by M. Irving
I unscrewed myself from the cockpit of my Cooper S and promptly slipped on the slimy surface of the Road America clubhouse parking lot. The rain that had been pummeling the asphalt all morning had created a condition not amenable to graceful exits from tiny cars and, I suspect, the upcoming vehicular acrobatics. This iconic road course, carved into the wooded hills outside Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, is an international racing destination (Indycar, SCCA, AMA) that also hosts several driving schools, including the renowned Skip Barber program that has launched the careers of many aspiring road warriors. My destination was RADS, the track’s own performance driving school, often a jumping off point for Michael Schumacher wannabes, but also for more practical minded motoring enthusiasts who want to hone their skills, often because they have caved to a delusional impulse to acquire a performance vehicle.
Doing anything above the level of competent execution, be it cooking, jogging and especially driving, conjures a competitive impulse when like-minded enthusiasts gather. This became immediately apparent as the squad of damp, automobile-abusers shuffled into the clubhouse, shooting glances about and noting characteristics of attire, age and facial antics that might reveal degrees of competency and intent. Following this rutting ritual, a one-hour classroom session was launched by Skip Barber graduate (and local high-school teacher) Wade, who enthusiastically illustrated laws of physics and complex maneuvers on a dry marker board. The age-diverse student body (eighteen male, two female) demonstrated their attentiveness by posing relevant but sometimes abstract queries such as, “If negative camber induces understeer, can the driver compensate by wearing shoes with a thicker sole?” The class convened and we shuffled back out into the slop, chomping to demonstrate the practical application of theoretical constructs now embedded in our grey matter.
We climbed into our assigned machines that ranged from a Chevy Sonic to one of the track’s Corvette pace cars and paraded up the concourse to a Walmart-size expanse of water covered asphalt. The next three hours consisted of negotiating a variety of orange cone courses designed to approximate real-life driving scenarios. I soon discovered that their true purpose is to humble once confident boy (and girl) racers determined to showcase their prowess at high speed maneuvering. And you can forget about being saved by newfangled stability control and ABS gizmos as they had been neutralized by the RADS autonerds. Several runs on each circuit, followed by instructor feedback (a mixture of encouraging advice and snarky admonitions), resulted in mixed degrees of frustration and improved laptimes.
The smaller, front-drive cars were surprisingly manageable
in most of these maneuvers, but the Vettes were unruly beasts that were
impossible to drive at their limits.
This was especially true on the 180 degree, high speed turn followed by
quick slalom exercise (not sure what real-life situation this was supposed to
approximate). Throttle determinations on the Vette were informed strictly by fear
instinct. Crashing into the heavily
treed landscape beyond the edge of the asphalt seemed all to imminent when
charging the target cone at 90mph in a 4,000 pound rocket-on-wheels.
My fave exercise had to be the spinout control maneuver. It was also the least complicated, which may have something to do with my fave rating. The precipitation that stymied our efforts on the other courses was now a welcome lubricant as we regained control of spinning masses of Detroit fantasy-mobiles. Imagine accelerating down a back-yard Slip-N-Slide the size of a tennis court with an out-of-work racecar driver perched next to you, his sweaty hand clamped on the ebrake handle, hell bent on inducing motion sickness. While negotiated a ninety-degree, high-speed turn, the handle was yanked, the rear wheels locked, and the car put into a wicked spin. “Don’t look where you’re going, look where you want to go.” was one of the favored directives, which I found to be in violation of my spinal range of motion when sliding in a direction opposite that of your intended trajectory. My best result was achieved by maintaining full throttle during this compensate-correct-compensate maneuver. The screaming engine and spinning tires stoked the chaos but the tactic was validated by my only best-of-group time.
During these maneuvers, there were maybe a couple of moments when my brain flashed on one of the classroom dry marker illustrations. Only subconscious remnants of these formulas, like Wiley Coyote hallucinations of Road Runner annihilation schemes, advised my responses. For the most part, it was pure instinct and split second decision-making: how much throttle, how late can I brake, what line do I take? With five courses completed, we motored back to the clubhouse for a one-hour break of reflection, more opponent gazing, and grazing on tasty box lunches. The “Are we having fun yet?” refrain by Wade punctured the student chatter espousing the virtues and demons of the different vehicles, courses and instructors.
The competition demons finally materialized in the day’s
final event. Each six-person group
took turns flogging a VW GTI around the mini road course at the track’s NE
corner. Up until this point, my
opponent was myself with victory determined by decreasing elapsed times for
each course lap. We were now out to crush each other, not in a wheel-to-wheel
skirmish, but by successive, solo runs of three laps each. Without exception,
we had all improved throughout the day and even the 70-year-old retired
accountant had adopted a more aggressive and studied manner. Dry conditions had
finally materialized but it didn’t matter on the tight, meandering course. The
name of the game was restraint when negotiating the chicanes but the temptation
to pin the throttle and drift through the turns dominated. The result was a thrill-drive, constantly
on the edge of control.
Diplomas were distributed and subscriptions to Road and Track awarded to each of the four group members with the best lap times. This was a remarkably civil bunch, considering the potential for at least a couple of reckless gear-heads to show up for a “high performance-driving program.” I witnessed only a couple of cone mashing deviations from the plotted courses with no off-track ventures or vehicle rolls. Everyone seemed quite satisfied with the experience although a guy with a Slavic accent seemed incredulous that we had actually, willingly paid 350 bucks to spend six hours flogging perfectly good, performance cars around mini racetracks, in the rain, no less (his “experience” was a gift from his daughter.)
Many of the instructors were local farmboys who, instead of flipping burgers in their formative years, learned the driving-ropes from pros that descended on the rural Wisconsin racing Mecca every summer since 1955. They meshed well with the active and ex-racers, all of them intent on imparting skills without advocating street-racing behavior. Wade’s parting words at the classroom debrief was an admonition to not use our newly learned skills “for evil.” He then urged us to consider returning for the upcoming winter driving skills course or perhaps next spring’s Skip Barber racing program to subject ourselves to more serious challenges and exercises in humility.
Did I learn how to be a better driver? Probably, but I suppose I won’t really know until the next bozo plows into an intersection out of turn. Instead of panic breaking into the a-hole, I will gracefully maneuver around him without losing a tick of speed. Yes, “performance” driving is fun, satisfying and imparting of a confidence that is invaluable when tangling with the motoring miscreants that populate our roads. And even though I rhetorically agreed to not use my newfound skills “for evil,” a grin does cross my face when I nail a corner apex exactly where I want to, rolling on the throttle just enough to drift the turn exit while gathering, not losing speed.
