A NASCAR Novice Feels Reinvigorated When There Is Danger at Every Turn
By Greg Smith
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, September 18, 2006
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.
Finally, Holman steps in front of my car and almost too casually signals with a thumb over his shoulder. I shift into first gear, then second, third and finally fourth, entering the second turn at 90 mph. The wind starts to circulate in the car and the heat abates somewhat.
The instructors have pointed out exactly where on the track you're supposed to be at any given moment. It's called "hitting your marks" and "finding your line." This helps maximize speed and keep you from flying off the banked curves and into the wall. With each successive lap, I accelerate and feel the force pushing me sideways into the car door and deeper into the seat. I become one with the machine and the noise and the pressure against my chest.
It's then that I notice the bead of sweat. My hands are glued to 10 and 2 o'clock on the wheel. I'm a heartbeat away from hitting the wall. Hard.
It's a "Star Wars" moment: "Do, or do not; there is no try."
"Feeling the force" only really ever meant letting yourself go in the moment and trusting that your hands will guide you. When you put everything else aside, there's only you and your marks and your line around the track. And so I careen into Turn 3 with only one eye open as I drive down into my mark to enter Turn 4. A few weeks earlier, NASCAR drivers were skidding across this most treacherous stretch of newly resurfaced track, crashing into the wall.
Bryan Howland, at 18 the youngest member of our team, has more racing experience than any of us. He's a champion in the Sprint Car dirt-track racing circuit in New York, and his father has brought him down here for some big-league experience. We're paired together when it comes time to learn the art of "drafting," a racing version of tailgating. You hope the person in front doesn't "check up," or slow suddenly. At such high speeds, even with the quickest reaction, you'll plow into him and send both of you spinning. Bryan doesn't and we don't.
The driving course is about more than learning to handle a race car. "It teaches people to reach inside and get the most out of their abilities, and learn how to trust each other and work as a team," Holman says. "And someone that may not have as much confidence in themselves will develop that over the course of the experience."
I slingshot out of Turn 4 and barrel down the straightaway. Hitting my marks. Finding my line.
Afterward, friends will ask what it was like; more specifically, "How fast?"
There are numbers to represent what I experienced. But there are no figures that tally what I learned about myself and pushing my limits; my need to feel alive. What I brought back has very little to do with speed and everything to do with being in the moment. Finding pleasure in my ability to navigate each turn in the track. Knowing there will be others. Taking them in stride. The lessons remain with me as I change lanes on the Beltway or negotiate the curves of Military Road or perform an evasive maneuver in heavy traffic. At one behind the wheel.
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