It was an offer I couldn’t refuse – a check mark on a bucket list I hadn’t even written: A chance to drive a stock car on a NASCAR track.
How could I say no?
Well, I almost did. I have thousands of high-speed highway miles under my belt, but the open road is far different than the confines of a one-mile oval bordered by white concrete walls. I considered the walls of Loudon’s New Hampshire Motor Speedway my protectors for years as I pointed my cameras at the track, but now they looked eerily similar to the ones on an interstate outside of Chicago where I blew a tire, slammed into the median and bounced back across five lanes of traffic before coming to a stop.
I walked away from that crash in 2011, and spent the next few years driving with a white-knuckle grip, knots in my stomach and a foot hovering over the brake pedal.
With those memories in sharp focus, I put on the fire suit and grabbed a helmet, still not sure if I’d actually take full advantage of the experience behind the wheel.
It was easy to avoid the issue during my ride-along, where I focused my attention on the mechanics of the vehicle, the bright tape lines and orange cones marking the track, and the sudden feeling of being on a roller-coaster once my driver floored it and took the turn, showing off what the car could really do.
It was exhilarating, and as I waited for my turn behind the wheel I breathed deep, telling myself I would have complete control of the car and the worst that could happen would be an embarrassingly slow lap time, and not the near- or actual-death experience I acknowledged might happen when I signed my name and listed an emergency contact earlier in the day.
It was easy to hide my worries behind the helmet I wore sitting in the driver’s seat. I overcompensated, giving a double thumbs-up and a smile, completely out of character. I pulled out of the pit and slowly pressed the accelerator only to immediately switch to the brake. It was beyond loud and incredibly hot. The car shook. After being passed on the right a couple of times, my spotter’s voice broke over the radio. Go faster, he said.
I pressed down.
To my surprise, the car felt easier to drive as I let it do what it did best. I began pushing it and pushing myself, remembering that I was participating in a contest after all. Having lost track of my laps, I realized the experience was almost over. It was now or never. I gunned it on a straightaway, coasted through the turn – keeping my foot away from the brake – and rolled up toward that concrete wall on the far side.
I did it. I didn’t crash. I was fine. In fact, I was having fun.
I didn’t come home with first place but ended the day with a lap time of 50.79 seconds, a respectable seventh out of 13 participants.
And pulling out onto Route 106 in my little Honda Fit, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed with the speed limit.
(Elizabeth Frantz can be reached at 369-3333, efrantz@cmonitor.com or on Twitter @lizfrantz.)