Higher Education
by James Deakin

I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. I mean, seriously, being given the opportunity to drive a modern day Formula One car, unrestricted around a racetrack, doesn't come by very often. Just the mere thought alone consumed me. On the two weeks leading up to this, I had enough time to go over the exact moment in my head a million times. I had pictured everything – the smells, the sounds, the details, and the feelings I would most likely be going through as I prepared myself for the most incredible and exhilarating experience of my life. Yet, as I wedged myself into an insanely tight cockpit, none of it was coming close to what I was going through in the minutes leading up to my turn. For one, I don't remember needing to pee in my fantasy.

Each feeling was amplified by the anticipation and gently traced with a dull fear of waking up and finding out it was all a dream. It is so intense that there's even a documented condition that you can actually suffer from after. It is sort of like a vacuum, or a void that you feel in your life after reaching the pinnacle of your career. Psychiatrists explain it by saying that once someone experiences the euphoria of hitting the summit, everything else simply pales in comparison. A climber might feel this way after Everest; an Astronaut after returning from the moon; Schumi after 7 world titles; me after the next 6 laps.


Just then, a French mechanic came up and straddled the nose cone of the car, facing me, and practically stuck his leather boot on my chest while pulling the last bit of travel out of the safety harness. “Breathe out!”, he said in his laboured English. As I did, he pulled the last millimeter of space between me and this angry machine I was strapped in. He smiled and said, “Can you breathe?” “No.” I manage to utter out. “Good.”, he replied as he lit up another smoke.

Even my legs were strapped in tight. I tried reasoning with these people but they were too busy going through every last detail to ensure my utmost safety. I better not distract them, I thought. They might forget to turn a switch or plug a hole or whatever it is these people do before they send you out on a flying lap around a purpose built test track in the most advanced racing machine on mother earth.

I couldn't pivot my head anymore than about 45 degrees left or right but I could hear the very serious exchange between the mechanics behind me filtering through the padding on my crash helmet. Even though it was being traded in fluent French, I could pick up just enough to know that it was very intense and the guy to my right felt very passionately about it. I glanced up to my painfully attractive umbrella girl, Florence, and asked, “What is he saying? Is he analysing the track surface, the wind direction and the humidity?” “No,” she said. “He is talking about his holiday in Brazil. His wife is Brazilian, you know.” “No, I didn't know that.”, I said, feeling like a real tool.

The first car was completing his run and I knew that meant I would be out in a minute or two. I was petrified. There's something very frightening about not knowing what to expect. And there are too many delicate factors involved in keeping this thing 'shiny side up'. Would I remember where the braking points were? What about the turn in points? Had I bitten off more than I could chew? I wanted my mommy.

I sat there totally numb, straddling the fine line between euphoria and nausea. I'm woken up from my daydream by a hand being waved across my face - five fingers go up; one by one, each finger gets folded in; the countdown begins. Feet off the pedals. Flick the ignition switch. Thumbs up. An air compressor hose of some sort is connected to the back of the car and after a high pitched blast, the hand built, 3.5-liter, V8 racing engine shrieks into life. The sound is piercing, channeling through my body like how a surge of lightening would tear through a conductor – and, just as lighting instinctively searches for the quickest release to spend all that pent up power, all this anger is heading straight to those big, fat, sticky Michellins bolted just behind me. Asides from meeting my mother-in-law for the first time, never before have I felt so intimidated by anything in my whole life.

It takes my entire body weight of pressure to squeeze the heavy foot clutch down. My instructor signals me to call up first gear and dial in around five thousand RPM. There's a huge clunk once first engages and the car rocks forward slightly. I've been told to gradually release the clutch very, very, very slowly. Millimeter by millimeter, until it bites. On idle, the F1 car already produces twice the horsepower of an F3 car. Just a slight tap on the gas with my right foot has probably called upon 450 insane and totally wild stallions while my left foot acts like the bolt on the gate. Any second now I'll have to let it slip and this will turn into a stampede.

Once I feel the clutch bite, I've been told to hold that pedal position and let the car roll forward to let the discs heat up. It is like riding the clutch – something we're warned against doing in a road car. I exit pit lane and can see C! Magazine's Carl Cunanan, and a bunch of guys in our group hanging off the guardrails and waving me on. About fifty meters up, I drop the rest of the clutch – it feels like the equivalent of your dad letting go off your bike for the first time and that brief, terrifying, yet pants-wetting moment of excitement of knowing you're on your own.

I call up second and third gear and then ease my way gently into turn one. No major dramas yet and certainly no heroics. I tease the throttle very lightly, just to get a feel of the kind of chaos I'm dealing with. Every single millimeter of travel in the pedal unleashes about fifty horsepower or so. The slightest tap can send this car spinning like a spectacular smoking donut. I dab the brakes to gauge the bite and flow through esses very peacefully. I'm getting the feel of this thing, and I'm falling hopelessly in love with it.

Before the end of the first lap, my confidence has soared so high that I haven't got a trace of fear left. Nerves have been swapped for adrenaline and good sense has been eroded by testosterone. As I exit the final curve heading down the main straight I squeeze the throttle gently but positively, mirroring the effect of my unwinding steering wheel. The acceleration is so brutal I swear I felt the world spinning a little quicker on its axis. It has the exact same thrust and cornering sensation as a roller coaster. The vibration, too, has become so intense from the relentless surge of forward motion that I could barely see the road ahead of me. Sunken into this position gives me only about fifty meters of visibility to begin with, framed by two thick, black arcs of rubber on either side, and now it is shaking violently, impairing my already limited vision.

I manage to almost top out in fifth on the main straight, which wouldn't be any longer than 500 meters. There's a mild kink to the left before coming down on the brakes for a second gear right hander. This is the tricky part. While on road cars we've always been taught to hit the brakes progressively, an F1 car needs a minimum of 70 kilograms of pressure from the first dab and then released regressively to manage your braking distance. Every single time, no matter what type of corner you're negotiating. Unlike steel discs, carbon fiber and ceramic brakes need about 15 meters of maximum pressure to build up enough heat to start to bite, and you need to wash off as much speed as possible in the first section of your braking while the aero still has any effect – under 140 km/h, there is no aero benefit and the front wheels lose grip, causing them to lock up.

I'm probably on about 60-70 percent of my comfort level, but nowhere near the limit of this beast's potential. I decide to push harder. I know I've used the term before on road cars, but as of now, by definition, an F1 car is the only machine worthy of the description, 'Point and shoot'. You literally see your exit point and you're there. Point and shoot. The feeling of invincibility is amazing; I can now finally understand what they mean when they say Absolute power corrupts. I was intoxicated by the feeling.

Coming into the next second gear corner, I wait almost two seconds after my normal braking point and nail that stopper down hard. I'm pulling 3g of negative force and I could feel my heart trying to find its way out of my mouth. You begin to feel like no matter how much speed you carry into the approach, you can scrub it off in a heart beat; it is so devastating and forgiving that it feels like having a 'get out of jail free' card – which should explain that demonic smile splashed across my face. Another contradiction from road cars is that you need to nurse the brakes all the way to the apex, keeping firm pressure during the turn in so as to keep some weight load on the front wheels so they have enough bite to make the turn.

By the exit of the back straight on the third lap, I've been possessed by the speed demons. I'm no longer in control. The James Deakin I knew three minutes ago, sitting in the cockpit needing to pee is gone. Nowhere to be found. His replacement, this power-hungry monster who has his right foot wedged firmly to the floor and only lifts off when absolutely necessary, has hijacked this ride. Down the start finish line, I flick the paddles up, guided purely from engine noise (there's no time to look at the dials) and top out in sixth gear before the left hand kink. That is 285 km/h, I was later told. Somewhere in the middle of my third lap, an instructor walks out on to the track to give me the international hand signal to say, “Slow down, you lunatic.”

Driving an F1 car at speed is easy – the aero sucks you into the ground and you feel totally planted. It is at low to medium speeds where it starts to handle like a shopping trolley. You need to work with the aerodynamics to get the best out of it and that means giving it some very generous helpings of speed.

As I came thundering past the start finish for the last time, I felt ten foot tall and bullet proof. I had phantom battles with Montoya, Schumi and Kimi for the next couple of corners. I tried to imagine what it would be like hurling this thing around curves in front of roaring grandstands, defending the little moving patch of asphalt you're occupying, with TV cameras beaming your every move into hundreds of millions of homes around the world. Maybe it was all that hi octane air I had been sucking in for the last six laps or that my brain had been jarred by all that vibration, but I felt euphoria in its most natural form and I was addicted to it. It was pure, raw and 100% natural.

As I climbed out from the cockpit, I glanced back and saw tangible proof that dreams really can come true. So better be careful what you wish for...
******

Tag heuer AGS school offer various F1 driving courses to the public. log on to www.agsformule1.com Prices start at 1,710 euros.

Note:
Before allowing anyone into an F1 car, the instructors at AGS F1 School need to be certain that you have a level of car control that they are comfortable with. Earlier on in the day we had to qualify for the privilege by doing ten laps in a Formula 3 car. Once they were satisfied with our driving – and more importantly, our attitude – we were given another ten minutes or so on the theory of driving an F1 car and were re-briefed on the safety procedures.