The SCCA requires prospective road racing drivers to attend two driving schools in order to obtain a novice competition license. The San Francisco Region's annual spring driver's school is considered a "double" school because it's a three days school that fully satisfies the SCCA requirement.

The 2000 SFR driver's school began Saturday, February 19, and wrapped up on Monday, February 21, which was a holiday and meant I didn't have to use up a   vacation day. My good friends Marcy and Bob Crawford, long-time members of the SCCA, generously offered to loan me Marcy's race-ready 1993 Nissan Sentra to drive at the school. Bob also volunteered to be my crew chief (and crew), so that all I had to do was concentrate on driving. I rented a driver's suit, bought a helmet, gloves and fire-retardant socks, and I was good to go.

The school was held at the region's own race track, Thunderhill Park, about 85 miles north of Sacramento. Bob, Marcy and I arrived at the facility around midnight on Friday, and Bob parked their motorhome in the nearly-full paddock area. Bob explained that in addition to the 65 student drivers, there were also more than 200 volunteer workers on hand to help conduct the school.

Early Saturday morning, while I signed-in at registration, Bob took the car to tech inspection where scrutineers insured it had all the required safety equipment such as roll cage, five-point seat harness and fire bottle. My helmet, suit and socks were also checked for compliance. Everything passed.

At the first drivers' meeting, three of us were assigned to our instructor, Alan, a bankruptcy court judge who liked to go fast. In addition to me, driving Marcy's Nissan Sentra, there was Kevin, age 17, driving a rented Datsun 510, and Matt, age 20, driving his dad's Mazda RX7. I figured since I was twice their age, I should be twice as fast.

The first activity was a ride-along around the track in a street car with Alan driving. We hopped in the back of a new Lexus, with Alan's girlfriend Marty riding shotgun. It turned out the car belonged to Marty, who let Alan use it for the ride-along so long as she could sit up front and he went fast. We all took an immediate liking to her.

Alan did eight laps around the portion of the track that was going to be used for the driving school. (In addition to the 1.5 mile section we would be using, there was also another mile or so of hilly section that would not be used.) Alan pointed out the braking points, the turn-in points, the apexes, and the exit spots for each of the nine turns we would be negotiating. He also explained some of the rules to follow. For example, we were to stay on the racing line, even when being passed, and the driver doing the passing had the responsibility for passing safely.

Alan emphasized that the purpose of the driver's school was for the region's existing members to determine if they were comfortable with the idea of us racing with them. So, the goal wasn't to be fast, it was to be safe and smart and to demonstrate that we could be trusted out on the track with other cars. Since we had to finish the entire three-day school in order to get our novice license, if we wrecked our car and failed to complete the required hours of track time, we'd be fresh out of luck.

After the ride-along, we began our practice sessions, driving our own cars in groups of several diffent car classifications with varying speeds. Because of this, each  30-minute practice session--two before lunch and two after--would give us ample  opportunity to pass and to be passed. This was the part that worried me the most,  because I didn't want to mess up and send somebody off the track, especially since that somebody might be me. But as the practice sessions continued, I worried less and less. You see, since my showroom stock car was one of the slowest cars on  track, I was getting plenty of practice being passed! Still, of the 30 cars in my group, I was 18th fastest. Not so bad after all.

With each practice session, our passing privileges increased. During the first session, we could pass only on the main straightaway. By the afternoon of the first day, we were passing everywhere on the track. Also, as the other students got the hang of things, I slowly dropped from 11th fastest to 18th. My speeds didn't improve any, but many of theirs did.

I loved all the left-hand turns, but hated the three right-hand turns 3, 5 and 9. Turns 3 and 5 were both sweeping, right-hand, off-camber turns. I found that I had to enter them in my front-wheel drive Sentra much earlier than the rear-wheel drive cars, and felt barely in control as I kept the car on its tiptoes all the way through the turns. I wanted to gun it, but couldn't. Turn 9 was a sharp right-hander that emptied onto the main straight, and was important because your exit speed effected your top-end speed on the straightaway. I struggled with turn 9 all day. Sometimes I went through it cleanly, sometimes I went through it totally out of control.

After the last afternoon session that first day, I pulled off the track and drove by Matt's trailer to congratulate him for passing me twice in one session. As I did, one of the instructors, who had been out on the track in his own car monitoring us, pulled up next to me with something he obviously wanted to tell me. "Two things," he said. "First, are you aware that you totally missed the line through turn 9 that last lap?" I chuckled and nodded. "Second," he continued, "and this will bring a smile to your face, all through turns 3 and 5, your right rear tire was 9 inches off the track."

He was right: that did bring a smile to my face.

Before nightfall, the weather started turning ugly, so Bob put the rain tires on the car because he didn't want to change them in the rain. If it didn't rain, he wouldn't mind putting the slick tires back on in the dry. The evening ended with a spaghetti dinner (great meatballs!) in the town of Willow for all the workers and as many of the students as could fit in the 200-capacity dining room. Around 2 or 3 in the morning, long after I had gone to bed, the wind woke me as it howled like a pack of coyotes, and the rain came down with a vengeance.

The next morning's sessions were spent entirely in the wet. A strange thing happened on the track during the rain. All the cars that had been passing me virtually at will in the dry were now much slower in the wet. My front-wheel drive car lost only about five seconds per lap in the rain, whereas most of the other cars were losing 15 to 20 seconds a lap. I was passing everybody, Datsun 510's, RX7's, Baby Grands, even a Porsche or two. Now this was more like it! I really got a taste of what it felt like to be one of the faster cars. I ended up 5th fastest in the rain. The best part of the day was chasing a Turbo Porsche around the track and catching him through the turns even though he could pull away on the straight sections. Car owner Bob actually applauded as I pulled into the paddock at the end of the last rainy session. "One more lap and you would have had him," Bob beamed.

On the third day we were going to have two races, one for 5 laps and the other for 8. During the practice session that morning, I went into turn 3 way too fast and ended up shooting straight off the track into the mud. I kept the car moving so I wouldn't get stuck, because I didn't want to be towed. I wanted to get back out and practice some more. But I had no idea where there was a good place to reenter the track, so I simply headed for the pavement and gunned it. Unfortunately, just out of sight and alongside the track was a shallow depression full of water and mud. The car went in and stuck like a dart. I had to be towed out after all. When I returned to the track, I left two lines of mud about a hundred yards long, but I tried to keep them off the racing line. There was so much mud under the car that Bob and I drove it to town to one of those manual car washes and hosed it down. Marcy tells me that, even months later, clumps of mud were still falling from the car.

After we returned from the car wash, I joined my group for a few side-by-side practice starts in the rain, and it looked like I was going to be a contender instead of a back marker, but alas, the weather cleared, the sun slowly appeared, and the track began to dry. Bob put the slick tires back on the car and I was reluctantly ready to go racing in the dry. The first race was uneventful, with me finishing 15th. My teammate Matt finished second, with the fastest lap time of anybody, and my other teammate Kevin finished third. The Turbo Porsche took the checkers.

Actually, there was one small event worth noting. Early in the race, as I flew at top speed towards the end of the main straightaway, I turned my head and waved to the timing and scoring building where I knew car-owner Marcy was working. When I turned back, I noticed with horror that I had gone past my braking point and was going way too fast into the 90-degree left-hand turn 1. I was about to exit the track at full speed. I had visions of rolling the car or flipping it end-over-end, and doing all of this right in front of the owner. I hit the brakes hard, whipped the wheel to the left and barely made the turn. I could not believe how close I had come to doing something really stupid. Marcy later told me she had watched the whole thing and thought I did a good job of recovering, which made me feel a little less dumb, but not much.

The second race was more eventful. On lap two, as I entered the high-speed left-hand turn 6, I heard a loud pop as I applied the brakes. I was vaguely aware that my foot went a little farther down than usual, but it didn't fully register. I went through turn 6 slightly faster than normal, a little squirrelly perhaps, but otherwise okay. Then I accelerated towards turns 7 and 8, which together create a slow-speed left-hand hairpin turn, and only then did I remember to check the brakes. Now, I kind of vaguely realized that maybe, possibly, perhaps something was not quite right down there. Sure enough, the brakes were completely gone, non-existent, kaput. My foot went all the way to the floorboard with no resistance at all. I looked ahead to see exactly where I was going to die, but when I saw what lay in my path, I smiled.

You see, right in front of me was the entrance to the new hill section of the racetrack. I swear to you, the sky opened up, bright rays of sunshine descended on turn 7, and a triumphant crescendo of music filled the air. It was as if someone had built a private runoff area just for me, the only such runoff anywhere on the entire track. To this day, I still think it built just for me. The car went straight through turn 7 and onto the new section of track, shot up the hill, then slowed and coasted to a gentle stop.

Not only was I going to live, but I was also going to return Marcy's car in one piece. Well, maybe I was going to return it very slowly.  Using the handbrake to stop the car, I turned around for a better view of the track behind me and watched the rest of the race which I was now so obviously out of. But even though my day was done and the school was over, I had logged enough seat time to earn my novice competition license.

The day ended with graduation pictures, speeches, and presentations of our licenses and log books. I now have two years to log two complete races in order to earn a regular regional competition license. Then I can get out on the track with all the veterans--and pray for rain.

Words are inadequate for expressing my thanks to both Marcy and Bob. Their generosity afforded me a weekend I'll never forget. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to the dozens and dozens of cheery volunteers who not only made the school possible, but made it a throroughly enjoyable experience. Thanks, one and all!

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