The following story is about my first race track experience. Professional writers Rob Gannon and Kim Dionis helped me.

Paul Ruby drives his Ferrari at Watkins Glen

by Paul Ruby

The guy up front with the flags and the sunglasses signals us to fly off uncontrollably in the first turn and spin out to be embarrassed, and later to have our heads bowed in shame at the reception dinner. No. Wait. That's not what he meant. I just imagined that, in the moment after the flag reached the bottom of the 180- degree arc. What he really meant was take it easy and don't do anything stupid. Now we are out on the track and Ian barks across the helmet intercom, "Let's go!" Oh God. I "Let's go!" and the revs are outpaced only by my heart rate. Air plunges through the scoop and down the 4 carburetors and there is a sucking vortex roar. Earlier that afternoon I sat in a pit row line up in my 308GT4 Ferrari waiting my turn on the WatkinsGlen Race Track. Idling in front of me was an F40, some Testarossas, a smattering of 308, 328 and 348's. I have never driven on a race track, never even seen a road race in person. Ian, my assigned coach, was sitting beside me. If Ian deemed my driving fit, I would be allowed out on the track a second time. We wore 2way microphone/speaker headsets in our helmets. Ian is an experienced race driver, and he sat there reading a newspaper. He wore a fire suit with matching racing shoes. Actually you couldn't see much of the suit because it was covered with patches from all the racing schools and track events he had participated in. My fire suit had a big stain on the behind where the guy I borrowed it from sat in a puddle of oil. I imagined myself walking through the Nittany Mall in a blazing red fire suit with event and sponsor patches and the natty, slipper- like racing shoes. Yes I race frenzily fast on nifty race tracks. Yes I have a Ferrari; it's red, it's fast, it will make you cry with joy when you have your foot in it.

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 But you know what? My heart picks ups whenever I drive my GT4. I can't take full breaths. I breathe in short pulses and my knees are spongy afterwards. During the first lap, we were just familiarizing ourselves with the track, the turn-in points, the exit points. I'm thinking, "We are going pretty fast right?" Nope. But my head is racing now - we are on lap two and turn #1 is coming up. Ian, finishing an article on planting heirloom vegetables, looks up and begins to rattle off instructions at a continuous rate. We are flying down the front straight at God Knows What Speed. That's what it actually says on my speedometer right after "Man You Better Slow Down," and "Are You Crazy?" I don't know if I am to take comfort that I am in the area of God or if I soon shall be with him. Ian lets me handle this one on my own (but I imagine chuckles to himself). I brake way too soon and crawl around turn #1. He runs out of patience (I imagine) and says, "Open it up and don't let up," and I do. Suddenly there is a kink in the road to the right followed by a sweeping left turn - easily taken at full throttle. An easy spot in the track. "Don't slow down, " says Ian. "This turn can be taken well over 100, no problem." I chicken out; my foot still has an inch to go to the floor. The guard rail is clicking by at a feverish blur. Ian says, "This next curve leading to the back straight can be taken at full throttle," and I oblige. I'm flying now. Back to reality. We are actually out on the track now. The back straight is longer and faster than the front straight. I know that race cars go over 200 here, but at the moment I see this as frivolous and foolhardy. Ian, I know, isn't going to let me brake until the 200- foot marker or so. The shame

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I would endure by braking before the 400 foot marker outweighs the fear of crashing into the barrier and cartwheeling into the trees (like the Ferrari in the movie "Grand Prix"), and I fly (Ruby) ooze (Ian) around the curve going GKWS. I'm proud of myself now. A car couldn't possibly go faster than that, I assure myself, but Ian is stirring his tea. I was afraid I had forgotten practically everything Ian had been telling me. There was a lot to remember. The car has to be positioned to allow maximum velocity upon turn exit, which is the crux of driving fast. Ian said, "Anyone can go fast in a straight line- you just put your foot down. The races are won in the curves." "Dial it in, dial it in," said Ian, in the sweeping high speed right after the full throttle - "Gonna see the Lord soon" - back straight. I'm going fast but not at the limits of adhesion. I find this difficult. First, I have never gone this fast in a straight, line let alone around a curve. Sure I've hustled around the light posts at the East Hills Shopping Center in Mum's '66 Delta 88 (snow tires). And had precisely determined just how tight it would turn before breaking loose. But you know what? My 308 with the sticky Pirellis requires a pant load more lateral G's to coax it into a slide.

(side bar)

Some notes:

1. Ian implores me to be smoother with the wheel. "Dial it in," he keeps on saying mysteriously. I am jerky, I guess, trying to hit the points marked with cones.

2. For the entire time on the track I don't get over the excitement, glee, and fright washing through my head.

3. I remember almost nothing Ian said; #2, above, gets in the way of the left side of my brain.

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4. Afterwards, Ian summarizes my driving: "Relax; you are too tense." My arms ache, my knees feel like rubber. Although I was standing I thought I could sense the earth's rotation. Me... tense?

Standing in the pit row immediately following my session, Ian says, "We are up again in 20 minutes. I'll see you down here". Uh oh, I think to myself. I start plotting my escape and try and think of hiding places so Ian can't find me. "I have a good idea," I say. "Can I go out with you in your car and see how it is suppose to be done?" "Okay, that makes sense," says Ian. How fast could he go in that 944 Porsche? It doesn't even have a turbo, just some sticky racing tires and some suspension enhancements. I thought... "Oh God." That's a quote. I said "Oh God." We are coming up to the 200- foot marker, Ian is at the wheel, and my right foot is pumping up and down as it instinctively looks for the life saving brake pedal. But, "oh God," it is on Ian's side. The sucker isn't braking at all! I am going to die. No question. I can't breathe. We exit the curve and 50cc's of air wheezes from my lungs. This freaking non-Italian car is catapulting its way towards the approach of the next left hand curve. This short straight allows real race drivers enough room to position their car for the next curve - a sweeping high speed left. But this left is tighter and it's banked the wrong way. Back to Ian- this man from some non- Italian country seems to have gone mad, and I think he's trying to make me wet my pants. My right foot commences to start a-pumpin' up and down agin. But this doesn't slow the car, and my left arm suddenly is not under control of my brain. It kind

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of floats around and hovers above the stick, glancing across Ian's Skip Barber patch floating in space-capsule weightlessness. Ian says on the intercom, "You all right?". "Wheeze... yes," I manage to say. This is a lot of syllables on 50cc's. Try it. Time has slowed now. A curve that previously took three seconds to traverse now takes 30 seconds. We are traveling at near light speed down a tunnel of blur juice, and I see a Testarossa. I'm still alive. Time snaps back into place. The tunnel disappears as my lungs begin to fill with air. Now the Porsche is pumping, crashing down into the pavement (like when you squish a Hot Wheels car down and the wheels bend out) . We are traveling around a curve- faster than I have ever imagined possible. My right arm and shoulder push hard against the door. The guard rail, I note, is just a wash of grey outside my door. "This is the guard rail the Porsche is going to crash into, " I think to myself. But it doesn't . I look up and those Ferraris are entering the next curve-- a much tighter right leading uphill. Ian and I reel them in. We are traveling oh... 30-40MPH faster than they are. I realize Ian isn't like me and the guys in those Ferraris ahead. It's like I just completed driver's ED at Penn Hills HS and he is Mario freaking Andretti. That is the gap between knowing how to drive at race level and us Villeneuve wannabee chumps tooling around, la de da, Watkins Glen. Three years have gone by since that experience, and this spring there is another Watkins Glen "opportunity." I almost can't not go. Mixed with the fear of crashing or blowing an uminum engine in a car I can't really continue to justify (it's paid off, yes, but...two distributor caps

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@ $104 each, plugs and wires $168, tires that cost as much as a Toyota etc.) is an equally strong urge that if I don't go I ain't livin'. It's exciting yes; it pumps you up and you feel alive and high. Most participants are true enthusiasts that have worked their way up from MGB's or Austin Healey 3000's, like me. Everyone else at these events seem to have a lot more money than I. One fella I buddied with had just bought an aluminum car trailer to tote his Ferrari on that actually cost more than twice my other car, a Toyota. Another guy, Don, was expounding on his newly rebuilt 308 engine and how it could turn 9000RPM's. When I asked him about the tach redline of 7500RPM he said, "Nah. You can run them to 8500 to 9000RPM's easy." Rebuilding a V8 can cost between $10K and $15K. Later that same day Don's engine expired while out on the track. It locked up solid when he tried to start it up for us in the pits. For a moment it turned over, but it sounded like someone dragging a pry bar across a concrete floor. I guess he overrevved it. He was disappointed that his weekend had ended and he had to flatbed his car 400 miles home. He smiled as he told of his adventure to others. If that had been my car I would have been in frozen shock until the point that they wheeled me away on the stretcher trying to fight back the tears. I would still be in therapy. I couldn't help but think some guys were there to impress someone. I don't mean impress someone with their driving prowess but with the amount and quality of the stuff they brought. One 50-year-old fella's stuff included three private mechanics and two Ferraris. Two of the mechanics wore black high heels and were adorned with really short taut pants and sported perfectly lacquered (much like their Ferraris) corsa rosso finger nails. They had a cooler with champagne and those little snacks they serve at art openings, the kind with the herb garnish

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sticking out of the whipped cheese stuff. My cooler had diet Faygo Redpop and a row of Fig Newtons fig bars. After all, when you own a Ferrari you don't skimp on your Figs.