Photography by Brian Finke
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Fear Factor
By Susan Crandell, July & August 2004
Scaring yourself keeps you young, says this working mom turned racer-for-a-day
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At 7 a.m. the Connecticut hills are shrouded in mist, and a cold spring rain
is bucketing down as a group of middle-agers in a motley assortment of slickers
huddle beneath an overhang, watching puddles grow on the strip of asphalt
directly ahead. The scene is Lime Rock Park racetrack, where it's
Driver's Education Day for the Hudson Valley Region of the Porsche Club of
America, and I've come to take my Boxster, by far the most expensive car
I've ever owned, out on the track. I've never raced before. I'm a
former magazine editor who has recently shifted gears to freelance writing. And
I'm having one of those "What was I thinking?" moments.
When I ask whether it's dangerous to drive in the rain, one of the
instructors looks at the sky, shakes his head, and puts it on the line:
"Anybody with a brain isn't here." By this logic, 55 of the 70
people who signed up for a day of learning and derring-do have flunked the
mental fitness test and are here with me, eager to drive as fast as they
can.
How did I get into this mess? I blame my loved ones. My husband, Steve, a
car writer, and our 25-year-old daughter, a graduate of the Skip Barber racing
school right here at Lime Rock, share driver's duty in the 1983 Porsche 911
Steve has rebuilt for racing. And ever since he bought me my little gray
roadster for Christmas last year, the two of them have been urging me to try it
out on a track. Up until now, I've always found excuses—don't
have a helmet, too busy that day, have to water the plants. The truth is I am
scared silly. And finally, that is precisely the reason I go.
You see, it is my belief that we all should do something scary at least once
a year, because when you pop out the other side, intact and invigorated, the
afterglow can carry you through other acts of courage that flavor your
life—moving to a new city, say, or launching a business. I call it the
"Hey, if I can do this…" theory of life enhancement.
When we're kids, risk taking comes naturally. We climb trees, bomb down
hills on our bikes, eat ants on a dare. It's no sweat, because we feel
invincible. But somewhere along the road to midlife, we lose a little of our
swagger. We see friends battle cancer, have car accidents, and die. Suddenly,
to take a risk, we have to really push ourselves.
The "Hey, if…" theory has led me to some of the most
exciting moments in my life: bungee jumping, rock climbing, white-water
rafting. It has also gotten me back on my bicycle after an accident that left
my collarbone in three pieces.
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So I borrow my daughter's helmet, sign the sobering "don't
blame us if you wreck your car or even if you happen to lose your life"
waiver, and head for Lime Rock. Because I'm a newbie, I'll be driving
in the green run group; so will Steve, who's driven with this local club
only once before. We'll put in four 20-minute sessions, with an instructor
riding right seat. When we're not driving, three other run groups, red,
black, and white, ranked by ability, will take the track. We'll also put in
time at one of the six flagging stations, watching over a sector of the track,
radioing in mishaps to a central command, and displaying different colored
flags to alert the drivers to unusual track conditions—oil bleeding from
an injured car, or even an errant northern Connecticut raccoon.
My instructor, Ed Mettelman, and I settle into the car, belting up and
tucking little intercom headsets into our helmets. Just shy of 50, Ed left a
Wall Street job a couple of years ago to cut back on work hours and spend more
time with his two kids. Like all the PCA instructors, he is volunteering his
time.
He takes the wheel first, to demonstrate the skill of driving the racing
line. The "line" is the route that, if followed, takes you through
the course with maximum efficiency and speed. You might think the line would be
the shortest distance between start and finish, cutting corners to cut time.
It's not. The line shimmies back and forth across the track, leading you
into and out of the apex—the crucial point—of each turn. Michael
Schumacher, the world's best racing driver, could probably nail the line at
any Formula 1 track blindfolded, but for us, it'll take practice, lots of
practice. To help us out, orange traffic cones have been placed at the entry
point and apex of every turn. Ed tells me, "You want to touch the brake
before the first cone, then stay off it as you enter the turn, accelerating
smoothly through the apex." Step one: drive the line smoothly. Step two:
drive it fast.
Being a smooth operator is even more important today, on the rain-slicked
track. In fact, the asphalt is so slippery that we're going to get some
leeway on the "two spins and you're out" edict. This rule is
management's effort to discourage hot-dogging, which can result from a
combustible mix of horsepower, inexperience, and ego. As Ed puts it, "The
nightmare is a guy in a brand-new Turbo Carrera and a shiny, expensive Sparco
racing suit. You just know he won't listen."
After two laps, Ed pulls into the pits. This is it: my turn to drive. I belt
in, giving Ed my best "no sweat" grin, trying not to appear like
someone who has been up since 3:30, when rain drumming on the roof woke me from
a dream about tumbling cars shedding body panels into the sky. The flagman
gives us a thumbs-up. I accelerate onto the track, where, miraculously, life
isn't as scary as my predawn imaginings.
Somewhere along the road to midlife we lose our swagger. To take a risk we have to push ourselves.
I thought I'd be thrown off by the diminished, helmet head's view of
the world, but oddly enough this is not an issue. And since the tight-fitting
ear cushions—which had felt horribly claustrophobic at home—block
out a lot of track noise, the whole experience is surprisingly natural. I
remember sitting in my daughter's tiny open-wheel car at racing school and
feeling incredibly vulnerable just standing still. There's a real comfort
level in driving a familiar car, the very same one that delivers you to the
post office and Sam's Club.
Once we're under way, Ed issues instructions nonstop in a low-key way
that makes them easy to follow. "Okay, touch the brake lightly, now off
the brake, wait, wait, okay, now! Head for the apex. Give it a little throttle.
A little more. Smoothly. Stay to the left. Stay. Stay…
Stay…" Feeling like a clumsy puppy, I give it my best, trying to
hug the edge of the asphalt, swerving across the track to just kiss the green-
and-white-striped rumble strip, which rumbles to indicate you've driven off
the track at the turn. It's immediately clear that I'm one of the
slower drivers in the group. I do not want to crease this beautiful car of
mine, even though the day's organizer announced that he'll do the best
he can to help us persuade our insurance companies to pay in the event of any
damage. This may be a noncompetitive, untimed driver's education session;
still, insurers take a dim view of the word racetrack.
When I was in my 20s, being a turtle among hares would have made me crazy
and pushed me to drive beyond my ability—whatever it took to achieve a
respectable position among the pack. But now, in my 50s, I'm comfortable
taking in this experience at a pace I can comfortably manage. The payoff? Much
to my surprise, I'm not scared at all. I'm the master of my throttle.
Plus, no one can pass anywhere but on the long straightaway, and then only
after you give a hand signal that it's okay. Needless to say, my left arm
has been busy.
After 20 minutes, the tower flies the checkered flag and everyone takes the
last lap at a slower pace, to pay extra attention and absorb what we've
been learning. When we pull into the pits, Ed gives my first session an A
minus. I suspect he is grading me on the "encouragement" curve,
hoping I'll drive a little faster next time.
Meanwhile, Steve, who needs no encouragement, has logged the first spinout
of the day. And although he had to detour into the pits to report his misdeed,
he's managed to lap me twice.
Although the sky is still low and scowling, rain is holding off for the
moment and the track isn't as wet our second time around. I can't wait
to get out there and add some smoothness and speed. I know I'm driving
faster and with more confidence. As we approach the straightaway, a miracle
occurs. I pass another car. Things are beginning to come together, and I'm
disappointed to see the checkered flag. I'm starting to hula through the
turns rather than ricocheting from cone to cone. My joy is complete when Ed
tells me that my top speed this time around was 79; in the first session, it
was just 62. This is way more fun than I'd ever imagined, but it's also
hard work. I'm invigorated and exhausted.
By the time we greens head out for the third time, Ed has had a chance to
drive with his run group in his souped-up '97 Boxster. "I can't
believe how slippery it is out there," he says. "I got way out of
shape a couple of times, thought for sure I was going to spin."
He cautions me to lower my expectations for session three. "You
won't be as good as at the end of the last session. In this game, it's
two steps forward, one back." And it's raining again. Still, Ed
cheerleads as we approach Big Bend, the turn I've been spooked by all day.
"Throw it into the turn," he shouts, but the line I see in my
mind's eye careens across the dirt and—bam!—into the pile of
tires that lines the overrun. I stooge through the turn, my foot hovering over
the brake. Undeterred, Ed waits for his next opportunity. All too soon, Big
Bend appears again, and this time I manage to handle it with more authority and
speed. "That's it!" he cries.
When we weave through the final turns onto the long straightaway, he
hollers, "Punch it. You should at least know how it feels." And I do
put my foot to the floor. "Yes!" he says. "Ferdinand Porsche did
not mean for you to take this car to the grocery store. This is what he
intended." When the session is over, Steve has only lapped me once.
Thirty minutes later, rain is pelting down, and a mere half-dozen of the
original 15 greens, the hardy and the foolish, are lined up for the last
session. Steve has dropped out, saying the 290-horsepower modified 911 is too
light and powerful for him to drive in these conditions; he's had his fun.
As the cars from the advanced group come in, one has a grassy divot on its
driver-side mirror, signaling a spinout. A few minutes later, the tower crew
hangs the red flag. For now the track is closed.
So here I am, all pumped up and nowhere to go. I really wanted to get out
there one last time and own the line. And I wanted to experience what it's
like to have the back wheels come unstuck and figure out how to recover. Most
of all, I want to feel the adrenaline singing through my system at Big Bend.
The fear factor has done its stuff; right this minute I can conquer the world.
The swagger is back. The minute I get home I log onto Limerock.com and sign up
for the next DE Day. I fall asleep feeling like the brave kid I used to
be—and I didn't have to eat any ants.
Susan Crandell is the former editor-in-chief of More magazine.
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