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About
Tammy Kaehler
Forget
Zero to 60. Try Zero to 117.
"Start
'er up!" A hand waves in the air. I'm sitting in a racecar
with my finger on the ignition switch. I'm sweating. Lots.
The engine rumbles to life. I try to ignore my terror and
wonder how the hell I got here.
The basics
are easy. Two years ago I decided to write a series of auto
racing mysteries, starring Kate Reilly, female racecar driver.
Timely, I thought. Friends and acquaintances agreed, and dozens
of people gave generously of their time to help me breathe
life into Kate's world.
That led
to the racecar.
Because
I was taking great care to get every detail of racing life
correct … except for one big gap. The problem? I can't
drive a racecar … or maybe that should be Drive A Racecar,
because we're talking speed and threshold braking and heel
and toe downshifting and loud noises and helmets and firesuits
and the possibility of crashing … and who thought this
was a good idea?
I'd always
been a "Slow down! Be careful!" type, not a "Go
faster!" type. Even tire squeal scared the hell out of
me. It took me two years to sign up for a racing school, and
then I didn't tell anyone about it. Didn't want to think about
it. I just knew I'd pee my pants when they told me to go fast.
Back to
the racecar. Sweat's dripping down my face and pooling under
my butt. My head's sweating inside the helmet. My racecar
is rumbling along in a "I like to go fast, not idle"
kind of way. I'm about to go out on the track … alone,
for the first time.
I'd made
it through the first day without hyperventilating. Barely.
Sliding a car around on a wet circle, learning to control
a skid. Darting around a small autocross course in first a
street car, then a racecar. Finding the optimum racing line
on the track. But this was the second day. I'd been fine telling
myself to go at my own pace. Then we followed a professional
around the track. Disaster.
The instructors
lied to me, wonderfully, to calm me down. I half believed
them. Going out alone meant I could go my own pace, but it
also meant I had to remember where and how to brake, accelerate,
and turn.
Then it
was time. Ready or not, I was waved onto the track. Three
minutes later, a miracle occurred: I had fun. Really, honestly,
had fun. I was still scared, still terrible. But I was improving.
On the
third and last day of school, I was good-not fast, but I was
doing it right. Butterflies of excitement replaced dread in
my stomach. The instructors observing key corners stopped
offering corrections and told me I was consistent and precise.
My grin still hasn't worn off.
The relief
I felt at mastering a racecar was overwhelming. On a personal
level, I had a new yardstick for measuring my capabilities.
Nothing has ever been as hard for me as racing school. On
a professional level, I now understand the sights, sounds,
smells, and feel of being in a racecar. Finally, I can make
Kate roar around the track.
The best
indication of what I'd learned and how far I'd come was a
single moment as I headed for the pits on the last day of
school. I wrapped my car around Turn 10a and heard the tires
squeal. I thought: Gee, I love squealing my tires around that
turn. And I laughed out loud right there in the car.
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