Also by Al Hoff:
Your Own Personal Space Bubble
Thrifting for the Masses
How to Beat Electronic Superstores
Find Your Dream Date Yard Sale
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That morning, what I knew about stock car racing would fit in a Dixie Cup — it was a terrifically popular spectator sport, colorful corporate logos shaped like vehicles sped across my corn flakes box, and some Osmond-family-looking guy was the driver du jour — just a few snippets of an ill-defined Manly World, barely noticed by a gal who dislikes sports and can't even drive. By that evening, I'd logged 4.5 miles of high-speed-excitement on a NASCAR Winston-Cup speedway and was slugging back cold beers with race car drivers discussing that tricky banking maneuver at Turn 2. I'd been touched by The Thunder.
Stock car racing has blasted out of the exclusive domain of yee-hawing good old boys. NASCAR-related perks are the hot new corporate backscratch, show-off, or hospitality gimmick. And so it was I stood in the Las Vegas Motor Speedway infield, the guest of a shopping mall developer, waiting for my ride in a speeding stock car.
"You can be seriously injured or even killed as a result of your participation in riding in a race car." Thus began two pages of tiny-print legalese exempting the Richard Petty Driving Experience from liability. (The RPDE piggybacks at several speedways and, depending on the level of financial commitment, a fan can hop a ride in a stock car or even drive it.) I was admittedly put off by the eleven specific references to my possible death, yet around me, senior level businessmen, the kind of guys who read contracts for a living, blithely signed away all life, limb, and liability.
I suited up in the hot pit area — a full helmet, big foam neck brace, and some fresh lipstick. An ambulance circled the inside track, just in case. I had more personal concerns. I had mistakenly heard the event was "business casual" and had worn a long narrow skirt. How was I to know these cars have no doors and that all entry and dismount is through a tiny window? I'd just signed away my life, and here went my dignity, as I hiked up my skirt and crawled through the window, giving the driver, the pit crew, and waiting participants a superior view of my underpants. My driver looked away in disgust. No doubt I had re-affirmed his deeply held belief about women and stock car racing.
My ride was a Chevrolet Monte Carlo, a dull car aesthetically, but them's the rules. "Stock car" means something off the current Detroit line, if only in looks. Under the hood, oh baby, raw Motor City power — 358 cubic inch engine, V-8, 600 horsepower, sticker price about $100,000. (Appallingly, I broke the cardinal rule in stock car racing. I failed to note, and later acknowledge, the sponsor of my car!) A 5-point safety harness lashed me to the added passenger seat, a narrow hard cushion with a high back and built-up sides. Nestled in a spider web of roll bars, my new world was a stripped-down supersonic cage, fragrant with hot metal, burnt fuel and baked foam rubber. The silent driver flipped the ignition switch and we were off.
Down the pit track and whammmy! — we burst onto the oval 1.5 mile track at 120 mph! Instantly in front of us, a wall, a turn, a high bank of track! Defying traditional rules of the road, the driver didn't slow down. His feet never moved, he just turned the wheel. We hurtled through the turn at some crazy angle. The simplicity of it was an overwhelming relief (We're alive!) until the force of the turn hit. Ooof! Right in the sternum. Part two of the oval turn and another wall rushed forward! Whroooosh. (Still alive!) That straight backstretch ahead looked pretty darn good! Mister Driver accelerated and we hit the advertised 160 mph. The late afternoon sun was shining; it was a beautiful day for speeding.
Suddenly, a second car — less than a lane's width away — attempted to pass on the outside track. My driver surged forward, and we passed our rival on the inside. Startled, I realized that, at these speeds, the moment of impact would occur faster than I could even comprehend. I braced for it. The other vehicle shot out in front and dropped down onto the inside track, practically on our hood. I tsk-tsked. What appallingly rude driving. I'd forgotten we were racing.
I had, however, reckoned on being scared — but I was strangely calm, my hands resting flat on my nice skirt. Logically, I knew we were going really really fast, three times the highway limit, yet the enormity of the Speedway provided little physical perspective. I was snugly tucked in my big kiddie seat, safer here than I would be on the mini-van ride back to the hotel.
The TV in my mind reviewed tiny scraps of stock car lore — crash after spectacular crash, slo-moed on the evening news. "Racer X unhurt." "Racer Y suffered minor bruises." Some sick twisted thrill-seeking part of human nature kicked in. Say, wouldn't it be cool to wreck and walk away? I'd tasted near-death (hell, I'd signed a contract for it!) and now, I wanted it — more thrills, chills, and spills. Maybe a spin-out. And definitely more noise! The engine was loud and angry in the desert stillness, but I now understood the lure of The Thunder, that full spectrum of NASCAR noise, a couple dozen mean machines fighting for track at the bottom of a fully-charged bowl of 135,000 roaring race fans.
After three uneventful spins around, I returned utterly intact to the pit track. I cheerfully assured the waiting and wary businessmen that the ride was fun and couldn't even touch the full-tilt, knuckle-clenching, burst-into-tears anxiety that is the Washington, DC Beltway. Clutching my complimentary flashy Richard Petty Driving Experience T-shirt, I headed for the hospitality bar. As the drivers came in, I peppered them excitedly with questions: How fast was I going? What kind of engine was that? Do you ever have any crashes? How do you become a driver? Do women race? I had a lot of catching up to do. This year's race season was almost half over.
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