DAYTONA BEACH, Fla. — Not going to lie, I was a little terrified.
The last time I had driven a stick shift was more than a decade ago, and I repeatedly stalled out in the middle of a busy East Lansing street. That’s all I could think about as I stood on pit road at Daytona International Speedway, dressed in a firesuit and about to climb into a NASCAR stock car.
In the driver’s seat. By myself. On the 2.5-mile track, NASCAR’s second-biggest oval that’s home to the Daytona 500.
Thanks to the NASCAR Racing Experience, for eight minutes Thursday, I had a license to turn laps in a race car on the giant iconic NASCAR track.
The day before, I asked driver Alex Bowman for tips, advice, anything that might help.
“Floor it,” the No. 48 Hendrick Motorsports Chevrolet driver said. “That’s really the only advice you need to know. And if you don’t floor it, you have failed your team, so you better floor it.”
Oh, god.
As I waited for my turn on pit road, my mind furiously ran through what I remembered of the detailed notes I took during a brief how-to and safety training session.
I’ll have a spotter; just listen and do what he says. Push the button on the steering wheel and hold it to talk to him. Constant throttle, don’t lift in the corners.
The leader of the instructional session said, “All you gotta do is go fast, turn left and not hit nothing.” And while he was helpful and answered my many follow-up questions, I still felt not at all qualified or prepared to pilot a race car.
“Trust the car,” he said. “Trust your instincts.”
Except, my instincts were limited having never surpassed 100 miles per hour in a passenger car and with subpar stick-shift experience.
Helmet on and firesuit zipped up, I climbed through the driver’s window of a No. 43 Chevrolet — a car number synonymous with seven-time NASCAR champ Richard Petty — and immediately realized the shifter was not my biggest concern.
Comfortably in my seat, my feet were were practically in a different zip code than the clutch, brake and gas pedals.
Luckily, the NASCAR Racing Experience was prepared for a driver like me, providing not one but two cushions to ensure I could reach the pedals while my spotter, Albert, introduced himself over the radio.
It was green flag time. My heart felt like it was pounding through my ears, overtaking Albert’s final instructions.
Focus. Breathe. Don’t wreck.
My left foot pushing deep onto the clutch with the car already in fourth gear, a van came up behind me and gave me a literal push off pit road. Albert told me when I was up to speed and then to get my foot off the clutch and hit the gas as I merged onto the track headed into Turn 1.
This wasn’t a new stock car by any means — and definitely not the Next Gen one making its debut in the Daytona 500 — but man, it was fast. One instinct I was told not to trust was lifting into the corners, so I didn’t. Or tried not to.
Holy [expletive].
Daytona’s 31-degree banking in the turns hits harder when you’re the driver and not the passenger. And as Albert offered words of encouragement and instructions, I felt like I got the hang of it after just one lap, but it’s monumentally harder than it looks — by a lot. And I wasn’t the only car out there.
It was a wild rush, unique in its own way, even after having flown with the Air Force Thunderbirds and riding along in an IndyCar car at Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
Spotting me from above the track, Albert said I had a good line and to stick with it at 4,000 RPMs. He liked what he was seeing and told me to “keep digging,” so I did that too. Bowman’s advice echoed in my mind, and I wanted a fast lap average, so I pushed deeper into the gas pedal.
I maxed out at 145.79 miles per hour.
The speed was thrilling, intoxicating and even addictive once I settled in and felt in control. No wonder drivers are obsessed with speed. Of course, they need a fast car to win races, but I almost instantly understood how easily driving a race car could transform someone into an adrenaline junkie.
I could have kept going for a few more laps, but the next thing I knew, my eight minutes on track were done.
I crossed the start-finish line on the frontstretch, and Albert said it was my “checkered flag” time, signaling it was my last lap and to dip off the track onto the apron for one more time around before hitting pit road.
A sweaty mess, I climbed out of the car and took my helmet off, realizing a newfound respect for the drivers who do this for hours and hundreds of miles with 39 other cars out there inches away from each other. They are undeniably athletes with the strength and endurance required just to keep up.
No wonder they’re so eager to get back behind the wheel time and time again. Now, I am too.
