Ok. Let's be honest. You're out on
the road. Alone. A country road: curvy, isolated, inviting. You're
driving anything other than a 1966 Ford Falcon or a dump truck. You
know, something that has some degree of performance creds, some
potential. A smile creeps across your face. You say to yourself, “I
wonder what this baby can do.” You tap the accelerator, gently at
first, but then – as you get caught up in the moment – a bit more
vigorously until the trees are a blur and all you know are the road's
white lines that are now your sole moral and survival compass. Your
smile turns wicked, your eyes narrow, and you become someone you
don't recognize except that you're too busy leaning into turns to
realize this. Yes, yes, I know; we've all been there. Or, most of us
have.
The quest for speed tempered only by
the law and, yes, common sense is widespread, if not ubiquitous. It's
the excitement, the challenge and perhaps even the danger that
focuses the mind. And, it is most certainly a break from the normal
– almost everyone's normal. For many, it begins in their youth
with a roller coaster ride or even a mildly out of control
skateboard, but the emotion is always the same. There's an intensity
there borne of an element of uncertainty reinforced with the promise
of sheer joy.
So, last year, when Lily and I were at
a charity silent auction, I couldn't help but notice an offering by
the BMW Performance Center, just upstate from us in Spartanburg,
South Carolina. It offered a chance to drive the BMW model of your
choosing through obstacle courses and speed sprints and wet track
wipeouts that seemed, well, irresistible. I was not alone in having
that spark, and it was through some auction sleight of hand strategy
that made this opportunity mine. I couldn't wait. A couple of folks
at the event, who had already experienced this, told me that it
didn't matter how macho you thought you were. Once you got in a car
with a professional driver there, they said, you'd be screaming like
a little school girl.
Our opportunity came a few days ago.
Sure, the BMW folks threw into the deal a tour of their amazing 5.6
million square foot robot-driven production facility, but the big
prize was your time on the test track. Everyone knew that. And,
while they said that the purpose of the exercise was to familiarize
you with the performance capacity of your car, guests were there for
the thrills. Everyone knew that.
We left the orientation area and were
introduced to our cars. I had chosen a new X6 model, the one with a
4.4 liter engine producing 550 horsepower. MSRP: $93,000. I mean,
why settle for less, right? It would be the only way I could ever
get behind the wheel of one of these. This baby has acceleration
attributes exceeded, I do believe, only by a Saturn rocket or
possibly the legendary warp speed of the Enterprise. We broke off in
to groups with a few of us lined up in our cars caravan-style. Our
guide/instructor had each of our cars armed with walkie talkies from
whence came barks of instructions as we lined up at the track for our
first exercise – the obstacle course. One by one we entered the
track, a safe distance apart, and, following explicit directions, hit
the gas with much the same gusto as one might squash a large bug with
one's foot. Game on!
The idea was to accelerate rapidly and
forcefully and head into the tight turns offered in quick succession
by the traffic cones lying ahead. Because of the dramatic
acceleration, and the incredible demands on your reaction time as you
dodged one set of cones and then another with contorted, body-jarring
sharp turns, the effect was significant and immediate: exhilaration
and giddiness. Although we were doing things behind the wheel that
you would likely never attempt under any other circumstances, I felt
oddly immune from danger. I think this is what the dictionary refers
to as foolishness, or perhaps insanity. Notwithstanding the ocean of
waivers we had to sign absolving BMW and their employees and their
great, great grandchildren and succeeding generations from any
liability regardless of their possible negligence, I was calm,
focused and happy. Unfortunately, not everyone felt the same way.
Within the first minute of riding shotgun, absorbing the rocket-borne
body throws and white-knuckled grips, Lily had squealed and screamed
enough to realize she was getting very nauseous. She simply had to
get out of the car. That very second. In fairness to Lily, it is a
vastly different experience being behind the wheel and riding shotgun
when your car is lurching everywhere as if the car is suffering from
violently spasmodic seizures. There is something about being “in
control” behind the wheel – no matter how delusional that might
be – that completely alters your perception of whether you're going
to die in that instant or, conversely, have the time of your life.
On we went. One exercise had us
accelerating rapidly to sixty miles per hour and then hitting the
brakes as hard as you could. You know – an innocent lesson in
braking distances. No pumping the brakes here; just a vicious slam
of the foot down on the pedal. Despite the tight grip on the wheel,
you could still feel your body announcing its intention to bolt
through the front windshield, shoulder harnesses notwithstanding.
Something about inertia, right? And then on to the “wet” track
where, once again, warp speed was being recommended by the
disembodied voice from the walkie talkie. Once launch speed was
achieved you would aim your vehicle into very wet pavement and then
hang on as your car did a series of 360 degree spinouts as it
eventually came to a stop. This exercise had something to do with
traction control, but, frankly, I wasn't paying any attention to that.
That would have required a level of attention my psyche, in that
moment, was simply not willing to provide.
Lastly, there was the “off road”
experience where, among other tasks, we were asked to have our cars
follow along a steep, boulder-strewn path that would, at times, place
our cars at what felt like a 45 degree angle with two wheels
completely off the ground, spinning aimlessly. Again, as they say,
not something you would try at home. But, here, it seemed more like
an amusement park ride than something that threatened our well-being.
After all, they kept telling us that if we followed their
instructions, we were in no jeopardy. Hmmm, and if we weren't that
compliant, then what?
When we returned home and were relating
our experience to friends, the most frequently asked question was,
“how fast were you going?” The funny thing is that these various
drills required such intense concentration – whether it was to
avoid a collision with an obstacle or making sure you didn't launch
yourself through the windshield or trying to keep your head clear as
you spun in circles – that the thought of glancing at the
speedometer is laughable. What I should have told them is we were
traveling at the speed of fun.
Memo to Captain Kirk: We're ready for
you, baby. We're ready.
