Drive the Track

Strolling back to the car, past the trailers and canopies and motorheads in the paddock, I overheard a couple of guys remarking about the “gray-haired old lady at track day.”

There were quite a few groups at the racetrack; in our group, I was the only woman. [Whatever.] I work in high-tech, I'm used to it. The assumptions that greet gray hair are less familiar. The local grocery store started giving me the senior discount almost six years ago—which I found highly amusing, that being the year I completed all five passes in the Death Ride. (And I still don't qualify for that discount.)

The ‘A’ group (beginners) started the day with an orientation about flags and protocols, then moved to the parking lot and executed some drills. Accelerate and brake hard. Really hard. Accelerate, brake hard, and turn. Trace a tight figure-eight through a course marked by cones. Pretty impressive what the car can do, when pushed. Hard.

Our coaches drove the first two laps around the track, pointing out the flag stations and other highlights. Then we traded seats. I had made the right call two weeks ago, to bike Laguna Seca first.

At the end of the day, I told my coach I couldn't do what he did—be a passenger in a car being driven (fast) by a complete stranger who has no prior track experience.

Photo credit: Dito Milian, gotbluemilk.com

Whenever you drive, there's a lot going on, and you cope without conscious thought much of the time. On the track, little is familiar: flags to understand (and watch for), passing zones and protocols, tricky curves—all that, plus the concentration needed to snake your way around the course. At whatever speed you find comfortable.

In the morning, for me, that speed was not particularly fast. When I'd get to a straight section, I was so relieved to have negotiated the previous turns without incident that I would just ... relax. I got plenty of practice doing “point-bys”—signaling to drivers behind me that they could pass.

After lunch, I was treated to a demo ride in a coach's car. It could not have been more fitting that it was a red 1990 Mazda Miata. (Until a few years ago, I owned one.) Those three laps were a rip-roaring good time. And then, I got it:

Just because I'm in a designated passing zone doesn't mean I have to surrender.

Photo credit: Dito Milian, gotbluemilk.com

On my first lap after lunch, I rounded Turn 11, downshifted, and let the car to do what it was engineered to do. [Go fast. Really fast.] “Where did my ‘A’ driver go?” laughed my coach. It was my turn to do some passing. Keeping my lead on the straights compensated for my imperfect line on the curves; by the time the others were on my tail, we were approaching Turn 11 again ... and they didn't stand a chance.

Jan and Dean, they got it.