RaceChic
05-14-04, 05:55 PM
Borrowed this from friends. It blew me away. I cried at the thought of what I would be like when I stepped out of the car. Crying. Literally.
What? me worry?
Thursday, May 13, 2004
There is a panic button in front of me.
It is red.
And if I push it, my teeth will stop vibrating, my stomach will drop from its new home near my tonsils and the people standing around the race track will stop melting into the concrete wall.
I am in the back seat of a turbo-charged Champ Car.
And I will not push that button.
I was invited to the Portland International Raceway on Wednesday to take a ride with driver Sebastien Bourdais in a two-seat rocket ship.
I was fitted in gloves, a racing helmet and a Nomex fire suit and strapped to a 750-horsepower machine.
Let me say this -- at 177 mph, your chest caves in. You forget to breathe. Your eyes water. Your nose runs. And, also, the G-force rips your helmet toward the moon, making the chin strap feel like piano wire.
Which, of course, is why technicians installed the red panic button. Push the button and a message scrolls across the driver's steering column, reading, "Your passenger has just (bleeped) his pants."
The message began as a joke, but crew members liked it so much, they kept it. Incidentally, dozens of people have taken this ride before, including Tom Cruise, and also, a woman in a white dress who, one crew member tells you, lost control of her bodily functions during the ride.
The woman urinated, but she didn't push the panic button. Nobody has. And I will not be the first to push it.
Even if, say, a low-flying seagull hits me square in the helmet. Or if Bourdais and I end up buried in the wall, flames everywhere, and me still strapped into my rabbit-hole of a seat.
I have never been to an automobile race at PIR. Nor do I regularly watch motorsports on television. But someone explained to me that Bourdais, a wiry 25-year-old who wears prescription glasses, was 2003 Champ Car rookie of the year.
Also, he grew up in Le Mans, France.
That seems like a good thing.
"Nice to meet you," Bourdais said.
"You're my favorite driver," I answered.
My seat is directly behind Bourdais, slightly elevated. I see what he sees. I hear what he hears. I feel what he feels.
I am blown away by the velocity at which the car moves. The acceleration is breathtaking. More remarkable is the braking.
Being in this machine is more sensational than any amusement park ride and more exhilarating than bungy jumping. In part because there is pavement and wall and spectator and sky, and all of those usual reference points are whipped into something that looks like a rainbow thrown in a blender.
I heard a parent the other day in the grocery store tell her child, "If you keep crossing your eyes, they'll stick that way."
Kids, that's nonsense.
The only way your eyes will get stuck crossed is if you end up here like me, riding with Bourdais in this 1,600-pound paint-shaker, trying to look around at the scenery while he's diving in and out of turns and rocketing down the straightaways.
According to Bourdais, "after 20 or 30 laps, you'd get used to it."
I could never get used to this.
When I exit the vehicle, I am soaked with sweat. My pulse is 150. The muscles in my body are exhausted from four minutes of constant contraction. I did not push the panic button.
We did three laps. In a race they do 90. Also, in a race, there are other drivers to contend with.
"Of course, this is a sport," Bourdais said. "Of course, I'm an athlete."
I agree.
JohnCanzano@aol.com
Apparently it comes from the Portland Oregonian newspaper. :D
:thumbup:
What? me worry?
Thursday, May 13, 2004
There is a panic button in front of me.
It is red.
And if I push it, my teeth will stop vibrating, my stomach will drop from its new home near my tonsils and the people standing around the race track will stop melting into the concrete wall.
I am in the back seat of a turbo-charged Champ Car.
And I will not push that button.
I was invited to the Portland International Raceway on Wednesday to take a ride with driver Sebastien Bourdais in a two-seat rocket ship.
I was fitted in gloves, a racing helmet and a Nomex fire suit and strapped to a 750-horsepower machine.
Let me say this -- at 177 mph, your chest caves in. You forget to breathe. Your eyes water. Your nose runs. And, also, the G-force rips your helmet toward the moon, making the chin strap feel like piano wire.
Which, of course, is why technicians installed the red panic button. Push the button and a message scrolls across the driver's steering column, reading, "Your passenger has just (bleeped) his pants."
The message began as a joke, but crew members liked it so much, they kept it. Incidentally, dozens of people have taken this ride before, including Tom Cruise, and also, a woman in a white dress who, one crew member tells you, lost control of her bodily functions during the ride.
The woman urinated, but she didn't push the panic button. Nobody has. And I will not be the first to push it.
Even if, say, a low-flying seagull hits me square in the helmet. Or if Bourdais and I end up buried in the wall, flames everywhere, and me still strapped into my rabbit-hole of a seat.
I have never been to an automobile race at PIR. Nor do I regularly watch motorsports on television. But someone explained to me that Bourdais, a wiry 25-year-old who wears prescription glasses, was 2003 Champ Car rookie of the year.
Also, he grew up in Le Mans, France.
That seems like a good thing.
"Nice to meet you," Bourdais said.
"You're my favorite driver," I answered.
My seat is directly behind Bourdais, slightly elevated. I see what he sees. I hear what he hears. I feel what he feels.
I am blown away by the velocity at which the car moves. The acceleration is breathtaking. More remarkable is the braking.
Being in this machine is more sensational than any amusement park ride and more exhilarating than bungy jumping. In part because there is pavement and wall and spectator and sky, and all of those usual reference points are whipped into something that looks like a rainbow thrown in a blender.
I heard a parent the other day in the grocery store tell her child, "If you keep crossing your eyes, they'll stick that way."
Kids, that's nonsense.
The only way your eyes will get stuck crossed is if you end up here like me, riding with Bourdais in this 1,600-pound paint-shaker, trying to look around at the scenery while he's diving in and out of turns and rocketing down the straightaways.
According to Bourdais, "after 20 or 30 laps, you'd get used to it."
I could never get used to this.
When I exit the vehicle, I am soaked with sweat. My pulse is 150. The muscles in my body are exhausted from four minutes of constant contraction. I did not push the panic button.
We did three laps. In a race they do 90. Also, in a race, there are other drivers to contend with.
"Of course, this is a sport," Bourdais said. "Of course, I'm an athlete."
I agree.
JohnCanzano@aol.com
Apparently it comes from the Portland Oregonian newspaper. :D
:thumbup: