Don’t Touch the Apron – My Adventure in a Stock Car

By SnoCone God on June 20, 2012

“Trustthecar.Trustthecar.Trustthecar.”

It’s funny what comes out of your mouth in times of emotional and physical stress. In this case, it was on my third lap of Chicagoland Motor Speedway while exiting turn 3 at over 4400 fourth-gear RPMs, barreling toward a confidence-shaking turn 4.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning: it was a week ago that my wife told me, “Don’t make any plans for Saturday afternoon or evening. We have a special first Father’s Day surprise for you.” True to her word, she stayed silent on where we were heading and what was going on. Saturday morning, I received my only hint: “You might want to wear jeans.” I honestly thought I had a camel ride ahead of me. Perhaps an elephant, but camel stuck in my head for some reason.

We drove our A/C-less beater Honda for what seemed like 3 hours before turning off the highway, following the brown signs leading toward the track. I was playing it cool, thinking, “OK, she’s got us going for a car show of some sort. Doesn’t explain the jeans, but whatever.” We pulled in, and I couldn’t wait any longer…there, in front of us, was a very large trailer touting The NASCAR Racing Experience.

“Am I going to ride in a stock car today?” I asked, cautiously. You can’t toy with the emotions of a fella born in the South.
“No. You’re driving a stock car today.”

“I was good in ‘Lincoln Lawyer.'”

Now, most normal Brohammers out there would have lept up, screeched an off-key “YAHOO!!”, and possibly showered their wife in a deluge of kisses and promises of seeing the next Matthew McConaughey movie, no matter the viciously skewed oiled-ab to bare-breast ratio.

Me, however? Yeah, I was terrified. How do you prepare for this after absolutely no notice? I’ve always joked that getting a muscle car would be a total waste for me, because I’d drive it like Grandpa in his blue Caprice (especially with how he always left the blinker on until it ding’d at him to turn it off). Now I’m being asked to untame half a K of wild horses around 18-degree banking while ensuring I’m never less than 2″ away from wall or apron line? Visions of scraping the wall, spinning through the infield with orange, futile brakes flash before me. I suddenly believe in Jeebus.

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After sign-in, drivers are corralled into the Media House to sit “where actual drivers sit” to go over a meeting “just like actual drivers have” discussing safety & the do’s and don’ts. I’m guessing all drivers are sick of Chip Knauss by now, if that’s the case…because his cheery mood and litany of rules on the video were just over the top. Then he completely biffed the line every good Southerner knows & purchases bumper stickers of: “Go Fast. Turn Left.” Thankfully, the waif-thin, grizzled ‘Experience vet went over everything again twice before turning us loose. The key points:

Stay 3-5′ above the white line
No burnouts. And if you stall twice before leaving Pit Road, your day is done (because you obviously can’t drive stick)
Don’t touch the apron (the flat, inner part of the track meant for pitting) in the corners, or you WILL crash
Trust your car in the corners…stay on the gas and you’ll do better
The governor will kick in at 150MPH
Leave the upper part of the track open, because the ride-along cars (folks who aren’t driving) take that line at about 170/180MPH
You can pass slower cars
Absolutely no photography allowed on board (YOU F’ING THINK?!?!)
Always answer your spotter & do whatever he tells you, because there’s no instructor in the car with you

Say what? You mean we’re going solo, here? And there are other cars on the track? I feel as if this hour of “training” might let me down at the worst possible moment, and now wish to kiss my baby and wife goodbye, just in case. Rubbin’s racin’, Cole…

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So they hand me the suit, some earbuds, and a “sanitary head sock” (I wish I were kidding about that unfortunate name). Then they line me up and shove a helmet on me. I’m about to say something about how maybe it’s a touch too big when the fella with the heavy Carolina accent says, “Yeahthat’llwork.”

Visions of Big E’s final moments at the mercy of a loose 5-point harness dance through my head.

No matter, because it’s time to hop in the car. Now, every single guy out there who grew up with a healthy respect of the General Lee & the Duke Boys’ ability to slide so effortlessly in and out of the window knows that this is a true test of manhood. I had a bit of a rough time, just like the rest of us. But when I got in…well, that’s when the real terror started. See, the window on your typical stock car is about half as tall as the most economical of econoboxes. Then, there’s the very tasefully placed dent in the left side of the dash that’s just about the same size as a knee. Oh, and even though the steering wheel seems locked in place, it’s got a bit of extra play, and…what’s that? You’re telling me it’s my turn to go? Like Really, really…?

So I start off, making sure not to pop the clutch. I grew up on a stick shift, but it’s been years since I’ve driven one, so my start was…well, let’s just say it was less than smooth. The shifts into 2nd, 3rd, and 4th went well enough, though, and before I knew it, I was merging onto the backstretch.

OK, I lied. THAT’S when the real terror started. See, they have you going at 4000RPMs to start out with. Since there’s no speedometer in the car, you just have to guess that that’s pretty damn fast and be done with it. Hit 5000 and you’ve reached the magic 150MPH barrier.

Then turn 3 arrives in a flash, quickly enough that you can’t think, you completely forget that a rearview mirror exists, and there’s no need to look left or right, because those are death traps waiting to paint the asphalt with your blood.

And that’s when the lateral Gs kick in. Now, most roller coasters will give you an approximation of the experience, but none will really match it. I never really felt as if I was getting squashed, but coming out of turn 4, I briefly envisioned flight suits and how great they’d be right now, since I was about 3/4 blacked-out.

No time for that, though, because I’m being dumped onto a tri-oval and HOLYSHITWHITELINE!!

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Yes. I had to nudge the wheel right. Take that, Knauss.

Now, I’ve always been terrible with “radio voices”. It could be my wife on the other end of a 2-way, and I’ll be asking her to repeat herself a few times before I understand what the hell she’s saying. Now replace my wife’s typical western US accent (i.e. there is none) with my spotter’s Carolina drawl (i.e. “You speakin’ French?”). He’s telling me something, but I have no idea what it is. For almost an entire lap, I’m replying with, “Do not copy, say again,” or, “I can’t understand you.”

Just as I’m exiting turn 3 and drifting ever so slightly up the track, the ride-along car zooms past. Oh. That’s what you were saying. We need to work on our communication.

Now, the spotter says quite clearly, “Go ahead and kick it up to 4600.” I choose not to, but only because taking my eyes off the road right now seems like a certain recipe for death. So instead, I approximate and push down that right foot just a bit more. Turn 3 looms large, but I take it aggressively, telling myself to trust The Fine American Engineering that went into this fake Ford Fusion. Specifically, the words I used at the very beginning of this post escaped my lips. Then I lift a bit in turn 4, because I can see the future, and it’s me headed into the wall.

Dire, widowed-wife future averted. Suck it, Mayans.

Lap 4 arrives just as quickly as lap 3 departed, and the spotter hops on the radio again. This time, I understand him when he says, “You’re coming up on another car, do not pass, do not pass.” Well, sumbitch, I must be on my “checker” lap, then (when you’re supposed to head back to the pits). No Cole Trickling for me today, as I’m headed through turns 1 and 2 for the last time on my way back to the apron. I follow Carolina Frenchie’s orders to shift into neutral and start touching the brakes for the first time. As luck would have it, I coast to a stop, right in front of the pitmaster…nice and clean.

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Remember how I said getting in the car was a chore? Yeah, I was f’n pimp sliding back out. Dude was there to help me, but no, I got this.

A quick sashay over the wall, and my day was done. Kiss the wife & kid, because daddy’s going to be alive to see his first Father’s Day. Then head over to turn in my suit and discover my time. Now, in our Super Official Drivers Meeting, they told us that the governor would be pretty obvious, causing the engine to sputter and kick. I never experienced this, so I figured I did maybe 120MPH, tops.

The paper comes back 144.7. I am a hero to my 8-month-old son for the first time. (he has no idea what’s going on)

EPILOGUE: On our way out of the speedway, we saw a beat-up late-90s MR2 parked next to the entry sign. An 18yr old kid was wrestling with the hood of the car, propping it up against the sign.

My wife hollers out at him, “Did you lose that?”
“Yeah, the wind just took it right off. I think I’m going to leave it here.”

For some reason, this is the perfect capper to my Father’s Day surprise. I kiss my wife and allow a smile.