Catching a Ride in the Fast Lane

The closer I got, the scarier it looked. I had prepared for this, with two nights of anxiety and a day of avoiding food. The car, 16 feet long, was sleek, its lines reminiscent of the Champ Cars that had just qualified for today’s 30th Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach.

Except this silver streak of a car was deformed. There was a hump, like a sleek thoroughbred camel, behind the driver. In it was a space carved out for a passenger.

They call these single-seaters for a reason, but this was a Champ Car two-seater. One car, one driver, one rider.

*

My driver was Jimmy Vasser, who won this race in 1996 along with the series championship. I told him he had been my favorite driver “for about 20 minutes.” Vasser laughed. I reminded him about a pace car ride he had given me a few years ago. Approaching the back side of the course, I recalled, “You had your hand down in the floorboard, fumbling around to pick up a water bottle, doing about 75 mph.”

“I remember that,” Vasser said. “We’re going to go a hell of a lot faster today.”

Those were Jimmy’s last words to me before he climbed into the cockpit and I put my life in his hands.

*

“Warm it up,” he was told.

The engine started. A gentle rhythm, not unlike a hotel massage bed. Vasser hit the throttle in spurts. The vibration shot up my spine.

There have been other rides that gave me a lot of vibration. A GT car at Del Mar in 1992, a Ferrari on the California Speedway road course in 2002. Those rumbles were more guttural. This was compact. Just like this crevice that doubled as a seat.

I have never been strapped so tight in such little space. Nor so thankful.

The warmup over, I signaled for Russell Cameron, team manager for PKV Racing, the team that is partially owned by Vasser and the one that converted this 2000 Reynard into Champ Car’s newest marketing tool.

“If something happens,” I asked, “and I have to get out in a hurry, what do I do?” He agreed it was a reasonable question. Vasser is talented, but I’ve seen him crash before.

We may call this sport, but Garret Anderson never ran into the outfield wall at 200 mph. When Barry Bonds forgets how many outs there are in an inning, it doesn’t really hurt anyone. When Jimmy Vasser has a mental lapse, it can hurt a lot.

I looked in the grandstands for my wife. You know, just in case.

*

Vasser, eighth during qualifying earlier Friday, steered us down pit road and onto the course. The first brief jolt of speed, heading into Turn 1, was startling. Hard on the throttle, harder on the brakes. Vasser was just warming up the car. It was his first time in it too.

It is powered by the same 750-horsepower Ford-Cosworth XFE used for today’s main event. It’s not some motorcycle engine stuffed inside a shell. It’s a monster, a real race car, and on the third lap, Vas- ser unleashed it.

*

The wind buffeting the helmet forced my head back over my left shoulder, but I see Vasser leaning into the right-hand bend along Shoreline Drive, reaching 176 mph. We do nearly three times the freeway speed limit, except we reach it much more quickly.

My chest feels compressed against my spine. I glance at the wall, think briefly about dying, and it’s not a peaceful ending.

Looking forward again, the velocity is impressive. The stopping power is stunning. This isn’t just about speed, it’s about slowing very fast.

Turn 1 is narrow, a sharp left, then around the aquarium fountain. We clip the curb, accelerate sharply and are on the brakes almost immediately.

It’s throttle-brake-throttle-brake into Turns 4 and 5, where we swing wide toward the wall. A protracted thrust of acceleration, then deceleration, snaps my head forward into Turn 6.

Up Pine Avenue, there seems to be a rhythm to what Vasser’s doing. He turns on to Seaside Way, the back straightaway. My arms are sore from my grip on the handles between my knees. It’s less than two seconds to cover 500 feet under-braking at the end of the straightaway leading to Turn 9. It sets up a sweeping Turn 10, and it hits me that I’m inside Vasser’s helmet, seeing the same things, feeling the same things, and there’s only a handful of people who have ever been here before.

We gracefully swing into the Turn 11 hairpin, though it looks more choppy on television. On the slowest part of the course, I suddenly have new respect for how fast 28 mph can be.

And then we do it again. Vasser hits the throttle like John Force. My bottom never touches the seat on Shoreline. I don’t remember breathing. I get six laps. I can’t imagine keeping up this pace for 81.

*

The only word that comes to mind is “amazing.” Sure, it was incredible, but the technology, the power, the forces on the body were simply amazing. It reminded me of my youth standing next to railroad tracks as the twice-daily freight train went past, except in a Champ Car, you must imagine standing between two trains.

Vasser jumped out of the cockpit. “That’s faster than my car,” he told Cameron, the team manager. We shake hands and he pulls me tight. We are now bonded by more than a water bottle.

Vasser tells me he rests during the straightaways, those times when I felt my head was going to fly off, even drives one-handed. “I get paid for the ‘ir, irr, irrr,’ ” he said, replicating the sound of shifting gears.

My appreciation of a nifty move is now a hundredfold more, whether it’s making a pass, avoiding a crash or simply maintaining control.

The braking, the shifting, the accelerating, the dealing with traffic while avoiding the walls, all under the cloak of danger.

Such skill is demanded to drive these cars, and everything happens so fast in these remarkable machines that completing a pass is an event. An amazing event.

These cars are special, and so are the men who drive them.