Life in the Semi-Fast Lane

This is a column I wrote for the Citizen Patriot that won't get published because the sports editor doesn't have a cell phone or an e-mail address I know of that can be accessed from outside the newsroom. Or maybe because it sucks.


When you go to Cedar Point and see some schmo sitting outside Top Thrill Dragster while his friends wait in line, I'm that guy.

I don't do anything that is fast, dangerous or involves jumping. If I could, I'd probably super glue my feet to the ground.

The word "extreme" just is not a part of my vocabulary. (OK, that's a lie. I just used it in a sentence).

So when a NASCAR official asked if I wanted to take a few laps around Michigan International Speedway in a pace car piloted by former stock car driver Brett Bodine — with speeds expected to reach 140 miles per hour — I had a few questions.

Does the pace car come with pacemaker? (No.)

Am I too young to write a will? (Probably.)

Will Kyle Busch be on the track as the same time as us? (Please say no.)

Should I eat breakfast in the morning? (A long-time racing writer told me not to. I wondered if he was joking. I decided not to ask because he would probably would have told the truth anyway.)

Against my better judgment, I decided to put my nerves of aluminum to the test. On a beautiful Sunday morning, Bodine, Toledo Blade columnist Dave Heckenberg, NASCAR public relations employee Joshua Hamilton and I took three laps around MIS in a white Chevy Impala. Before we took off, I had a few final questions for Bodine, a racecar driver for nearly three decades and affable ambassador for NASCAR.

"Have you ever had a seizure?" I asked.

"No, I've never had a seizure, I can guarantee you that," he said.

Phew.

"I've been knocked unconscious 12 times though, so maybe my first seizure is going to happen right now."

Uhhh, what?!

"What happens if a deer runs across the track?"

"Well, we're going to try and not hit it. And that goes for people, too."

Hitting people in cars going 120 miles per hour usually isn't good.

"What would Dale Jr. be saying to me if he heard me asking these questions?"

"After he slapped you?" Heckenberg asked.

With that, I climbed into the car, effectively putting my life into the hands of someone I'd known for four minutes. I grasped for a seat beat, and then another, and then another. I wanted to be as secure as an underground vault at the Palms, but only found the one. I searched for the "Oh, crap" bar — you know, the thing you grab when you're with a driver who goes too fast, looks away too much or doesn't have a Y-chromosome — and settled on a handle.

We sped off, gaining speed into the first two turns. Bodine, who drives the pace car at every Sprint Cup race, pointed to the wall at turn two.

"I hit that wall and was knocked unconscious and my foot was still on the gas," Bodine said, gesturing to the faded skid marks that still darken the track's white paneling, the "Oh, crap" bar now firmly in my grip.

The weekend was a rough reminder for Bodine — he crashed into two walls during a practice run at MIS five years ago, a crash that resulted in a broken tailbone, his 12th concussion and an end to his racing career. He still has a video of the crash on his laptop, a reminder to others that he survived such a brutal event.

I prayed the mess wasn't a part our NASCAR experience.

We continued into the final turn, riding so close to the wall that you could touch it from inside the car (probably not a good idea). Bodine rattled off information about driving and what goes on in the minds of drivers at each point on the track.

All I wanted to hear was that he was going to put his second hand on the wheel as we rode at 120 miles per hour, six inches away from being six feet under.

After two more similar laps and three more very minor coronaries, we slowed to a stop at the start-finish line.

Brett didn't have a seizure, we didn't hit any deer (or people) and I didn't need a new pair of dry pants.

Bring on the Dragster.