Behind the Wheel

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“There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”  
                    —Ernest Hemingway




It was a chilly spring day at Fontana International Speedway, the snow on Cucamonga Peak making for a wintry backdrop. There were no racing events going on; the parking lot was a vast, empty sea of pavement. At the front gate, the guard directed us to the proper building, where a Porsche 911 was screaming down the back straight of a racetrack. Music to my ears. For Christmas, Terry had given me an Exotics Racing gift certificate that would put me behind the wheel of a very fast car (do I have an awesome wife, or what?), and after waiting patiently through a prolonged, wet winter, I was all set to redeem my ride.   

But first, allow me to take you back to 1967, when I was a gangly 14-year-old who longed to be a race car driver. Most of my friends had taken up the guitar, with high hopes of starting a band and becoming the next Rolling Stones. Not me. I wanted to be the next Dan Gurney, the Riverside local hero who had won the 24 Hours of LeMans and the Belgian Grand Prix that summer. To expedite things, I somehow talked my next-door pal, Randy, into setting aside his Fender guitar and joining me. We procured a racing go-kart with our paper route money, and thus, our racing career started in earnest—until we totaled the kart in a crash on the back straight (brake failure) and our parents shut the project down. 

Dan Gurney at the Belgian Grand Prix, 1967.

“No more,” my mom told me. “It’s too dangerous,”

So, I took up mountaineering.

But that all happened way back in the Mesozoic Era. Now I was in the Exotics Racing office, filling out waiver forms—literally signing my life away—and being fitted for a helmet. The young lady behind the desk reviewed my paperwork, and to confirm things, she asked: “So, you want the Ferrari?”

Is the pope Catholic?

Flashback to 2018, when Ter and I paid a visit to the Ferrari factory in Maranello, Italy (my idea, duh). This is where the legend began and still plays out today. And the museum there was astounding, hosting a vast collection of Ferraris, from luxury sports cars, to race cars, to vintage classics. Terry was intrigued, but I was in utter awe. Yeah, yeah, there’s Lamborghini, and Porsche, and McLaren… But I’ll go with Ferrari for their prolific racing narrative alone. As for Ter, she’s not crazy about any of them—they don’t have cup holders.

A LeMans-winning 488 GTB at the Museo Ferrari in Maranello, Italy.

Back at Fontana Speedway, I was being driven around the 1.3-mile road course in an SUV so I could become acquainted with the turns. The driver pointed out the bright orange cones that were strategically placed next to the pavement around the track. The double cones on the approach to each turn marked where you should start braking, while the single cones on the inside of each turn marked the corner’s apex. Both were useful pointers for us track newbies.

By the time we got back to the pits, my ride was ready: a sleek, low-slung 488 GTB in the trademark Ferrari red. Alex was my driving coach, a lad in his twenties with a proclivity for racing. He would accompany me to keep me out of trouble. (I’m driving a car with 600+ horsepower—what could go wrong?) I slid in behind the steering wheel, the leather seat fitting like a glove, and Alex walked me through the instrument panel. The seven-speed transmission had an automatic dual clutch with shift paddles at your fingertips on the steering wheel. When it was time, I pressed the start button and the engine directly behind me instantly rumbled to life. I was as bit nervous at first, (what if I break it?), but once I pulled onto the track... It was showtime.   

My ride's powerplant: 4-liter V8, dual turbo-chargers, 660 hp. 

I spent the first lap just getting a feel for the car—which was way different than going around the track in an SUV. The engine purred, not even breaking a sweat. But when I punched it coming out of Turn 2 onto the main straight, the twin turbos kicked in and the car accelerated like it had been shot from a rocket launcher. In the blink of an eye, I was going 70 mph, and I eased off the throttle because there was a turn coming up.

“You let off the gas way too soon,” said Alex, pointing to the double cones that flew by a few moments later—which was where I was supposed to let off the gas and start braking.

The elapsed time for my first lap was a lackluster 1:18, so on the second lap, Alex began to provide input for each turn: the entry, the apex, and the exit. This time, I clocked in at 1:14, and on the third lap, another two seconds quicker. It seemed that I was getting the hang of it. On the next go-round, under Alex’s close tutelage, I catapulted out of Turn 2 and shot down the main straight, engine wailing, brain screaming. This time, I was determined not to weenie out and hit the brakes prematurely—a scary prospect once you consider that the corner up ahead is approaching at more than 150 feet per second. When I reached the double-cone marker, I was going 100+ mph, and immediately I hit the brakes hard and went from tremendous acceleration to tremendous deceleration, eased off the brakes, dove into Turn 3 at 60 mph, and accelerated out of it in a perfect drift. 

“YES!” Alex shouted over the din of the engine. “You nailed the oversteer!”

The elation was short-lived, however, for I totally botched Turn 4 just seconds later, losing precious speed. That’s the thing. Anyone can execute a perfect line through a turn. But to nail every turn around the course, on every lap of the race, takes talent and mettle.

Entry, apex, exit, repeat... There was no letting up, it was go, go, go, constantly battling G-forces. On the seventh lap, I shaved my time down to 1:08. Could I possibly get it any lower? Yep. I logged a 1:05 two laps later, for an average speed of 72 mph and a top speed of 118. After that, I began to slow down a bit. I was getting tired (this is hard work for an old man), and after a few more laps, I coasted into the pits and shut off the engine.

After thanking Alex—I wouldn't have done as well without his coaching—I climbed out of the car and walked over to where Terry was waiting. It was like coming back down to Earth, still feeling the adrenaline. We found our way out to the parking lot, got into our domestic Mazda 3 (with cup holders) and drove away. Before long, Ter reminded me that we had to stop by the R.E.I. at Victoria Gardens, which was near. But my mind was still back there on the track, where I got to play Dan Gurney for twenty minutes. Mark that off my Bucket List.
   

Thomas Magnum or Sonny Crockett?