Image credit: Brian Stalter

Becoming a pretty good high-performance driver

A five-part series during which I learn how NOT to embarrass myself at the racetrack. In other words, how I became a pretty good high-performance driver.

For the last few years, I’ve wanted to get to the racetrack regularly. Up to now, that Strong Man money stood in my way. No longer. Not that I have stacks of Benjamins littering the back hall, but enough to get to my local track, High Plains Raceway, if I keep modifications to a minimum, do my own maintenance, and run tires that have decent longevity.

It’s not just that I want to get to the track more, though — I want to become a competent high-performance driver.

What does that mean? For me, anyway, it means that during open lap days at High Plains, I want to be one of the quicker cars in the slow group. (If you’ve never been to an open lap day, cars are often split into two groups: fast and slow. 911s, Corvettes, exotics, and the like making up the former — Miatas, FR-Ss, sporty daily drivers making up the latter.)

You may be asking, “Why do you want to be the fastest of the slow?” Mostly because I have a yen for lightweight, low horsepower scoots, a proclivity I explore in the next segment, “Finding the Right Car.”

Image credit: Brian Stalter

Photo credit: Kārlis Dambrāns

The joy of a morning drive in winter

To the car that inspired this piece: 2008 BMW 335i

Like other stick shift junkies, I take the majority of my soul-percolating spins in spring and summer when faith in adhesion allows me to carve deep in the bends. Yet winter drives when the roads are clear and temperature reasonable have their own charms. For one, they are a lot things that summer drives are not.  Continue reading

Warning: your car may be trashing up the neighborhood

Austin, TX

I’m a suburban middle class guy, which along with a penchant for Hondas and Toyotas, requires that I have a two-car garage. All my neighbors do, too. Yet as I look down my street I see that many of them have one of their cars parked out on the curb, as if it’s the holidays and all their families are in town. Now, I’m not a big fan of homeowners’ associations and their clumsy, paint-by-the-numbers aesthetics, but they are dead right about one thing: cars parked on the street trash up a neighborhood.

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The first time I smelled a girl

When I was in eighth grade and living in the seaside and preppy hamlet of Duxbury, MA, the local sporting goods store chartered a ski bus for a day trip to Loon Mountain, NH. My friend Tim and I signed up, as did many of our classmates. Like many outings of the “field trip” variety the most interesting happenings occurred on the bus to and from the main event – e.g., on the way, the bus overheated, and the 90 minutes we had to wait for another afforded one philosophically inclined sophomore the opportunity to expatiate on the reasons why we enjoy smelling our own flatulence.  Continue reading