Issue link: http://digital.canadawide.com/i/250756
PostCards Race a Little Hell When you're hurtling into a blind curve, "uh-oh" is not what you want to hear from your driver by Heather Pengelley O n a warm and sunny day, I board a bus and ride 55 kilometres west of Great Salt Lake to Tooele County – home of Utah's Bonneville Salt Flats. I've signed up to ride with a professional driver from the Ford Racing High Performance Driving School at Miller Motorsports Park, a perk offered at my husband's leadership convention. First, we're herded into a grandstand to watch a Lucas Oil Off-Road Series race. I'm a racetrack virgin, and I'm taken aback at the deafening level of the engine noise. As trucks and off-road buggies whip around S-bends and sail over humps in the dirt at breakneck speed, I begin to question my initial enthusiasm. The organizers have arranged group visits to the park's four signature activities, including a zip line, karting and pit crew challenge. The Hot Lap lineup is the longest. But I'll wait. NASCAR drivers train here. I'd imagined a huge, oval-shaped racing circuit, much like the ones at Daytona and Indianapolis. Instead, beyond the hot pit, where three drivers in a fleet of nine Ford Racing Mustang GTs rev their engines, the track's bends, curves and straightaways resemble a Grand Prix raceway. Finally it's my turn. After donning a heav- "I was working my way to Reno from Salt Lake," Charlie explains. "I got stuck on the highway and had to work for food. The people here gave me a couple of Crunchie bars, brought me out to the track, and here I am. Have you ever done this before?" "Never." His eyes sparkle. "Just think of it as a drive on a mountain road with no highway patrol." The door slams shut. Charlie stomps on the gas pedal. We race toward the concrete wall Flailing in my seat like a rag doll, I emit a long shriek and a sailor's curse. I fully expect the car to flip. ily padded helmet, I'm directed to a Mustang. The door is open. My driver, Charlie Putman, beckons me in. I sink into a snug passenger seat and an attendant quickly snaps me into a four-point harness. "It's a form-fit seat," says Charlie. "You'll see why in a minute." A handsome, grey-haired guy with a chiselled jaw, Charlie, 56, started his racing career at 41. In 2010, he won the Grand-Am Continental Tire Sports Car Challenge GS Championship with co-driver Charles Espenlaub. He's taught here for more than seven years. "How'd you get started?" I ask. 12 w e s t w o r l d | s p r i n g 2 0 14 p12-13_Postcards.indd 12 at the pit's end, the speedometer needle climbing vertical and beyond. "How fast are we going?" "About 100 mph [160 kph]," Charlie drawls. I figure that's not too bad. Charlie neglects to tell me that he takes rather sharp turns at this speed. A few metres from the wall, he slams on the brakes, spins the steering wheel and skids onto the track. Flailing in my seat like a rag doll, I emit a long shriek and a sailor's curse. I fully expect the car to flip. Plastered against the passenger door, I cannot move. "It's the G-force," he shouts. "It's easy to go a hundred in a straight line." When we hit the straightaways, Charlie tops 322 kph – about 200 miles an hour. It takes my breath away. I'm afraid to speak for fear of breaking his concentration. Alternating between terror and elation, I gasp and hoot but can't get out a word. It's happening too fast. A curve. Another straight stretch. Then into a hairpin. Charlie knows exactly when to slam on the brakes, skid and hit the accelerator again. On bends, the ear-splitting squeal of racing tires lasts an eternity. When Charlie hits the gas, the engine's guttural purr grows to an octave higher than a lion's roar. Through turns, the Mustang climbs the wide, red-and-white-striped curb. A few centimetres from the right front tire is the gravel infield. If we hit dirt, I'm sure we're done for. Charlie completes the first 3.5-km circuit, nearly half of Miller's full racetrack, the longest and reputedly the safest in North America, in about 2.4 minutes. "Uh-oh," says the driver as we race toward a blind curve. "We're coming in a bit hot. Brace yourself!" Despite the warning, Charlie looks as cool as a cucumber. For him, it's just another day at the office. As for me, I'm clenching every muscle in anticipation of the next skid. But would I do it again? Definitely. W miller motorsports park/joe salas-4theriders.com 14-01-23 9:25 AM