A racecar isn't so obnoxious when you're in it

By Jennifer Imsande

My timing stinks. As the nation recoiled from the stench of burning oil coming from the Gulf, I acquired a lust for speed and the petroleum that powers it.

I think this is how it happened. I was at home, probably hanging my wash on the line to dry, when my friend Mary called. She and her Lexus were in town to attend a Performance Driving School at Brainerd International Raceway (BIR). Would I like to come watch?

I grew up a mile from BIR. During the summer it belched up a whining noise and news reports of drunkenness and wet T-shirt contests. On big race weekends, my family left town or hunkered down. We'd try to make a run to the grocery for eggs and would get stuck in the procession of campers, motorcycles, trucks and trailers crawling toward the raceway.

Mary was visiting my pristine lake country -- the land of loons, woods and water -- and heading straight for the oily blight at its center. And I'd just agreed to go in there with her.

Feeling one hundred years old, I packed the kids in my Prius and drove to the gates, signed the accidental death waiver and made my way to the clover-leaf track that the driving school uses.

People were gunning their Porsches, BMWs and Corvettes through the turns, aiming for invisible sweet spots. I found Mary on the sidelines, beaming, like she'd just driven to the spirit world and back. On a 2.5-mile track, she'd already put 100 miles on her car and had a cramp in her accelerator leg.

Her instructor reminded her to hydrate. Then he turned to me. Would I like to go for a ride?

I tried to play it cool, but squeaked as I said yes.

Someone fitted me with a helmet, and then with a driver: Tim Porter, owner of a Ford GT that cost $150,000. I know because my son had whispered, Mom, would it be inappropriate to ask him how much his car cost?

No, I'd hissed, pushing him forward. Go talk to the nice man.

An instructor buckled me into the passenger seat. Tim rolled down the windows for air as I fished my brain for small talk. I was about to ask him whether he preferred windows to air conditioning on the freeway when the driving started. After that my mouth only opened enough to let a little drool leak out from the corners.

At 120 m.p.h., the car seemed to hover, and I worried that we had accidentally lifted off. The dashboard and windshield appeared to be dissolving from the pressure of the outside air, which looked like jelly bouncing and creeping over its surface. I'd wanted to make an "L" with my index finger and thumb, raising them to my forehead in the universal sign for "loser" when we passed the BMW and Corvette. But we'd immediately rounded a corner at 90 m.p.h. and the force nailed every body part down. Gravity had me pinned.

I learned that I don't mind the whine of a race car when I'm in it. I still mind squealing tires, though. We hit a slick spot where the sun hadn't dried the earlier rain. If I hadn't gone to the bathroom before the ride, I might have gone then.

The ride ended. I pumped Tim's hand gratefully and walked unsteadily toward Gary Curtis, the retired professional racer who runs the school. He smiled and asked if I'd like to come back.

Of course I would. But how? I ruled out his Emergency Vehicle Operator course. I'm not law enforcement. Neither do I drive an ambulance or fire truck. I ruled out the Performance Driving School, on the grounds that performance isn't an option in my car. Curtis protested. We get all kinds, he said. They'd had everything from a Dodge Neon to a Lotus come through their doors.

I bet it wasn't more than one Dodge Neon, and I bet it didn't come back. The driver probably went straight out and bought a Lamborghini.

I promised to send my kids to his Street Smarts course when they reach driving age. The instructors will put them through braking, skidding, cornering and slaloming exercises, and also drinking- and texting-while-driving impairment simulations.

They'll need a car by then, something safe and energy-efficient. Something like a used 2005 Prius. I'll have to find something else for myself. Three hundred horsepower, minimum. Something with juice.

----

Jennifer Imsande is associate director of the Masters in Advocacy and Political Leadership program at the University of Minnesota Duluth.

Gallery

Fullscreen SlideshowPrevious Slide

1 of 1

Next Slide