Background
One of my long-running hobbies (20 years and counting) is driving my car at the race track. I don’t participate in sanctioned racing. The events I go to don’t culminate in trophies, points, ranks, or any such thing. They’re called High Performance Driver Education (HPDE) events and involve folks of all skill levels driving cars of all sorts of capabilities. To help keep a handle on the potential mayhem, instructors are always available for the beginners and intermediate folk. Passing is allowed in certain sections of the track, and only after the lead car points the following car by. No point-by, no pass. Safety first.
And if folks are caught mock-competing, racing, or any such thing, they’re spoken to. If that doesn’t have the appropriate effect, they’re thrown out without a refund.
Safety first.
Ferrari Events
Between the years of 2006 and 2009, I participated in some of the best HPDE events I’ve ever been to. They were put on by the former owners of the Ferrari of Washington DC shop, located in Dulles, VA. They held these events at Summit Point Raceway, and would extend the events either 2-3 days. With the costly entry ticket, drivers were given access to endless amounts of water, other drinks, snack foods, meals, (seeming) acres of shade from big tents, and immediate attention from Ferrari’s mechanics.
I didn’t need any of the latter since I always brought my 2007 Corvette Z06. It didn’t break, unlike, other cars… might. Well, ya know. Not all cars are built as tough as a Vette is.
The event organizer, Redding, got to know me pretty quickly. I would walk into the FoW office to sign up for the next event, and he’d see me coming a mile away. “Oh, you again, huh? Come to scare the Ferraris again?” He’d then give me a massive discount on the entry fee; for instance, I’d pay roughly 50% for a 3-day event.
Being a repeat customer pays.
The Warriors
Anyway, one particular day of one event sticks out in my memory as being the best day I’ve ever had at the track. It was the final day of a 3-day event, and the Walter Reed hospital brought a couple of vans of Wounded Warriors up to Summit Point. The goal was to give the kids (yes, I’m calling them kids because they were no more than 20-25 years old) access to supercars on the track. Ferraris. Lambos. Even Maseratis. They’d strap in and go for the ride of their lives; it was the least we could give after they’d nearly given those lives for us.
One of the unfortunate but understandable restrictions was that the hospital didn’t want us recording any of it. So that means any in-car cameras had to be turned off.
My Turn
One of the senior instructors and good friend of mine, Chuck Weaver (a retired bubblehead, no less) pulled me aside before I went out on the track for my second run. He said, “Ya know, the boys are all commenting on the bright yellow, fast Corvette out there. I think they want to go for a ride with you.”
I sincerely hadn’t expected that. The platter laid out in front of these kids was overflowing with cars that cost several hundreds of thousands of dollars more than my “lowly” Corvette, and looked every bit the part, too. Why on earth would the boys want to get in my car?!
My memory has faded just enough such that I don’t remember their names, and for that I feel awful. But for the sake of this story, I’ll call them Dave and Jim. That’s probably not their real names, and again, I apologize to them.
Dave was first up. He was slight of build, quiet, and a bit shy. Maybe he wasn’t shy but instead an introvert and receiving just too much information. Either way, he didn’t say a whole lot other than to introduce himself after my friend Chuck helped him get strapped in. He had a few new holes in his body from ammo that had cooked off in his Humvee when it hit an IED. All things considered he was in OK shape compared to a lot of the other guys, but I wasn’t judging. Off we went.
I told him to yell at me LOUD AND CLEAR if he was feeling ill because of the speeds we’d be moving. If he had any issues whatsoever, let me know and we’d pit in immediately without any problem. He never said a word; rather he just settled into the seat and harnesses, and enjoyed the ride.
BAMF
Jim found me before the next session. He was very unlike Dave. Massive. Mr. Universe-massive. He had shoulders that were bigger than my entire chest, for instance. But he was also missing most of his right leg due to an IED blast. Jim was also very energetic, outgoing, and talkative. He was having the time of his life, and it showed.
I had to struggle with him to get him into my harnesses as they’d been sized for a man half his size. It dawned on me that I was doing it wrong, and I changed my tune quick:
“SUCK IT IN, SOLDIER!”
I barked that at him sternly, and *THOOMP* he became thinner than I was, instantly. *CLICK* the belts went together and I said, “OK, release.” Jim immediately re-inflated, all buckled in. We were off.
I recited the same line about telling me if we needed to pit-in due to any motion sickness or whatever, but he just smiled and replied, “That won’t be a problem. Let’s go!”
About half way through the 20 minute session, we’d seemingly passed everything out there. Jim was clearly enjoying himself. He was talking up a storm about how much he loved the car, the sound, the way the hood and fenders curved, and of course how fast I was driving it. About half-way down the half-mile main straight, we happened upon a Porsche 911. I’d call it a “slow Porsche 911”, but that’s redundant. So I’ll just say it was a Porsche 911. It might have been in the way. Maybe.
He gave me a late point-by and I took it, confident I could get back on the line before the turn-in. The car seemed to have a mind of its own as the LS7 under the hood barked its displeasure at the 911 driver. But we passed him without incident. I calmly said, “German for lunch…”
The Corvette could read my mind. It knew I wanted to pass the gorgeous Ferrari 430 up ahead of us. The Ferrari was half-way through Turn 1 when I turned in towards the apex. By the exit of Turn 2, I was hot in the Ferrari’s tail, and nearing the top of the LS7’s 7000RPM rev range in third gear. My car was shaking and quivering, just waiting to be told to pounce. Easy boy. Take it easy. We’ll get our…
..the hapless Ferrari driver finally pointed us by on his left and my Corvette catapulted itself past as I grabbed fourth gear and pulled way away from the slower car. Over the howl of the screaming LS7 engine, I calmly finished my statement, “…and Italian for dessert.”
Jim was beside himself. He was yelling and screaming and cheering constantly. “THAT’S REAL AMERICAN POWER RIGHT THERE!”
Then Jim gave me one of the best compliments I’ve ever received in my life. He looked at me and said, “You’re what we call a BAMF.”
It took me a second to grasp what the acronym might mean. As I worked it out in my head and began to say it, he joined me in unison, “Bad Ass Mother Fucker!”
I’ve had some great days at the track prior and since that day. But nothing has quite matched the fun, excitement, and satisfaction of the day I shared my car with some wounded kids.