| VIR Driver's School |
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| VIR Driver's School |
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On the evening of Saturday, November 1st, I hauled my frazzled rear bumper into the Virginia International Raceway tower classroom for a voluntary tutorial called, “How to Drive VIR.” Still wearing the driving suit I had been in all day, I tried to silence the race engine-induced buzzing in my ears long enough to listen to the Chief Instructor: Peter Kraus. While Pete went into detailed descriptions about the “three dimensional” twists and hills of his favorite track, all seven of us could hear the other 28 students, assorted instructors, and perpetually thirsty workers swilling beer over at the concession building. I dutifully sipped my flat, tasteless water, nibbled on a pretzel, and tried to focus for just one more half hour. Pete described driving a race car as, “dancing with a
2,000 pound partner.” Well, if racing is the tango, then racing school is
Disco with a capital “D.” The Milton Hilton Hustle lived up to its name.
Dave Hester and I were treated to two full days of running, hopping,
sliding, and spinning chaos, all under the efficient control of the North
Carolina Region. |
2003 Races
November |
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On Saturday morning, the school bell rings at 8:00 a.m., and the racing on the track is nothing compared to the racing in the paddock: Go to class, submit to horror stories and threats by Chief Steward, receive 5-minute warning while trying to zip up driver’s suit in bathroom that is 2 miles from the grid, run to racecar, leap into racecar, strap into racecar, put on gear while driving to the grid with knees, arrive on grid 55 seconds after the 1-minute warning, try to start engine, realize engine is already running, watch and listen for the nice man with the whistle and orange gloves to tell you when you can race, drive fast until your tailpipe puckers. Watch the Rabbits bound ahead of you and the Miatas scream up behind you. “OH S***!!! Was that a yellow flag?!” Twenty minutes later, pull into the pits, find paddock spot through the red mist, babble incessantly about “left hooks,” “rollercoasters,” and “hogpens” while your crew tries to pull you out of the car, drink 4 bottles of Gatorade and worry over track map, find your instructor so he can give you valuable advice like, “go faster,” go to the bathroom and get rid of 2 bottles of Gatorade, then vow to kill the next person who blows a whistle as the 5-minute warning sounds and the whole routine starts all over again.
Dave and I got 3 ½ hours of track time, saw every flag, waved at every worker, did a little farming, and learned VIR’s north course intimately. I learned what it’s like to spin at turn #1, then did it again…and again…and again at turn #3. By the end of the weekend, the CRX’s trip-o-meter read 142 miles, and that didn’t include the street car laps I did with my official instructor: Blair Stitt, and unofficial instructor: Mark Senior. The dialogue went like this as we rolled into the turn called Nascar:
Then Left Hook:
Then Rollercoaster:
The reward for two days of information overload was the 5-lap graduation race on Sunday afternoon. I had spent the weekend doing glorified Solo I laps, watching the faster cars and more experienced drivers fade into the distance. The blue flag became a familiar friend, and I got so good at pointing faster cars around that my crew/coach busted me for being too polite. With some misplaced sense of educational responsibility, the instructors and stewards put me in grid spot #4 for the race. “They’re putting me in the front?! I can’t be in the front! I’ll die!” I had one, desperate moment when I thought about sneaking my car in the last slot anyway, but it’s hard to hide in a race group of 10 cars. Our first pace lap was a mess of weaving confusion and the starter’s wave-off conveyed pure disgust. The next time around, we managed to pull ourselves together enough to get a green flag, then the next four laps were blind terror, mixed with sheer determination not to let those Rabbits get away again. I pedaled harder than I had all weekend and kept those guys in my sights. By the time the checker came down, I was so relieved that I started to cry. I bawled through turns 1…3…6, then when I got to turn 7, a blue flag came out. “What the…? I know I saw the checker! Why are these guys…?” Before I could complete the thought, the flag station was a dancing, waving, riot of color, as the workers conveyed their approval for a job well done. The dance continued at the next station, and the next, until I couldn’t help but laugh. Of all the people who coached, nagged, cajoled, and babysat me through my first driving school, the workers’ opinions counted the most. They kept me going the rest of the way back to the pits. After the rituals of impound, congratulations, and more Gatorade, I went to watch Dave Hester kick bumper and take names in his race. He pulled up four spots and did some fancy dicing with Ryan Porter’s Black Firebird. Dave was racin’ and making his instructor, John Baucom, proud! At impound, he was overheard musing on why he hadn’t gone to racing school sooner. We both passed phase one of driving school with flying colors: no missed flags, ignored workers, or broken cars. The North Carolina Region did a phenomenal job with the Milton Hilton Hustle. The instructors and stewards were top-notch, organization excellent, and the workers were constantly patient and enthusiastic. One word of advice: Do NOT, under any circumstances, go to driving school without a crew. Dave and I wouldn’t have made it without Art, Linda, and Matt. They were phenomenal. And one more side note. The next time you’re at VIR, check out Aunt Millie’s Pizza and Subs in downtown Milton, N.C. The pizza was great, inexpensive, and fresh, the service was fun, and the place is only a mile or so from the track. -- Ruthie Cartlidge |
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November 8, 2003
