Three-Point Belts Won't Cut It Anymore

Holy. God.

On Saturday, I enrolled in my first performance driving school. Out at the Mid-Ohio Raceway, I jumped at the chance to put my life in danger piloting someone else’s obscenely pretty Acura TSX A-spec. Just listening to the K24s alone was enthralling. And I hadn’t even turned a wheel yet.

At the beginning of the program, I was disappointed with myself; during everyone’s cold run of the autocross course, I turned a 47.25 second lap while the rest of class was spread between 42 and 50 seconds. My delusions of speed smelled rather like burned clutch—acrid and wounded. But I bounced back like the tach needle singing up into the rev limiter, as I reminded myself I was there to learn how to become faster.

After the expected time in the classroom talking over the physics of hard driving (weight transfer, apexes, over/understeer), the instructors turned us loose again for the remainder of the day. The group I was part of began in the school’s “skid car,” a Civic four-door with what looked like four giant casters attached to the car at the corners. Some cracked jokes about the outboard ‘training wheels,’ but we quickly witnessed their true purpose. Hydraulics push against a supporting crosspiece under the front or rear of the car to raise the nose or tail a certain amount. This causes either a fishtailing tendency or the car will slide straight ahead even when turning. These traits are referred to as oversteer and understeer, respectively. I watched, awestruck, as the Civic swapped ends like a Chevelle on ice. The instructor, a factory driver for Italian exotic manufacturers, set the whole session to focus on oversteering absurdity. And the loop of cones we were to navigate was so tight and full of curves, there was no hope of keeping the tail straight—but that was the whole damn point.

So after a few others tried their hands at wrestling the little Honda, I rode in the back seat when I was on deck to drive. The car would rotate into a turn and just keep swinging around, the whole time the student up front would be chasing the rear end with their hands, feather the brakes out of habit, and the car would bite back with an instantaneous doughnut. Next thing I know, I’m up at the controls. All the observing I’d had time to do left me feeling intimidated, certain I’d fumble the car all over the track. But something else happened instead.

I say this with as little ego as possible: Things worked.

The car turned in, I felt the rotation begin, and I listened to the car. When everyone else was losing track of their hands on the wheel at nine and three o’clock, I just looked out the windows into the turns and let my hands crank—my foot was a magnet hovering only over the gas (save for two braking points) and I’d roll or stab onto the gas to pull the nose around and counter the slides. Oversteer in a front-wheel-drive car is so unnatural it had me jarred even though I knew to expect it here. But when the car kept sorting itself out, I was euphoric. The instructor said nothing to me the whole session, no corrections, advice, nothing. He chatted casually about the evolution of street cars’ handling characteristics with the guy in the back seat, only stopping to lean his head out the window and shout Ole! when I flinched and brushed the brakes, resulting in a 720 spin before I had it gathered again and got back on the gas. My teacher’s silence was better than any compliment he could’ve told me. [Thanks, Chris.]

Next up, the slalom and braking drills. From here on in, we all suited up with helmets and five-point harnesses, and I found out how necessary those belts are when driving hard. Another of the instructors, Tommy, an Irishman with wonderful cadence to his accent and a sense of humor to match, had me ride shotgun as he hammered his way through the braking drill and the following corner. He blasted the Acura into second gear, slammed a brick on the middle pedal, and threw the car at the apex cone and back out to finish the corner. I was certain he mutilated it, Tommy just looked back and shouted his victory as I confirmed that it was still standing. My stomach then snapped back in my face like it had been suspended on bungee cords. This guy’s speed made me want to cry.

Moments later, I picked a car out of the fleet of Acura TSXes, and glued myself inside. Race belts work, thank God. So much so, that once strapped in, you can’t reach the door to close up the car. Oops. All set up, we lined our cars up and threaded through the slalom and braking/cornering drills. Tommy was standing beside the braking point at the outside of the turn, waving cars toward his side, pulling drivers to the outside, begging them to use every inch available. When we hesitated, he’d exclaim, “You’re killin’ me!” as we all swept by. But after half a dozen runs, we’d gotten up the nerve to take his challenge and scrape the cones. As long as they still stood, he smiled—“That was all good, now try comin’ in a little faster.” All these instructors were so positive, I almost didn’t feel as tense while trying to approach the limit of my driving talent.

The rest of the day was a blur as I started to almost get comfortable. We all filed our Acuras over to the autocross course where we had started that morning, and began to get familiar with the tight intricacies of the layout. The late apexes and few braking zones began to click in my mind, and I just started to ride the session and try to keep up with those around me. I was shocked back into focus when one of the instructors brought another cone in at specific corners and formed a one-car-wide gate at the apex, forcing you to either get it right, or cream some orange pieces. After the first lap of this, he stood at that outer cone, forcing me to question his sanity and life insurance coverage.

Then things got really involved—the run group was brought in, and we got the chance to turn laps in an S2000 roadster. Ah, it really is a spectacular car: perfect balance, communicative steering, light weight, an engine that redlines like a superbike…and its tiny steering wheel doesn’t tilt. So, while the car may have been a scalpel (as so many auto journalists have called it), I flailed my arms and navigated the cones with a decidedly un-heated butterknife. I didn’t hit anything, but my knuckles kept grazing my knees, and when I was done, my left hand had a callous/blister at the top of my palm which remains tender, now nearly three days later.

When that was all over, we re-ran the autocrossing from a standing start, to see how everyone’s times changed. A couple individuals got a bit overzealous and clipped cones, adding to their previous time, but it was obvious everyone was moving quicker at the end of the day. On my turn around, the stopwatch read 42.570—an improvement of nearly five seconds. If I remember the times correctly, I was fifth or sixth fastest out of a group of around twenty. I felt much better.

And then we hit the actual race track. The sun was going down, but the asphalt was still warm, and everyone was fired up for some serious on-track action. No cones except at apexes, and grass and concrete loomed upon any who botched things such that they ended up off the course. The half cage that occupied the rear passenger area lent a feeling of safety, but I had no desire to pay for repairs to the car. I have no idea how long we were out doing lead-follow laps, all I know is that the speeds (and G-forces) were so much higher. The coils of corners were all tackled in third, and I hit the high end of fourth gear on the back straight. I’d estimate that was at minimum eighty mph. [edit: actually, 100 mph is more accurate] It all scared the shit out of me, but I was still ecstatic to be there, and I was even more so when we pulled back in and I hadn’t stacked the car.

In closing, I was astounded by the handling of the TSX—even though it started life as an entry-level luxury sedan, the upgraded brake pads, tires, and suspension put the limits of the car well out of my current abilities. At least now I know that when it counts, I can listen to some of what the car is trying to say. I just need more experience to help shave more off my times. I’m certain I have the required passion to call myself an enthusiast. Any shred of innate talent I have behind the wheel, I thank everyone involved for helping and allowing me to use it.

Still stuck on Lemonheads

I attended the 24 Hours of LeMons at Flat Rock Speedway a couple weeks ago, and will most likely upload some photos and a rant when I remember to get them developed. The whole weekend was a blast, and I got a wonderful taste of the joy involved in racing beater cars. Jay Lamm, the organizer of the event was even kind enough to pay me for taking a shift as a pit marshal. As a bonus, that meant I got to take home a "24 Hours of LeMons Staff" t-shirt. The whole thing was sweet from start to finish.

One down side: while I was at the race, I learned that Colin McRae, his five-year old son, and two of their family friends all lost their lives in a helicopter crash two weeks earlier. Sad to hear, as he was a phenomenal rally driver and quite a nice guy, from what I've read.

Once I flip through my horrid photos of the LeMons race (thank you, crappy disposable cameras), I'm sure I'll feel the need to recap the fun and insanity I witnessed with a full-on rant. That may have to wait until after this weekend, since I'm going to a track for some high performance driving instruction. The session begins in--less than sixty hours. I'm just a bit excited. Here's hoping I catch on quick. And that the stupid grin I'll develop on Saturday won't stick.

I'd Like to Pre-Order Getting Out of Here

I liked it better when gamers were more of a minority.

Last week, I stop into the local EB games, look around, and blow a bit of cash on a 360 game which I am selectively ashamed about--more on that feeling in a bit. The thing that all but forces me to begin this blog in the first place occurs as I'm paying for the title; the clerk asks if I want to reserve any games while I'm in the store. This strikes me as expected, he doesn't sound quite sincere enough that I would figure the clerk is honestly trying make my life more convenient. I say no, not today, and he persists by saying that Halo 3 comes out the 25th, the words drip from his mouth, meant to be snatched up by my impulsive brain like cocaine.

Here things start to dive. We converse, I mention that I don't feel a need to have the newest Halo in my possession at the first possible minute. The clerk's expression is that of a newly conscious amputee--But you'll be missing out on multiplayer! Meh. He fires more of the sales pitch my way, I duck for cover behind the bargain games rack. When he stops to reload more words, it occurs to me that these thick types piss me off such that I have an aversion to mainstream gaming (in a wholistic sense). I don't care that this asshole thinks Halo 3 is the second coming of Jesus Christ via his zip-code-sized plasma screen. I'm not buying, let me get to my car and head home. I paid for my game, you did your job by taking my money and trying to increase your sales. I said no, that's it. Unless Microsoft is personally holding your family hostage, you don't need to offer to blow me in order to try to sell another pre-order copy.

And because of this clerk's pushy delivery, I wish Microsoft hadn't used the Blitzkrieg as their strategy for exposure of Halo's launch. I remember when the first commercials for Half-Life started running on TV and in theaters--I thought, shit, now this is about hitting everyone with ads. Not just the gamers. Roping in more people, so that any pair of eyes suddenly has thinks they know about gaming culture, what's "in," even if they're some grandmother who has cataracts the size of CRTs. I can deal with people's opinions on an individual basis, but I worry that some people collectively fall victim to fanboy-ism. Some forums exemplify this, filled with arguments that are below a twelve-year-old's mentality--

"[product] rox!!1 [competitor] sucks!! any who say no are gay! stfu! u r dum"
(I'd love to applaud this sort of intolerant stuff with my fist.)

I admit, I have my own biases. I stereotype people online, choosing to view this poster as a kid at sixteen who can't even read at a fourth grade level, with his mom telling him to clean his room. I could think up worse attributes, but I imagine you see where I'm going with this. The point is that I distrust something like the gaming culture when it's mass-marketed. People stop thinking and start getting herded around. It feels like it's tainting the activity, making it all about corporations making tons of money (which, to a certain degree, will likely be true somewhere in the mess) rather than producing a quality product. Committees of suits somewhere may be saying, "Why not just put out a game that everyone will buy even though it's mediocre? Flashy ads and market saturation will get it sold! Gods knows it costs too much time and thought to produce a product that is actually going to be remembered and appreciated."

Holy crap I'm taking a while with this. Short version, I wish every aspect possible of a given industry was populated by those who are passionate about the end result. Video games? I'd like everyone from the artists to the CEO of the publisher to want to do their job even if they got paid jack shit. Same for the automotive industry, film, food, pretty much everything. God, am I a crazy idealistic punk. One of my friends would assuredly be joking about me being a bleeding-heart liberal commie bitch. While I'm designing utopia, I want no traffic and to have God make me aware of my faults and wrong views, then help me to straighten them out. 'Cause if there's one thing I have over other self-absorbed tools it's that I realize I'm an idiot a lot of the time. And I'll try to listen if others will listen to me as well.

Oh, and that bit about my shame over being a gamer--I picked up Stuntman: Ignition primarily since I had a love-hate relationship with Stuntman on PS2. Fun gameplay, but it was largely trial-and-error, and the load times sucked away a third of my days on this earth. It's a mix of good and bad, like the original, but I bought it because I love anything with an engine and four wheels. I'm ashamed primarily since some of my friends would look at me with a 360 controller in hand and say how I could instead be socializing, or spending my cash on something more productive. But, the other half of my friends are avid gamers, and we get each other. I'm torn. On the one hand, some people think kicking ass at Guitar Hero is as much fun as actually learning to play the instrument, and others shake their heads in disgust watching. For me, that's as close as I'll ever come to a decent sound with a band. And even so, when we both play, my step-brother makes me look like a roadie who wandered on stage by mistake.