A Day in the Park

I arrived at the California Speedway just behind a black Corvette that had been waved through by the guard at the front gate. He told me to follow the Corvette to the tunnel leading into the infield. Unfortunately, the Corvette driver ignored the posted 15 mph speed limit, and his car shot forward and quickly shrank to a small black dot in the distance. Since I could no longer see it much less follow it, I turned my attention to the the new grandstands on my right. From outside, they look exactly like a brand-new football stadium, only ten times longer. As I drove by at 15 mph (yeah, right), the grandstands went on and on and on. The sight reminded me of a scene from a science fiction movie where a small spacecraft moves slowly across the seemingly endless surface of its parent ship.

Finally an intersection appeared, and I turned my rental car towards the tunnel. As I exited into the sunlight, I felt like I was entering a large, empty, city park. There were wide expanses of asphalt for parking and a huge grassy area in the center, kept green by sprinklers that were shooting long arcs of water over the turf. Unlike most city parks, though, this place was immaculate. Not a single piece of paper littered the facility anywhere. It was cleaner than Disneyland.

I parked next to the 'Vette (whose engine was cold by now), and walked over to an open garage bay where a man and woman were taking registration. Several students who arrived after me were holding some sort of coupon, so I asked the guy behind me what they were. "It's a gift certificate from a friend," he said. I faked complaining about having to pay for my own class, and the instructor who was taking enrollment quipped, "That's probably because you HAVE no friends." I laughed, then pointed to the race track and said, "And I'm not going to make any out there, either." He chuckled and replied, "I see you have a good understanding of racing."

Lane Four Sounds Just Fine To Me

As the garage mechanics worked on the cars and warmed them up for our laps, the students gathered in one of the garage bays where several rows of folding chairs formed a makeshift classroom. There was a large whiteboard leaning against the wall with a diagram of the race track painted on it. An instructor told us about the cars, the track, the rules, the hand signals, and a little about what we should expect during each ten-lap session.

They had three Winston Cup cars and one Super Truck, each fitted with a rev limiter that kept the engines below 5200 rpm, which they claimed was about 150-160 mph. The truck had different gearing, so its rev limiter was set to 6000 rpm. On the dashboard there was a red light that would flicker whenever the rev limiter engaged, and when that happened, they wanted us to lift a bit until the light went out. I asked what exactly the limiters did, and was told they interrupt spark to one or more cylinders, and could damage a piston if continued for any length of time.

The instructor used the track diagram to illustrate where three orange cones would be placed in the turns. The first cone was against the outside wall at the end of either straightaway, and marked where we should lift off the throttle and prepare to turn. The second cone was about 1/3 of the way into the turn, and marked the point at which we should be down into lane one, about 2-3 feet from the white line that separates the steep banking from the flat apron. (The track had five lanes, which were visible as five separate strips of asphalt that paved the surface, not as lanes marked with dashed white lines.) The third cone indicated where we should get back on the throttle and ease the steering wheel to the right as we exit and swing out into lane four, one lane from the wall. NASCAR drivers run in lane five, a few inches from the wall. Lane four sounded just fine to me.

We would each drive with an instructor sitting in the right front seat who would use hand signals to communicate instructions. Thumb up meant go faster; thumb down, slower. Thumb down waving wildly, go WAY slower. A pinching motion between thumb and index finger meant close it up behind the car in front; a curving slice meant okay to pass. The instructor might push down on your right leg to tell you to go faster, or pull up on it to slow you down. A clipboard slammed upside your helmet meant turn off the engine, pull into the pits and get out of the car.

The instructor might also, we were told, gently grab the wheel with his left hand to make minor adjustments to our line, especially if we got too close to the white line in the turns. Two days earlier, a student had put his left wheels below the white line in turn 1. When the wheels made contact with the flat apron, the car spun into the wall, totaling it and turning the instructor into a nervous wreck. They stressed staying a minimum of 2-3 feet away from the white line all the way through the turns. I thought to myself, I guess we won't be hearing Buddy Baker telling us how good the car is because it's sticking to that white line.

After the short class, we walked to pit road where several instructor/drivers waited in vans for a few instructional laps around the track. Our van driver exited pit road at about fifty mph and stayed on the flat apron through turns 1 and 2, then picked it up to about eighty on the backstretch. As we went through the turns, he repeated what had been said in the classroom about the cones and demonstrated what we should be doing at each one. There was very little sensation of speed, even though we were going relatively fast for freeway driving. The track was incredibly smooth and there were no vibrations at all.  The banking in the turns made them smooth and comfortable (at eighty).   Finally, we pulled back onto pit road, where three Cup cars and the truck awaited our arrival.  Our turn to drive.

It was a real production just getting into the Thunderbird. The window opening is much smaller than it looks on TV, and I had trouble even with my 5'-8" height. I'm impressed with how easily Dale Jarrett gets in and out with his 6'-4" frame. The seat was way back in a one-size-fits-all position, but a couple of cushions behind my back and I could easily reach the pedals. The visibility inside the car was really awful, with the vertical bars and thick corner posts blocking much of the view. A few words of introduction from my instructor, Max, along with a quick rundown on the instruments, and I was given the okay to start the engine. The hand signals make sense once the engine is running, because conversation inside the car is simply impossible. The crewman outside gave the car a push as I let the clutch out, gave it some gas and took off. Top o' the world, Ma.

Some of the guys had taken off like drag racers, but I gently pressed the throttle as I shifted up to second and then third. I was in no hurry--yet. I kept it in third on the apron around turns 1 and 2, and when the instructor gave me a thumb up, gunned it on the backstretch, shifted up to fourth and held on. The acceleration is simply awesome, and you don't have to hold your foot down for very long to build up some real speed. I had to hold the wheel turned to the right more than I expected just to keep the car going straight. The cars are set up to go left. Let go of the wheel and they'll turn a corner all by themselves. During my first lap I paid a lot of attention to the tachometer.  The plan was to begin around 4000 rpm, increase to 4500, then 5000, then to the upper limit of 5200.

I reached the first orange cone at turn 3, lifted my foot almost all the way off the throttle and turned the wheel hard to the left. That got my instructor's attention bigtime. He reached over and grabbed the wheel and turned it back to the right.  This wasn't a road course like I was used to, this was an oval, a very large oval. I had turned way too early and was headed for the white line far short of the second cone. I straightened the wheel a bit to show that I had learned my lesson and the instructor let go. I gave it a bit of gas to get the revs back up to about 4000, then turned more gently towards the second cone. I tried to put the car next to the white line, but that got Max's attention again, and he gently but firmly nudged the wheel a little to the right. I gently but firmly resisted, and kept an ear out for Buddy Baker's voice. I had no problem hugging the line at that speed, and liked it down there. Ain't nobody gonna pass me on the inside.

As I reached the third cone, I gave it full throttle and the car quickly picked up speed. Max reached over again and gave the wheel a good turn to the right, and the car swung way out wide as we exited turn 4, straight towards the wall. I flinched when I saw the wall coming, because I thought for sure we were going to smack it good, but I noticed that Max didn't seem too concerned, judging from his lack of flinching, so I stopped worrying. (I was going to work on the screaming next lap.) We swung out wide into lane four and stayed there, one full lane from the wall. I chuckled to myself in relief and began to relax a bit. Lane four still looked mighty good to me.

The front stretch is really a long, slow curve, but still I was surprised at how steep the banking is. It felt like driving across the face of a wide, low hill. The green flag was waving as we went under the flag stand, so I took that as a signal to increase speed.  I took it up to 4500 rpm as we headed towards turn 1 for the first time. At the first cone I turned a bit too sharply again and again Max gave the wheel a rather large correction to the right. And once again we played tug-of-war with the wheel through 1 and 2, with me trying to hug the white line, and Max trying to keep me from hugging the while line. The wall comes at you even faster out of turn 2, because the back stretch really is straight, not curved like the front. I suspected right then that this would be the most difficult part of the experience for me. I was wrong, but I'll explain why in a minute.

I did a few more laps at about 4500 rpm, and was feeling pretty comfortable, so I slowly increased the throttle each lap until I was engaging the rev limiters at the end of each straightaway. The red light would come on at 5200 rpm, and I would back off the throttle just a touch to lower the revs to 5150 rpm to get the light to go out. Then I'd lift a bit more to set the car for the turn. Bit by bit, I felt like I was getting the hang of it, although I was still not completely satisfied. But I still had two more ten-lap sessions to go, so there was still plenty of time to work on improvements.

How Do I Go Faster?

I have to admit I was a little disappointed by the lack of speed, or more precisely, by the lack of a sensation of speed. The car I drove was incredibly smooth everywhere on the track. The only time I was aware I was going fast was through the turns, where I could feel a steady g-force pushing me out to the right and the seat harness pulling me back to the left. I talked to one on the instructors about this, and he guaranteed I was doing at least 140 mph. The way he said it made me suspect that the cars had different top speeds, and that perhaps I was driving one of the slower ones. (I was later proved right.) He also told me that the cars weren't being pushed anywhere near their limits, so they wouldn't provide much feedback that they were going fast. They could be driven at top speed (5200 rpm) all the way around the track all day long and never break loose, and were designed to go much, much faster and still stick.

The same instructor also gave me some good advice for the turns. "Don't turn in at the cone. Lift a bit to set the car, but go past the cone. You see that #1 marker beyond the cone?  Go past it. See the #2 marker? Don't turn until you get to it." This surprised me, because the #2 marker was at least a hundred feet past the cone. "That's how the NASCAR guys lower their lap times," he said, "by going deeper into the turns, even beyond the #2 sign. Don't go too far, though, or you'll get into the marbles." He also advised me to aim for the traffic lights as I exited the turns. The lights are about mid-height on the fences at both exits. "Just aim right at 'em," he said.

So, armed with a plan--faster car, deeper in, farther out--I was ready for the next ten laps when we would be drafting and passing. I was looking forward to this part the most.

Alright Guys, Close It Up

My drafting partner, a guy named Rich, jumped in the truck, and I hopped in the number 41 Monte Carlo. My ride-along instructor told me to follow the truck about three or four car lengths back for the first two laps. When he gave the signal to pass, I should do so on the inside as we came out of turn 4. Then I should pull over in front of the truck and let it follow for two laps, after which it would pass me in the same spot. Then we would do it again, each time getting closer until we were about a single car length away at top speed. I figured it would be an interesting exercise to do all this while trying to go deeper into the turns and swinging wider on the exits. "Good luck," I told myself. Hug that white line, Buddy Baker whispered in my ear.

The truck took off and I took off after it. As we hit the back stretch, I sensed that my car had more speed than the last one and would be more of a challenge. Unfortunately, the truck was even faster, and it took me all the way through turns 3 and 4 to catch it. I tried to pull up behind the truck, but got really nervous when it slowed, then sped up, then slowed. This was nerve-wracking enough even if he kept a steady speed, but he didn't. His speed was still fluctuating as we entered turn 1. I remembered to wait until I was close to the #2 marker before turning, but the truck driver had turned much earlier and was already down on the white line. As I narrowed in on the white line, the truck swung out wide about halfway up the banking. Early in, early out, I remembered. I was tempted to gun it and pass him on the inside, but stayed where I was because I didn't want a clipboard upside the head.

I got back on the throttle before the truck did, and swung out wide towards the lights, closing to within two car lengths as we shot down the back stretch. There was no doubt about it, this car and the truck were much faster than the first car I drove, by at least 10-15 mph. The g-forces through the turns were really strong, now, and lasted all the way through the turns, making them seem like they lasted forever. I had to consciously block the feeling out, because in a street car it's a warning sign, but in a Cup car it's a steady presence in the turns. I can now understand more fully the kind of physical punishment the drivers endure. Imagine Bristol.

Next time around, the instructor gave me the pinching sign, which meant to close it up. I have to admit, folks, that I'm not a very good closer-upper. Not at that speed. Not with the erratic speed of the guy in front of me. Not with the front on my car hopping back and forth like a windsock. Not on your life. I most definitely did not want to close it up, but I forced myself to ignore the fear and stayed on the throttle, although I hated myself for it.

As I got closer, my car seemed to pick up speed suddenly and the truck seemed to suddenly slow. Who knew what was going on with this guy, so I hit the brakes, and I hit them hard. Two things struck me when I did. First, how ineffective the brakes were at that speed, and second, the instructor. I mean he literally struck me. He had slapped my left leg like I was a school kid who had just done something incredibly stupid. My brain was telling me to toss out an anchor and this guy's slapping me in the leg for slowing down. The distance between me and the truck suddenly closed again for no apparent reason, and I tapped the brakes again--and I got slapped again.

I wasn't mad at the instructor--I was in awe of him. Can you imagine the kind of nerves he must have? Not only was he riding with a novice driver only twenty-five feet behind another novice, but we were doing 150-160 mph and he was telling me to stay off the brakes. The guy deserves some kind of award in my book.

If there had been an instructor driving the truck, or someone I trusted, and he had kept a steady speed, I think I would have done better. But as it was, I didn't spend much time on the guy's bumper, I'll tell you that. I spent most of the time trying to avoid hitting him and trying to keep from getting slapped.

When we pulled into the pits and stopped, the crew member who helped me out of the car said that he had never in all his time working there heard an instructor yelling so much. He was talking about the ride-along instructor in the truck, who apparently had been yelling loud enough to be heard over the engine noise, and definitely over the radios the instructors and crew members used. Apparently, the student truck driver was not paying attention to him or to his instructions, and the instructor spent most of the time in a fury. The student driver got out of the car, visibly upset, but said nothing when I asked how he liked it. He sat for a spell, then took off his driver's suit. During a break, I overheard him rescheduling his remaining ten laps for another date, and watched him get in his car and drive away. I never found out the story, but I guess the problem I was having following him wasn't all my fault. Still, those ten laps had me more nervous then I like to be.

Ten to Go

I was given the option of what to do my last ten laps. I could do more drafting, practice driving in a close group of four, or go by myself and work on technique.  I chose the last.  The group sounded good, but the drafting experience had me longing for something I could control better, so I chose the faster car to work on the turns.  I told the ride-along instructor I wanted to go in deep, make a smooth arc, and come out wide full on the throttle. He said that sounded good, just don't go in too deep or you'll be in the marbles. I began to suspect some student had recently gone in too deep and gotten into the marbles.

I have to mention that by now the cars had been running for several hours, and when I climbed in and experienced the incrdible heat, I almost passed out. The heat was overwhelming. I started to panic a bit in the close quarters, because I was getting strapped in and couldn't move, but I forced myself to breathe slowly and take shallow breaths. That's the hottest I've ever been in my life, and I used to work in the Florida sun. I thought I was going to die. The instructor was just sitting there calmly. Once we got moving, though, I forgot all about the heat, probably because the ventilation improved and because my attention was directed elsewhere.

The last ten laps I enjoyed immensely. I kept lifting at the same spot, but lifting less and less. I kept going in deeper and deeper until the #2 mark was right at the right door before turning. The g-force in the turns was awesome, higher that most thrill rides with names like Vortex, Vertigo or Top Gun. I was carrying more speed through the turns and accelerating sooner.  By lap five, I was hitting the rev limiter before I reached the traffic lights, and had to cool it all the way down the straightaways.

At one point I delayed turning until I was about ten feet past the #2 mark and the instructor threw both his hands up in a steering position and made a quick left turn motion. I figured that was about as far as I should take that move. Another time, as I headed for the traffic lights exiting turn 2, he actually flinched a bit and was about to grab the wheel as I swung out wide into lane five, a few feet from the wall. I figured I had pushed that about as far as I should go, too.

When I pulled into the pits, the instructor said to me, "You did good, exactly what you said you were going to do. You've got a smooth line through the turns. I couldn't help you any." I thanked him for making my day, and for letting me take it to the limit but not beyond.

So What Are You Waiting For?

I encourage each of you to do it. You'll remember it for the rest of your lives, and you will feel a whole lot closer to the sport and have a better idea what the drivers experience. It will cost you, but what do you make all that money for, anyway?. Go have a thrill.

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