Weird headline, right?  Let me explain: Why I Don’t Want to Be a Race Car Driver was the original name of this article…until I rode in a race car.  Then, I kinda/sorta/maybe did want to…a little.  Last week during the Pro/Celebrity Media Day, sports journalists, God help us, were invited to take a ride-along in the Toyota pace cars, reaching speeds (at some points) of nearly 120 mph as we made two laps around the Grand Prix track.  I was terrified, what with the traveling nearly 120 mph and all, but I agreed to do it, if only so I’d have something to write about—I figured I’d vomit up my lunch inside the car, make a total embarrassment of myself, and then tell our dear readers about how glad I am I’m a sportswriter.

Then Rocky Moran, my driver, stomped the accelerator and I turned into a six-year old kid riding the Tumbler at the St. Maria Goretti carnival, screaming at the ride operator to make it go faster.  The long curve around Shoreline was unbelievable, as was the loop around the Aquarium’s fountain, all performed at speeds nearly impossible to believe—you don’t know a road until you’ve taken it at three times the speed limit.

At one point, on Seaside, another Pace Car carrying Raven-Simone’s mom cut us off (it was being driven by Rocky’s dad, who apparently spent most of the day trying to make his son back down).  The car got right in front of us and then sat on its brakes—refusing to back down to his dad, Rocky got to within a few feet of him and followed closely, AT NINETY MILES AN HOUR.  You haven’t experienced tailgating until you’ve done it with the scenery around you blurred.

I didn’t get carsick or scared at any point except the first time we made the 90-degree hard right from Pine onto Seaside with barely any braking, which felt like it had to put us into the wall.  And…somehow we came around the edge and were right back up to top speed again.  It was at that point that I had something like a religious experience—a part of me realized I had no control over myself in that car, that I was a passenger, just like I had no control over the world or really over my life and…and then the car pulled back in, and I realized I wasted my race car ride on introspection.

I am absolutely not afraid of admitting that driving the streets I’m on three or four times a week at that speed was a life-changing experience.  It’s like my entire life got sped up—I’ve been writing faster, walking faster, even eating faster.  This, my friends, this is the way to live!  That said, as amazing as the turns and velocity were, I’m more than happy spending most of my time at Blair field or behind this computer.  Why?

As I was getting out of the car I asked Rocky, “How much faster do the drivers in the race go?”

A little embarrassed on my behalf, he grinned and said, “Oh, between fifty and seventy miles an hour faster.  There’s really no comparison.  The effect it has on your body is ridiculous.”  Oh.  Well, then.