Addiction
I was hoping to put off posting until after the house thing had settled down, so as not to distract myself from tackling more pressing issues. However...
Last weekend found me in full driving gear, in a five point harness strapped tightly to a Mazda MX-5 cup-spec Miata. Road Atlanta, the masochistic porkchop of a track, glittered off in the distance, mocking me quietly.
As the last group got off the track, our lead car signaled. It began.
Senses heighten at times like this. The smells of the track, of tire-smoke and grease and gas, become tangible; the sound of cars screeching past their checkered flag in the distance becomes distinct; the weight of the helmet pushes itself to the forefront of consciousness.
Time to go play.
Just the memory drives me to Pavlovian salivation.
The power switch flicks to the "on" position with the resounding click of a bullet sliding into the chamber of an MP40. The dials flicker to life, awaiting further instruction. The key turns, and the engine growls out a low, menacing rumble of a yawn, a four-eyed monster blinking idly.
All around similar engines explode to life, and the rumble surrounds me, the four-cylinder symphony singing in anticipation, the furies within awaiting, begging for release.
We pull out of the pits slowly, and as a mob, accelerate to speed. We, the advance group, pull ahead, our open throttles feeding our too-eager mini-monster Miatas all the fuel and fire they can swallow.
The wind whips around, the thumps and booms of downshifts surround us, and we approach the bends. The road curves downhill, as inviting as a Siren. Grinning, I embrace the tantalizing melody and gun it. The MX5 roars her approval; the tires screech their battle-cries; gauges climb towards the red.
This, folks, this concoction of smoke and fire and adrenaline and fear, this is the way Saturday mornings are meant to be spent.
I have raced autocrosses. I have had my share of fun on lonely, winding mountain roads. I have spent thousands of hours behind a wheel. Never before, however, have I attacked a course so technically demanding, so precise, so beautifully engineered, in so perfect, so neat, so precise a machine.
Today, in the office, I was worthless. I could not concentrate. All I could think of was the tang in the air, the acrid smell of white tire-smoke, the rumble of engines, and the heady, wide-eyed fear that races through one at the apex of a sharp turn taken at lethal speed. All I could think of was concentrating on the line through a turn, of the eager boom of a downshift, of effortlessly floating into triple-digits on the straight.
This weekend may have been the first time I was on a technical, designed-to-terrify track. It won't be the last. This is the beginning, I suspect, of a long and very, very expensive passion.
A long time ago, I asked someone why anyone would buy a Lotus Elise over a Corvette.
Now I know.
Last weekend found me in full driving gear, in a five point harness strapped tightly to a Mazda MX-5 cup-spec Miata. Road Atlanta, the masochistic porkchop of a track, glittered off in the distance, mocking me quietly.
As the last group got off the track, our lead car signaled. It began.
Senses heighten at times like this. The smells of the track, of tire-smoke and grease and gas, become tangible; the sound of cars screeching past their checkered flag in the distance becomes distinct; the weight of the helmet pushes itself to the forefront of consciousness.
Time to go play.
Just the memory drives me to Pavlovian salivation.
The power switch flicks to the "on" position with the resounding click of a bullet sliding into the chamber of an MP40. The dials flicker to life, awaiting further instruction. The key turns, and the engine growls out a low, menacing rumble of a yawn, a four-eyed monster blinking idly.
All around similar engines explode to life, and the rumble surrounds me, the four-cylinder symphony singing in anticipation, the furies within awaiting, begging for release.
We pull out of the pits slowly, and as a mob, accelerate to speed. We, the advance group, pull ahead, our open throttles feeding our too-eager mini-monster Miatas all the fuel and fire they can swallow.
The wind whips around, the thumps and booms of downshifts surround us, and we approach the bends. The road curves downhill, as inviting as a Siren. Grinning, I embrace the tantalizing melody and gun it. The MX5 roars her approval; the tires screech their battle-cries; gauges climb towards the red.
This, folks, this concoction of smoke and fire and adrenaline and fear, this is the way Saturday mornings are meant to be spent.
I have raced autocrosses. I have had my share of fun on lonely, winding mountain roads. I have spent thousands of hours behind a wheel. Never before, however, have I attacked a course so technically demanding, so precise, so beautifully engineered, in so perfect, so neat, so precise a machine.
Today, in the office, I was worthless. I could not concentrate. All I could think of was the tang in the air, the acrid smell of white tire-smoke, the rumble of engines, and the heady, wide-eyed fear that races through one at the apex of a sharp turn taken at lethal speed. All I could think of was concentrating on the line through a turn, of the eager boom of a downshift, of effortlessly floating into triple-digits on the straight.
This weekend may have been the first time I was on a technical, designed-to-terrify track. It won't be the last. This is the beginning, I suspect, of a long and very, very expensive passion.
A long time ago, I asked someone why anyone would buy a Lotus Elise over a Corvette.
Now I know.