Extreme Driver's Ed
copyright 2005 Johnny Vanderlip
Here I am at the "fastest sixty acres in America," the Bob Bondurant High Performance Driving School in Arizona. Why? Some lunatic tried to run me off the highway in L.A. and I decided: enough!
A couple instructors are taking us on "...a little tour of the track." I'm riding in a new heavy-duty Ford van with eight other people. Pete, the instructor behind the wheel, says, "Most folks don't really understand the limits of the vehicles they drive."
As Pete's sharing this little gem, he's rapidly picking up speed. Within seconds, my heart is pounding in my ears and I'm gripping the armrest just so I don't smack into the guy next to me.
In front of us now, is another van taking a curve on two wheels. And Pete IS TRYING TO CATCH IT. All I can think is...Oh gawd!
"Unbelievable!" another student shouts, then, "Whoa!!" everyone yells, with our tires screaming along with us. But Pete? Heck, you'd think he was sitting on the beach sucking back margarita's and watching bikinis, instead of driving a fully-loaded passenger van WAY over the speed limit on two wheels, while tailgating another van doing the exact same thing.
"It's important," Pete points out casually, "to keep your focus on where you want to go, because wherever you?re looking, is where you'll end up."
But no matter how hard I try focusing on my nice, safe, quiet hotel room, all I see is that second van, which we are NOW PASSING!
Gradually, Pete eases off the throttle and the two vans roll into the pits. We all climb out, most of us are grinning and giving each other high fives. That's when Bob Bondurant himself, comes up to greet us. At 6' tall with a full head of silver hair, he exudes a warm, almost Zen-like confident presence.
A world champion race driver, Bob won 7 out of 10 races earning him the highly coveted World Manufacturers' Championship for the United States, in 1965. He drove the Formula One circuit for Ferrari, but in 1967, while racing at Watkins Glen, the steering arm snapped at 150 mph, and his car rolled eight times, shattering both legs, causing massive internal injuries and ending his professional racing career. So Bob started teaching what he knew better than anyone: maximum car control. After a brief stint teaching at Carroll Shelby's driving school in Riverside California, Bob opened his own school in 1968, which now has over 85,000 graduates. The world-renowned Bondurant school teaches "total-car-control" to drivers of all levels and their curriculum includes racing, high performance driving, defensive driving, and personal protection.
"How was the van ride?" Bob asks.
"Unbelievable!"
"Amazing! "Awesome!" chime in two other passengers.
Bob smiles, "Bet you never thought a van could do that."
I nod, speechless.
Mike, the chief driving instructor, shows us around. The Bondurant school features a 15 turn, 1.6 mile road course and, an 8-acre asphalt pad. While the instructors drive these black, sinister looking, Ford Crown Victorias with black tinted windows, the Bondurant fleet consists of 200-plus cars, including high-performance Corvettes, Cadillacs, Mustangs, Cobras, formula-style cars and Police Interceptors. Every car here is specially prepared for the Bondurant School.
Almost everyone else is here for the Grand Prix or Advanced Road Racing courses, but not me. I'm taking the Executive Protection/Anti-Kidnapping course designed as an anti-terrorist program similar to what they teach the Secret Service.
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
We get into the instructor's cars. I'm riding shotgun with Pete in his Crown Victoria. The second we leave the pits, he stands on it. In turn two, I'm praying the roll bar's going to work. By lap three, I'm in basic survival mode. And just when I think he can't possibly push the car any further, Pete says, "Now I'll demonstrate some mistakes you don't want to make."
"Mistakes? You're gonna make some mistakes?"
Ignoring my question, Pete says something about putting the car in oversteer. At this point, though I only have two hands, I somehow manage to grab onto the roll bar, the armrest and the shoulder harness all at the same time. The next thing I know, we come into a curve WAY too fast and time seems to sloooow down. The rear tires break loose and our car breaks into a major tail spin, running off the track into the dirt.
"See what I mean?" he asks.
After a few more "mistakes," we head back to the classroom for a question and answer session. I can't begin to tell you how happy I am to be out of that car. Next, we're given helmets and driving suits. "The suit is fire retardant," Pete says. How reassuring.
Zen And The Art of Skidding
We're off to the skid cars. These babies are equipped with what look like giant shopping-cart wheels welded on four jacks that are controlled by the instructor, enabling him to induce skids at the push of a button. I get in the car with, Kevin. He?s driving in a figure-eight, created using traffic cones. Gradually speeding up, he talks about the different kinds of skids.
"Here's understeering," he says, "which is when you come into the curve and the front tires lose traction.?
The car goes straight off the track despite his turning the wheel. ?See what happens??
He takes off again and picks up speed. "Now here's the opposite? oversteering?which is when the rear tires break loose." This time the car fishtails into a spin. I'm starting to think I'll lose my lunch, when Kevin stops the car. "Your turn," he says. He doesn't know how lucky he is.
I take off slowly, staying inside the traffic cones when suddenly my steering capability disappears. This is like the teacup ride at Disneyland. I turn the wheel back and forth, but I'm in a perpetual spin. A traffic cone comes into view to my right. I try to avoid it, but run right over it instead.
?You know why you hit that?? Kevin asks.
"No."
"That?s where you were looking."
The "Kill Zone"
The following day, Kevin introduces me to Patrick, their anti-terrorist and stunt-driving specialist.
"This stuff is all about tactics," Patrick says, drawing a diagram on the board. "You always want to be on the offensive." Hmm. Offensive driving. That's a new concept.
"First," he continues, "you determine the threat, then determine the maneuver. But you need to be the one to make the first move."
"Like automotive martial arts," Kevin adds as we get in the car.
"Exactly. I'll show you," Patrick says, flooring it. Here's, your first resort, the 'j-turn,' or forward 180?."
Suddenly, he takes his foot off the gas and hits the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels. My mouth drops open as he snaps the wheel hard to the left, bringing the car around 90 degrees in a cloud of tire smoke. Patrick looks to his left, straightening the wheel and in seconds we're heading full-throttle in the opposite direction. "See?" he shrugs, "It's easy." Yeah, right, I'm thinking. Coltrane said that about playing the sax.
Patrick demonstrates the maneuver repeatedly, describing the technique each time. He drives with a surgical precision. After several perfect 180?s, he stops the car.
"Your turn," he says.
I feel like I?m trying to control a big, powerful, deadly animal, but the beast keeps getting the best of me and I can't quite time the steering right.
"That's okay, Johnny," Patrick says, "you get more opportunities later," as he winks at Kevin.
Look, Ma, no lights!
I'm back for the night session. I walk out to the pit area and Patrick gestures for me to get in my car. I'm buckling my seatbelt when he comes up to my window. "Time to do some surveillance driving with no lights.""No headlights? How can I?"
"You'll use the other car's lights," he interrupts. So you'll have to stay real close to know where you're going. And this time," he adds, "forget about speed. Just focus on?"
"Where I want to go?" I grin.
"Exactly."
Patrick's Crown Victoria looks like the car Satan probably drives on Halloween. He motions me to pull up behind him then he guns it. This is weird. It's pitch black out, and all I see are his taillights and the road in front of him. He's really moving. I slow down coming into a curve and start to lose him. Damn! I put my foot on it, feel the rear tires dig in and pick up his taillights again. But he's driving faster and faster. My hands ache from gripping the wheel so tight. I give it more gas. He's really flying now, and I'm keeping up, but it's scary. If I slow down for a split second, he's gone. The speedometer says 90 mph. I'm actually driving faster than I have the last four days in daylight!
Twenty minutes later, back in the pits, I get out and walk over to Patrick.
?I thought you said 'forget about speed!?
Patrick grins, ?Yeah, but I didn't say we were gonna go slow, I just said forget about it.?
I open my mouth to complain further, but he points to my car saying, "Now you're gonna drive the track alone, no lights." I cuss and head back to my car.
"Go on," Patrick gestures me to head onto the track.
Once again, there are no track lights, but now, no other car to follow either. After a couple laps, I pick up speed, though all I can see are occasional turn markers. But I'm doing good. Hell no, I'm doing great! Why, as a matter of fact, I'm...I'm...I'm lost! I can't see a thing! Suddenly I'm off the track, spinning out in the dirt. But I'm alright. Besides, it's the only time since I've been here that I've completely lost control of a car. I start laughing. This is probably the worst that could happen and it's no big deal. I try to get my bearings, but I can't see a thing. Screw it. I turn on my headlights...Ah, there's the track. I kill the lights and take off. I accelerate, starting another lap. Now I'm more aggressive. I'm hitting greater speeds and it's starting to feel real intuitive. "Luke, trust the force," I chuckle.
Suddenly some headlights come on at the edge of the track. Then some taillights appear around the next curve. It's Patrick and Kevin and they're are all over me in their evil black sedans, flashing their high-beams and coming so close I'm waiting to get hit. They box me in, one in front, one behind. Next, they're on both sides, honking their horns. Then, in an instant, they disappear and I see a signal for me to come back into the pits. Patrick comes up as I get out. "You look pumped up, man. Energized."
"Are you serious?"
Anyone for 'takeout?'
It's 5:30 a.m. and the light creeps in through the crack in the curtains. I open them to see the Arizona sun rising through the yucca trees and cactus. I've been awake since 3 a.m., coughing my brains out. Must be all that tire smoke and dust I inhaled last night. I'm beat, but excited. After a quick breakfast with mucho espresso, I meet Patrick at the track. He's leaning against his car, the sun glistening off his sunglasses?Mr. Blas?. How come he?s always so damned relaxed?
We get into a police interceptor, me behind the wheel. "Today, we're gonna do the 'take-out' maneuver. You see the straightaway on the other side of the track?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"That's where you'll take Kevin out."
Across the track, Kevin starts out the same time I do. On the second lap, Patrick has me pull up to Kevin's right rear fender.
"What you're gonna do is run him off the road exactly where you want him to go. And this'll be on-the-job training."
"I don't want to hurt him," I say.
"Don't worry about it," Patrick shrugs, adding, "now move in."
This is scary. I've never deliberately driven this close to anybody.
"Now 'touch' him," Patrick says, nonchalantly.
I pull up to Kevin's right rear, nudging him with my left front fender, but twice, he slips away.
"Stay on him," Patrick says. "The idea is to keep connected to his right rear fender. Then, at the right moment, you steer into him just a tad and he'll be gone."
On the third lap, I reconnect and maintain contact. "Now!" Patrick barks. I turn the wheel a hair to the left and hit the gas, nudging Kevin's fender. His car breaks into a spin, coming around right in front of me.
?I'm gonna hit him!" I yell.
"Naw," Patrick waves me off.
Time seems to slow down here and I watch in amazement as Kevin sails right in front of me, turning 360? and landing off the track in a giant dust cloud. "That was 'textbook, 'Johnny," Patrick high-fives me.
The Scenarios
We head back to the pits, where Patrick and Kevin go into a huddle, flashing these evil smiles I hadn't noticed before and whispering to each other as Kevin takes notes. They finish, then Kevin climbs into my car.
"Let's go," he says. Within seconds, Patrick's car pulls right in front of me, and another car which I hadn't noticed before, pulls up directly behind. I'm still moving, but at this rate, they can force me to go wherever they want unless I can...
The j-turn! I stomp the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels and steer hard to the left. The tires squeal and my heart's racing. Now I'm energized. I'm watching all this in slow motion as the adrenaline rushes through my veins. My rear end slides around in a perfect half circle and at 90 degrees, I start to straighten the wheel. I'm breaking free of their trap and I make my getaway. "Alright!" I yell.
I pull over and Patrick walks up to my car, all smiles. "Congratulations, Johnny, you just graduated."
On the way out, I confess to Patrick how scared I was going into this class, but how glad I am that I did it.
"You know," he says, "I'd rather be sorry for something I did, than for something I didn't do." Then he turns and disappears down the hall.
"That makes two of us."
So it's back to Southern California. Back to the blue skies, the cool ocean breezes, the sunny days, the lunatics on the road. Some things just never change. But if you're ever driving down the Coast Highway and happen to spot me in my black Honda S2000, give me wave. But don't tailgate me, cut me off or do anything to annoy me, because I could take you out.
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