Learning Curves

Oh, man. What am I doing here? Oh, man. I really shouldn’t be here. That’s all that keeps running through my head as I stand on pit road at Lowe’s Motor Speedway in Concord, North Carolina. It is a surreal feeling.

Sky Associate Editor Katherine Clark had always been a casual racing fan. But after moving to North Carolina, she discovered she had a need for speed. Her co-workers knew it, too, and one decided to do something about it.

I’VE JUST GOTTEN OUT of the No. 3 Dodge after my training laps, and I’m shaking. My driving instructor—SpeedTech President Randy Baker, son of NASCAR royalty Buck Baker—is complimentary of my “skills,” but I am, to be honest, more than a little freaked out. There is no way I’m getting back in that car by myself. I don’t know how I’m going to get off pit road (I stalled the car twice trying to exit with Randy in the car), and I’m certain I won’t be able to find pit road again when it’s time to come in. I need to find Melessia Baker, SpeedTech’s VP and event coordinator, and beg for mercy.

I’m here by myself and the only woman wearing a blue jumpsuit (the official driving uniform). A few curious classmates ask me what I’m doing here. I tell one I’m here for work. He laughs and says he and his buddies came “’cause we’re crazy.” Nice. I hope he’s not in my driving group.

Frozen with fear, I begin to hear my own thoughts spoken by the men standing nervously around me. Sentiments like “That was scary,” “This is nuts” and “I’m not so sure this is a good idea.” (The expletives have been deleted, but you get the idea.)

Wait a minute! These are men. Good ol’ Southern boys. Red-blooded American males who were raised on racing. And they’re just as scared as I am. A-freakin’-mazing! Hot diggity. I smile to myself: I guess the self-preservation instinct is not gender-specific.

I’m pulled from my reverie by Melessia rallying the drivers. She is assigning groups of five to drive on the track together during the solo laps. Yeah. I’m going to be driving alongside four other drivers who are just as bad (or good, depending on how you look at it) as I am. This is so not a good idea.

All I can think about are my husband Tony, my 9-year-old Ian, and my 3-month-old twins Matthew and Robert. Am I going to make it home to them? Will my babies still have a mom by night’s end? What if one of these crazy guys does something stupid? Worse yet, what if I do something stupid?

Now let’s back up a minute. Why am I at racing school, if I’m so scared about getting out on the track? Well, I’m a NASCAR fan from way back. When I was a little girl, in the 1970s, my big brother Tommy was an avid fan. If I happened to be watching TV on a Sunday afternoon during race season, he would (literally) sit on me and commandeer the TV with the hope of catching part of a race. He was a huge Richard Petty fan. I, being the bratty little sister, used to cheer on rival driver Cale Yarborough, just to irritate Big Brother. He could make me watch, but he couldn’t tell me who to like.

I watched on and off through the ’80s and ’90s. When I moved to North Carolina in February 2003, I was just in time for the start of the new season. I watched an interview with the then-current champion, Tony Stewart, NASCAR’s bad boy, whose temper had gotten him into so much trouble the season before that he’d been ordered to have anger-management counseling in the offseason. Boogity, boogity, boogity! I had found my driver.

And on that day I joined the ranks of loyal NASCAR fans. Sunday was race day, and I had a need for speed. On Mondays during race season my colleagues would pretend to be interested as I regaled them with detailed descriptions of my driver’s exploits the day before, or kvetched about bad calls and stupid moves on the part of other drivers.

Having tolerated me for several racing seasons, one editor offered me the chance to put my money where my mouth was. “You’re going to a NASCAR driving school,” he said.

I’ve had months to prepare myself mentally. I’ve gone over scenarios in my head. I took copious notes during the classroom session, and paid strict attention as we did laps in the van to find our marks and get oriented on the track. But as I stand on pit road waiting to take my training laps, I’m scared. Really, really scared.

My earlier session with Randy didn’t help. After a less-than-graceful exit off pit road and a couple of herky-jerky laps around the track, it dawned on me what he was shouting from the passenger seat: “Anchor your foot! Anchor your foot!”

I planted my heel and pushed my toes forward on the throttle. The ride smoothed out, so I could pay attention to finding my marks and hitting them.

My hands at 10 and 2, I loosened my death grip on the steering wheel and realized that there was an extra hand there. How long had Randy been steering? How embarrassing. I took a deep breath, pushed my shoulders back and tried to relax. I hit my next two marks, and the extra hand went away. I focused on being smooth and coordinated and getting around the track.

“Throttle! Throttle!” Wha—? Oh, gas! I pushed my foot forward and the car immediately started jerking and bucking. I pushed harder, but it didn’t help.

“Anchor your foot!” I planted my heel once more and looked down at the wheel. My third hand had grown back. I focused on getting rid of it again.

A few more laps at around 80 miles per hour and it was time to head to pit road. Great. I don’t know where I am on the track and I’m supposed to make the turn onto pit road? I backed off the throttle and started looking for the elusive entrance. I knew I had to take the car out of gear, but I couldn’t get my hand to come off the wheel. By the time I gained control of my extremity, my third hand had already taken care of it. OK. Time to brake and get the heck out.

And so we’re back to where this story began: Here I stand on pit road, awaiting my fate and hoping against hope that Melessia forgets to call my name.

One of my fellow drivers, Stephen, sidles up to me and asks me how it was. I’m not sure how to respond, but I know I have fear written all over my face. I say something about not getting back in the car alone. I’m pretty sure I say I’m going to back out.

But as I stand and listen to the guys around me talking, comparing notes and expressing their fear, I realize something: I am going to get back in that car. Not only that, I’m going to drive as fast as I can.

I hear Melessia call Stephen’s name and some others. Then I hear “Katherine Clark!” Yes!

Let’s go. I’m ready.

I climb into the No. 48. (OK, I’m not crazy about catching Jimmie Johnson’s ride, even if he has won the past two NASCAR Nextel—now Sprint—Cup championships, but I have to stay focused on driving.) I put my helmet on. One of the SpeedTech instructors, Kirk Spaulding, helps me with the five-point safety harness. I check my instrument panel and rearview mirror. I take a deep breath, press down on the throttle three times, press in the clutch and flip the ignition switch. The car roars to life, and it’s absolutely thrilling to feel that rumble throughout my body. I get the green and, after a rough start, remember Baker’s admonitions. I plant my right foot and press firmly on the throttle. First, second, third—I shift seamlessly and cruise to the backstretch. I spot my mark and shift to fourth. I find my line and hit my marks through turns 3 and 4. I’m going 120 mph when I look up at the flag stand and see a blue flag with a diagonal orange stripe waving for me.

And I have no idea what it means. I start to panic. What does it mean? What am I supposed to do? Oh, man! Now wait a minute, I tell myself. There are only three flags: The checkered flag, the yellow caution flag and . . . the “move-over” flag! That’s it. I check my mirror and sure enough, there’s a car behind me. I make my way to the inside, use my hand signal and let him pass.

As I round Turn 1 a lap later, I see there’s another car behind me, waiting to pass. I move to the inside, wave him by and make a decision: I’m not getting passed again.

With my foot anchored, I hit the throttle and start making some time. I catch the cars ahead of me and run with the pack, turning 55-second laps (about 135 mph).

I’m hitting my marks; my hands are in the 10 and 2 position, and they’re relaxed. My arms and shoulders feel loose, and I’m smiling. I’m racing under the lights at Lowe’s Motor Speedway—and I’m loving it!

All too soon the checkered flag waves for me and I’m pulling onto pit road. I know exactly where it is and what I am supposed to do. I’m absolutely buzzing!

After parking my car (yes, my car) and ditching my safety gear, I make my way over to the guys in my group. We start comparing notes and reliving the glory. I’m shaking. I hold out my trembling hand. One by one the rest of the guys hold out a hand, and to my surprise, they’re all shaking!

At that moment I realize something about myself: I’m competitive. I’d had people tell me this in the past, but I never believed it. Tonight, looking up at the stars shining above The Beast of the Southeast, I know it’s true.

At press time, Sky Associate Editor Katherine Clark was reviewing offers from NASCAR Sprint Cup teams for the 2008 season.

KATHERINE CLARK PHOTO BY KELLY CULPEPPER; ALL OTHER photos courtesy of Randy Baker’s SpeedTech Auto Racing Schools inc.