NASCAR dreams stalled in one afternoon

As I zipped the fire suit over my bulging belly and pulled the helmet over my Coke-bottle glasses I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had finally found my sport.

Dreams of shooting a jumpshot in the NBA or smacking a homer at Coors Field are long gone, but if a geezer like Mark Martin can be a professional race car driver, why not me?

Such were my thoughts as I prepared to race around the one-mile oval at the Pikes Peak International Raceway, under the tutelage of the expert drivers with the Richard Petty Driving Experience. The company makes its money by feeding the dreams and adrenaline needs of regular schlubs.

Sure, I was a little intimidated that some other students had raced professionally, while my biggest victory is smoking a 7-year-old at Mario Kart Wii.

And my blood pressure rose a bit as we discussed what to do in the event of brake failure or a car fire.

Still, I held out hope that I might discover a latent talent in the curves of that race course. I imagined them asking me to join the staff after my deft run, and perhaps landing a sponsorship deal.

The Richard Petty Driving Experience allows you to drive a real stock car, by yourself, which is a lot of fun but doesn’t seem wise. You follow a seasoned driver, and if you are able to stay consistent and controlled behind him, he keeps speeding up as you go around.

I focused on the bumper of the lead car and began rolling down pit road. Gaining confidence, I switched into second gear…and stalled.

They started me up again. Realizing what he was dealing with, my lead driver took off slowly.

In my defense, driving on an oval is not like driving on a straight highway. I felt like I was flying, but my lead driver was mashing on the green tail light that means “speed up Grandpa.”

Really, I tried. But my tendency toward caution held me back. The same tendency caused me to switch gears into neutral far too early as I rolled back onto pit road after my eight laps of glory.

My car rolled at a painfully slow pace, and I could see the frustration on the faces of the pit crew as I crept along, parked in the wrong place, and then had to be yanked out of the car. It was a fitting end.

The experts can hit 140 mph on this track with these cars. The other students cranked it up to 115 mph. Me, I topped out at 97 mph..

So, reluctantly, I crossed yet another sport off the list of possibilities. Such is the curse of giant dreams and midget abilities.

But I’ll have more respect for NASCAR drivers when I sit on the couch, crack open a beer and switch on the TV Sunday afternoons.

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