Formula Fun

Jan said, "Take the red car."

But it wouldn’t be up to me; I knew that. Then the voice behind me said, "Frank, take the red car." Now that was karma, and the word isn't big enough to describe what happened next. 

I would drive the red car—the color of Ferrari, the most famous name in racing. The sky was blue, the sun warm, and a winding track lay ahead. The formula cars were lined up ready to go, and we were going to do a dozen laps or so at racing speeds. 

What does this have to do with writing a novel? I’ll tell you. 

There’s no better way to refresh the old muse than going racing. It clears the mind, leaving it fresh and clean as a mountain stream. The concentration required to write is nothing at all compared to the concentration required to dive into a corner at 120 mph, brake hard, downshift, and come out fast and fully in control. When you get it right, it’s better than sex (almost).  Facing total destruction and defeating it several times per lap is a tonic that lasts for days. Weeks!

But eventually it wears off. Several years ago I stopped amateur racing and sold the turquoise Porsche 914-6 race car pictured on this page. People ask me, “Don’t you miss it?” Ah, if only they knew!

When the Internet brought an opportunity to buy a ride, it was more than an old Formula One fan could resist. I'd never driven an open-wheel single-seater. 
The venue was Summit Point, West Virginia. I know the old track well, but they put us on the Jefferson Circuit, a short and treacherous 1.1 miles that I hadn't driven in several years. 

So here's the story, in pictures: 

The cars, small, lightweight, and fast.

I get some reconnaissance laps with a professional.

Am I nuts?

Smile, dammit!

Climbing aboard looks easy when they do it.

Where are the pedals?

That's not my helmet; it's my head. 

The competition: half my age and half my weight.

A cushion behind makes a short guy taller. 

What's that thing for?

My game face.

Okay. I can do this!

Any questions?

Whooooeee!

First lap ends. Guess who's in front.

Bye-bye!

Lap two: my pursuers fall back.

Lap three: where are they?

Uh-oh!

Next lap: He's still there!

He's still there, and ahead is a back marker.

Free at last! I've lapped the back marker and my pursuers are stuck behind him.

A nasty corner: double apex, decreasing radius, off-camber, and downhill.  Many come to grief here.
And I complete another lap alone. 

Last lap: The radio tells me "Checkered flag!" 

 Climbing out. 

Still climbing out. 

Still climbing out. Why is this so hard?

Hey guys, I've got to sit down awhile. I'm soaked through. But if this were a race, I would have won.

So the moral is: Age and wile top youth and skill. The truth is that soon I would have had a fight because those guys were in my mirrors for the last two laps. Then they would see what wile is. 
Thanks to my wife, who took the pictures.