Race riot

There are a lot of things that men can do efficiently with one hand.

Such as writing. Texting. And fiddling. With the remote control.

But driving a sports car around the Circuit de Catalunya motorsport racetrack in Barcelona, Spain is not one of them.

Normally, a media invitation to test drive the new BMW Series 3 around a Formula One race track would cause most grown men to soil perfectly well-laundered underwear. In solidarity with most grown men, I soiled my underwear, too. But not for the same reasons.

I soiled it not only because, three days before my flight, my right arm was put in a cast after I fractured my wrist in a skateboarding accident (please don’t ask) which wouldn’t allow me to deftly maneuver the steering wheel. I soiled it primarily because of my in-laws.

All my male in-laws — my father in-law and my three brother-in-laws — are multi-awarded professional racecar drivers. My brother-in-law Enzo was the 2002 Formula Renault Champion in Asia and the second runner-up in the 2010 CTM touring car race in Macau. My other brother-in-law Don was the first and youngest Pinoy who was granted a scholarship by Formula BMW Asia international race in Albacete, Spain. As for me, I sometimes beat my wife in Super Mario Kart, when she is half-asleep.

But even with my right hand incapacitated, I’m not a terribly great driver to begin with. And the operative word here is “terribly.” The idea of parallel parking is enough to induce high blood pressure, involuntary bladder discharge and stress-related hair loss.

I have tried my best to improve my driving prowess, not just so my in-laws will finally accept me for who I am but also so that my father-in-law does not revoke my marriage license. Unfortunately, the exchange of bodily fluids with the sister of professional does little in the way of improving my driving know-how. Moreso the exchange of bodily fluids with my brother-in-laws.

Author RJ Ledesma getting ready for his turn on the racetrack

Despite this, I think my in-laws believe that they can still transform me into a professional racecar driver once they overhaul my chassis and find me a larger set of testicles. But while they are waiting for those replacement testicles to ripen, my in-laws were hoping that this international test drive might jumpstart my mutant driving gene.

In fact, before my wife and I left for Barcelona the last heartwarming bilin my father-in-law shared with me was “Record your fastest speed on the odometer and record how fast you finished the first lap. We have to compare your record with the other male in-laws.” That was one of the first times I felt a tinge of acceptance. 

Don’t get me wrong, though. I was still very excited at the prospect of driving on a championship racetrack. After all, what did I really have to fear? The fear of embarrassment that I might finish last on the racetrack? The fear of not living up to the expectations of my in-laws? The fear that the sports car will hurtle off the racetrack, turn turtle several hundred times and burst into flames whilst turning my pink parts turning a nice crisp brown?

So, just in case, I brought an extra set of underwear and fireproof clothing when I entered the briefing room of Circuit de Catalunya.

(Please note that I was unfamiliar with many of the technical racing terms that went into the discussion, so I have tried to interpret the briefing within my own level of appreciation.)

We start here on the pit lane,” the steward said in impeccable German-accented English while pointing at the picture of the racetrack. “You go out clockwise, around the track, use the long straight here, enter the dark cavern which echoes with banshee-like screams, leap through several rings of fire, accelerate into the loop the loop, take the inner turn around here, so we have more of an exit space back here. Go around this way and there’s a new chicane over there.”

“Chicane!? I love his music! I didn’t know he had a new album.”

The steward shook his head and cracked his knuckles. “You will do two laps of driving behind the pace car followed by five laps of free driving. Stay about three cars away from the pace car and you will get the best idea of how the track works and how the ideal line works.”

Circuit de Catalunya in Barcelona, Spain

“Ideally I’d like to survive with all my pink parts in their proper place.”

“We’ll see about that.” The steward directed my attention to the track map again. “After each lap, drive back to the pit lane again. You start and end at the pit lane. The speed limit on the pit lane is 30 kilometers. And please, no race driving in the pit lane.”

I raised my hand. “Do I have time to change underwear between laps?”

“What is very important for us is that there is no passing in the racetrack.”

“Passing another car or passing out while on the race track?”

The steward shook his head. “This is not racing, this is just test driving. Now, I will give you a short introduction to our cone system.”

“That’s great! I heard the cone system has been working very well for the B-Meg Llamados.”

“We have the double cone for the break point, the first single cone for the turning point, one cone for the APEX, one cone for the exit of the turn.”

“And do we get a cone with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and sprinkles when we finish the lap?”

“Mr. Ledesma, we realize that your juvenile attempts at humor are a defense mechanism to keep you from soiling your underpants. But no more humor please, we’re German.” The steward let out a heavy sigh. “Now if you have a really slow driver in front of you, then that’s bad luck for you on that lap. When you get back to the pit, just tell my colleague that the person in front of you is pretty slow, so you need a wider gap before you return to race track.”

“Um, considering that I’ll only be driving with one hand, I’m a pretty slow driver. Won’t I hold back a lot of drivers who want to test the speed limits of their cars?”

“Then we will let the other drivers take out their frustrations on you and your pink parts with rusty pliers at the alley behind the racetrack after the test drive is over.”

“I thought you said that you Germans don’t have a sense of humor?”

“We don’t.”

After wearing an iron cast chastity belt, praying the act of confession, all four mysteries and 367 novenas, I finally pulled into the pit lane where the roar of the continuously revved-up engines was almost as loud as the beating of my heart. As I took my queue spot behind the pace car, I programmed the car into Sports Plus mode to maximize the torque and pretended to understand what that meant, prayed that all that my Super Mario Kart training had paid off, and squeezed hard on my sphincter muscles while waiting for my turn on the racetrack. Finally, the green signal light flashed and I took a deep breath, crossed myself, floored the accelerator, and finally let it rip on the racetrack.

But, truth be told, I didn’t do much of a rip. Maybe not even a tear. Although there was a bit of a wrinkle. As soon as I left the pit lane, the pace car zoomed way ahead of me until it was s speck on my windshield so I could hardly familiarize myself with the ideal line. Then a few seconds later, I could already see the next test car quickly zipping up behind me from my rear-view mirror. At that point, I felt the same type of pressure that the Philippine Navy must be feeling on Scarborough Shoal.

I felt that I had no choice but to slam down on the accelerator just to keep up the pace. However, due to the limited motion of my right hand which couldn’t fully grasp the steering wheel (yes, yes, that’s my story nga and I’m sticking to it), I ended up bumping the sides of the tracks, driving over the grills, taking down some innocent cones, almost losing control on the curves and careening into the gravel. Several hundred times. Not quite impressive for my first-ever drive around a championship racetrack. But at least the car didn’t hurtle off the track and burst into flames while in mid-air. And my underwear remained relatively spotless. That’s what was important.

After completing seven laps, I drove back to the pit lane, crawled out of the car. I felt myself up to make sure all my internal programming was still in its right place, and finally discharged myself in joy! I might not have the descriptive ability to evoke my experience around the racetrack. But I will always have a perfect memory of the bowel movements.

So I may not have broken any records at Catalunya. But I didn’t break any bones either. That for me is an achievement. And now my in-laws can finally brag that I am “one of them” (while tastefully omitting the other, messier parts of the story) after my championship driving experience in Barcelona.

Now back to my training on Super Mario Kart.

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For comments, suggestions or soiled underwear, please e-mail ledesma.rj@gmail.com.  or visit www.rjledesma.net. Follow rjled on Twitter.