The need for speed

Racecar drivers are rock stars. The difference between the two is that racecar drivers risk their lives. So does this mean that they are better? Abso-effing-lutely! 

A woman’s idealization of a racecar driver (and other extreme sportsmen) comes from that primeval female instinct of helplessness, circa the Stone Age, when gender roles where distinct and exclusive, when she and her offspring had to look to her caveman for protection and, ultimately, survival. But no matter how progressive the postmodern woman may now be, there still lurks inside of her that secret desire to feel safe with a man, to be protected by him — physically, emotionally, psychologically. And with racecar drivers, the skill set required to steer and control a powerful machine at death-defying speeds trumpets the fearless predisposition to shield a lady from harm — to brave a charging mammoth perhaps, or to ward off a starving saber tooth tiger?

I remember clearly how I became taken with the sport. It was 1988, when Brazilian Formula One race driver, the late Ayrton Senna, joined the McLaren team and battled with racing great and teammate Alain Prost for the championship. He was sort of roguish, a young 28-year-old daredevil whose driving style had been called “reckless” by Prost, whom Senna had, time and again, forced to the pit wall through dramatic swerves and driving maneuvers. Reckless he was at times, but isn’t it this very same devil-may-care disposition that makes the difference between the runner-up and the champion?

It was during the Portuguese Grand Prix in ’88 — when Senna dismounted his car, took off that helmet and strode to the podium — that I became love-struck. I followed his career all the way to his tragic death at the racetrack in Imola in ‘94. I named my only son Ayrton. Enough said.

I may well be the worst sport spectator/fan ever because my affiliations are always personality-based. I have questioned myself many times, Why is it difficult to identify with a sports personality who isn’t easy on the eyes? Well, it just is; skill and cunning just doesn’t do enough for me. I’m a woman! Come on! I need the eye candy. What, pray tell, at the height of competition, will a sweaty, grimy, most definitely smelly and temperamental athlete’s saving grace be? A beautiful face! So it doesn’t hurt that racecar drivers Ayrton Senna, Michael Schumacher, Jenson Button, Danny Sullivan, the late Paul Newman and Patrick Dempsey look the way they do.

I don’t know about you but when I see a fully outfitted racecar driver — suit, gloves, high-top driving shoes and full-face helmet — my pulse quickens. It’s my version of pornography. It’s the picture of a man who calmly asks, “Do you know where there’s imminent danger? Because that’s where I’m headed. Stay put; I’ll meet you back here in 15 and we’ll do coffee.”

Every time I see Michael Schumacher marching to his car before a race, David Bowie rock songs play in my head, in perfect time to his footfalls as they hit the pavement in super-slow motion. And I’m thinking, Here comes Zeus about to throw lightning bolts to the lesser gods.

There is something about racetracks that intimidates most women — the smell of smoke, oil and gasoline; the roar of revving engines; the clanking of tools; the overwhelming male presence — all glaring reminders that scream, Woman, thou art trespassing! And such is the sport’s allure because we are made to feel that we have invaded the great room of an elite fraternity where, if lucky, we might just witness some form of violence — or worse — even death as man is pitted against machine at top speeds.

Actually, it’s more than that. It’s man pitted against himself, really: a test of sharpness, extreme mental focus, mastery of the engine and the car’s nuances, precision steering, bushido blade-sharp reflexes, flawless hand-eye and foot-eye coordination, seasoned physical endurance, fool-proof presence of mind, and most of all, the hunger to win. All these come to play at every race, when the drivers mount their cars and get on the grid, as they once again start their engines and gun it from 0 to 160 kmph and back again in less than five seconds, when they take corners at nano-second speeds, when they push themselves and their engines to maximum capacities, always taunting the limits, redefining boundaries, and with the threat of permanent physical impairment if not death hovering over the slightest of errors. 

This is the one element in racing that exoticizes it and sets it apart from other sports — the ever-present threat of death. At speeds of 360 kmph and over, and revving at 18,000 rpms, accidents rarely come short of that.

According to Michael Schumacher in an interview with Australian journalist Emma-Kate Dobbin, “I drive to win at all costs.”  Schumacher, seven-time Formula One champion, and one of the most famous sportsmen in the world, is not only a legend but also seemingly an entire movement in the world of auto-racing. He continued, “Driving is all about what you put your mind to. You need to focus, but not let that focus distract you from the driving.” 

Okay, he got me there; that statement seemed like an oxymoron.  But he is the great Schumy, so go figure. He also said, “Race driving is all about the limitations of each racetrack. Knowing them and pushing yourself to the limit, within those boundaries.”

As I was reading his interview I thought, At top speeds of 360 kmph what the heck kind of boundaries is he talking about? 

Sport drivers race for points, trophies, money — and female adoration, of course. Then there is this sub-group (usually the elite) that races for something a little less tangible, which in the cosmic order of the auto-racing universe maybe the most important — a primal calling to do the self one better with every race. This is what overtakes driving genius; this is what sets this elite group apart.  Sure, every champion in every sport has the same mindset. But who would do it in a vehicle catapulting to the finish at death-defying speeds? 

 What is it then that makes a man take up racing? Could it be some burning death wish, a failure to comprehend the concept of mortality, a total disregard for life? I have asked around through the years and have found that the answers are as varied as the personalities of the racecar drivers and mere mortals that I had spoken to. But I discovered a common thread in their answers, pointing toward the same thing — the so-called mind-clearing element that racing offers.

My initial reaction was to chuckle when an old friend and racecar driver told me, “Racing clears my mind.” But by the look in his eyes, he couldn’t have been more serious.

Here’s how I clear my mind: I eat a donut (okay, maybe two), hole up in a room where it is dark and cold and absolutely noise free. Then I deliberately pay attention to my breathing and focus solely on that.  This is the only time I can fairly claim that I achieve a semblance of a clear mind. Apparently, there are some men — the few, the brave, the proud, and the speed fiends — who can achieve this nirvana-like state in cars that whiz at upwards of 150 kmph. How do they do it?

In my younger days, I had the chance of riding shotgun in a red Italian sports car driven by a friend. And on a lonely, straight stretch of interstate highway in the Mojave Desert we were able to do 150 mph for several seconds. That was the closest I had come to heaven until a highway patrol pulled us over and cited us for speeding at a price we both never got over. I did try to get us both out of that situation by pleading, “Officer, if you had a car like this, wouldn’t you drive that fast?” I think that smugness cost us a couple more dollars in fines — okay, maybe a lot more.

Another time, another driver friend, in a different car — a Japanese make. We managed to hit 200 kmph at 6,000 rpms for a couple of seconds. It was sublime. And no, we didn’t get caught. “I’m that good,” he said. “I never get caught.” It hit me then that his is the kind of ego one needs to pull off a career in racing.

I asked him, “What happens to you when you race? What goes on in your mind?” “Nothing in particular,” he answered. “It clears my mind.  My senses become hyper sensitive, focused only on the wheel, the sound of the engine, and the track ahead. I am able to tune out all ambient noise and other thoughts a hundred percent. I am one with my car. Nothing else exists.”

“They say extreme sportsmen are adrenalin junkies who do what they do because life on terra firma for them is problematic, so dangerous sport is their form of escape,” I said to him.

“Not really, for me,” he said. “I have nothing to escape; my life is fine. But when I race, I remove myself from the present reality of my daily grind, meaning work, etc. and I create an alternate world in my car on that racetrack, where I am in constant control every second. There, I hold my own fate.”

“You enjoy speed?” I asked. “I love speed; I crave it,” was his instant reply.

What do you need to do to become a racecar driver? “An intimate knowledge of cars, engines — everything mechanical that has to do with cars. A few get away without knowing anything about cars — they leave it to the mechanics — but I need to know everything about the car I drive. Its behavior changes in every race and that’s where skill comes in, how one maneuvers it to get the results one wants.”

I have watched a few races and while waiting trackside, I thought I might pass out from the adrenalin, the anticipation, the noise, the clicking of the cameras, and the whizzing of high-powered zoom lenses. Plus, being in close proximity to those dashing Zeus figures about to mount their postmodern day chariots and zoom to the finish before I can even acknowledge how freaky nervous I am just drives me to the edge of reason.

But then I watch them closely and these daredevils in racing suits go about the pit casually chatting, drinking coffee to pass the time, so I calm myself down by thinking, Just another day at the office for them.

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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.