Be a Race Car Driver, Part 1

Orville Wright got the first plane to fly at a speed of approximately 30 miles per hour. And Wilbur ran alongside, probably wearing a three-piece suit, a bowler hat, and eating microwave popcorn. Wait, wrong Orville.

Now they tell me I’ll be driving a car Sunday at more than three times that speed and it won’t take flight?

I may not be Einstein—feel free to disagree—but logic and multiple “Back to the Future” viewings tell me that if I hit a certain speed either I’ll start to fly or at 88 miles per hour I’ll time-travel back to see my dad playing basketball at Lower Merion High School.

In short-shorts.

Neither option sounds good.

As a lark, I signed on to drive a “Supercar” Sunday on the NOLA Motorsports Racetrack, where the 2015 Indy Grand Prix of Louisiana will be held. Now I’m double-checking my life insurance and thinking it’d be wrong for Linda to be my in-car videographer because if things go poorly, Daniel won’t have us around to nag him anymore.

And I don’t want my 12-year-old high-fiving people at my funeral. “Oh yeah, another night of ice cream for dinner and 2 a.m. Minecraft battles!”

Some fool is going to give me the keys to a Ferrari, Lamborghini, or McLaren (I’ve never heard of that one, so they may be messing with me), and expect me to know where the ignition is? Who am I kidding—I may not know how to open the door.

Will it fly up like a DeLorean and knock me unconscious, or should I do that myself and try to slide across the hood like the guys in that “One Week” video?

I’m gonna drive a “Supercar?” I grew up riding in a banana-yellow station wagon fighting my brother and sister so that I alone could sit in the way-back and make faces at the cars behind us.

The first car I drove was a Chevy Chevette that reached a top speed of 57 miles per hour with a tornado tailwind behind me.

What do I know about cars? I watched “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” as a kid and thought Dick Van Dyke and his car were cutting-edge. I always wished my parents would buy Herbie the Love Bug.

I’ve decided my best bet is to fake it until I make it. To do that, I need to look the part.

I watched “Speed Racer” as a kid, so I know all about cool -- and I’m not talking about Speed or Spritle. I’ll get a pair of racing gloves, some designer sunglasses, maybe even some stylish racing footwear. If I top it off with a skin-tight white racing suit—and, why not, even an intimidating mask—I just may look the part.

Just call me Racer X. Chitty Chitty is out and Chim-Chim is all-in!

(Editor's note: My Sunday plans changed when I came down with a mild case of vertigo Saturday and Sunday. The room was moving, but I wasn't. I spent the two days feeling like every time I walked I was in a snow globe someone was shaking. 


Of course, that's not exactly conducive to driving 100+ miles per hour on a racetrack. I'm going to reschedule the event and get my Mach 5 back in gear then.)