up through my legs and at both shoulders. I pull them tight and an instructor reaches through the window and gives each one a final tug. If you can't take a deep breath, you've done it right.

I pull the detachable driver's wheel off the dash and lock it into place. The instructor rattles it to make double-sure it's secure, then attaches a piece of webbing over the glassless window. I'm given a thumbs-up: "Start your engine." A flick of an oversize switch brings the car to life. I feel a wonderful deep-throated rumble reminiscent of the V-8 muscle cars of the '60s and '70s. All is opportunity and open lanes.

Ten minutes go by. It's stiflingly hot.