Hot wheels and cold feet

A staff reporter rides in a rally car

By KIMBERLY M. WEYANDT

MONTICELLO, NY — The butterflies in my stomach made it almost impossible to eat my donut. As I drove to the racecourse across from the Concord Resort, I contemplated backing out at every traffic light. An accident-prone control-freak, being a passenger in a fast car as one of my biggest fears.

“If I don’t want to do it. I’ll just say no,” I said out loud, turning off my blinker. In my head I apologized to the driver behind me, who had no idea where I was going, and by now was probably sure I didn’t either.

Across from the Concord, I pulled into what may have once been a garage and took a deep breath as I climbed out of my car.

A group of men in chairs sat in the bed of a red pickup truck. They spoke, but not to me. The antique parking lot was full of potholes, sinkholes and brightly colored cars with numbers painted on their windows, doors and hoods. Neon orange tape separated the front of the building from the back, where the drivers had congregated near a table protected by a white tent.

President of Rally New York, Ivan Orisek stood before the crowd made up of more than 44 mostly male drivers and welcomed them to the Rally New York time trials. Behind them stretched a field decorated with bright orange cones. For the event, each driver would run the dirt course and his time would be recorded. Whoever had the shortest time at the end of all of the runs would be the winner.

“We have a reporter who would like to ride along in one of the cars,” said Ed Jackson, deputy clerk of the course, asking the drivers if that would be a problem.

Wearing my favorite red hat and my best smile I waved as everyone turned to look at me.

“No,” said one man.

“She can ride with me,” offered up another.

The drivers made their way back to their cars and lined up for their runs. Cyril Kearney, a driver from Long Island, offered to take me for my first spin.

I smiled, thanked him and told him I’d be right there.

“Is he a good driver?” I asked Jackson as soon as Kearney left.

Jackson assured me he was.

Walking to Kearney’s car, my heartbeat increased with every step. I pulled on the white helmet loaned to me and said hello to Kearney before climbing over the roll bar along the door and into the passenger seat of his blue Subaru STI.

“Be careful with me now. I’m fragile,” I said jokingly, wondering if he would understand.

“I will,” he said, yanking on my seatbelt and pulling it tight over my shoulders.

I tried to keep my mind and eyes off of the cars in front of us as they sped down the course one by one. I studied the inside of Kearney’s car. It looked impressively unlike my car, filled with switches and buttons with mysterious purposes. Studying the red button close to Kearney’s right leg, I pictured the nitrogen oxide button in “The Fast and the Furious” and realized how similar they looked. I was still thinking this as Ed Jackson held a timer up to the windshield, and I realized it would be our turn in less than 30 seconds.

Kearney slammed on the gas. My stomach flipped.

Nearing the woods, the car made a 90-degree turn and ran the length of the field before navigating a 180-degree turn around a rock and through two cones. The next 180-degree turn put me on the outside and I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt the car lean. The wheels dug into the earth, and rocks and dirt hit the bottom of the car and flew up behind us as we sped into the final 180-degree turn. Coming around a sharp turn, we stopped, and it was suddenly over. I had survived my first ride in a racecar. The course, which had been long enough for my entire life to flash before my eyes, had only taken Kearney one minute and 21 seconds to complete.

Back in the parking lot, I climbed over the roll bar and out of the car. My legs wobbled a bit but I was in good shape.

“So, how’d you do?” asked Jackson as I made my way back to the tent.

“Well my pants are still dry, so I guess I’m okay,” I said with a smile.

It was a few minutes later when Martin O’Flynn, a ten-year rally driver originally from Ireland, offered to take me for a spin.

“Sure,” I said, as I pulled my helmet back on. “If only my mother could see me now.”