Into the Current: My First Time On Track

Some floors you never forget. A tacky residue on this hotel’s bathroom tile stuck to my feet as I paced around, nervously trying to settle in. How had I ended up in an exceptionally mid hotel, miles from GingerMan Raceway? Oh right, my job in automotive media. A post that car dorks kill for, and I seemingly wandered into because I enjoy writing, creative minds, and am—generally speaking—a competent, cool-headed human. But not then. Not in that room.

[A quick note about Bryan before he continues his story: he’s responsible for making the stories on Hagerty Media shine through layout and photography selection. He’s not one to toot his own horn, but Bryan’s work is every bit as critical as hopping behind the wheel or valuation analysis, and our content wouldn’t be what it is without him.—Ed.]

Weeks before I was full zen, paddling down a favorite river in northern Michigan, effortlessly running fast early-season swifts with assurance and dignity. In less than 12 hours, I was about to be put into fast(ish) three-pedal cars without the slightest idea of how to do anything remotely impressive with them “effortlessly.”

I was a mess.

Minutes prior, the big boss—with decades of track experience and only one significant blunder—had handed me a brand new racing helmet courtesy of the annual budget. I unboxed it in the room and turned it over in my hands, surprised by its heft but relieved to conclude that permanent brain damage wasn’t a likely outcome. Its stench of newness off-gassed upward like a toot to the face—you don’t deserve my expense to this company, imposter—it seemed to imply. My sleep that night stunk.

The following morning, I laced some Vans, grabbed the helmet, and met my colleagues in the lobby for a team debrief. I picked over the continental breakfast options and silently prayed to the East that my choices would remain inside me for the rest of the afternoon. The weather couldn’t have been better; the entire cast of characters couldn’t have been more gracious; yet there I was sh*tting bricks and trying not to let any of it show all thanks to an Ohioan who delights in driving fast for putting this party in motion. Something was to be gleaned from the day—how that would take shape, however, was lost on me.

At the track, the first few hours were tame, spent in metal chairs. We listened to a first-rate motorsports instructor explain track safety and etiquette. If nothing else try to pay attention and don’t kill someone, I reasoned. It’s a low bar, but classroom settings always tend to make eyes wander. I had on the same footwear that track rat goofball Sam Smith brought. Good omen? For a split second, I weighed to what degree my shoe decision would magically help me. (Spoiler: About as much as Air Jordans helped me slam dunk in junior high).

On the track, physical forces humble you in a hurry. I rode along in the back seat of our company’s fleet Charger for warmup laps. Tired brakes dissolved quickly, and its fat ass rolled like crazy even at half speed. Nauseous burps cautioned I didn’t pray hard enough, because I was dangerously close to indulging in an encore breakfast. Finally, the driver pitted and I was supposed to remember all the straights and apexes and have a new familiarity with GingerMan. Ha. We put the Charger to bed and out came the more track-worthy testers. It was game on.

The first machine to endure my wrath was a 2022 Volkswagen Jetta GLI Autobahn, which a more insightful Hagerty writer would review. Admittedly, it was a tame introduction but all by design. That didn’t necessarily help my nerves when I stalled it twice just trying to leave the parking lot, though. With a tenuous understanding of the Jetta’s clutch engagement point, I was off with my instructor.

Initial laps were a very slow but vital education. I got a general feel for dynamics, but more than that I no longer had a brain drowning in thought, trying to discern upcoming turns and straights. Tires sang. Brakes wafted their acrid scent. More speed was to come.

After lunch, I pushed harder. That’s when the wheels fell off. No. Not literally. But mining more speed out of a track when you lack the skills to locate the ore usually results in a collapse of confidence, and/or cardiac arrest for your instructor. Okay, it wasn’t all that bad, but when carrying more speed, you certainly feel more backlash from compounding errors when the G-forces pull you away from where you wanted to go and push you into where you end up.

Leaving the Jetta and driving an M3 and Giulia Quadrifoglio hid many of my errors. Their power and superior brake force restored much of the sensational point-and-shoot feeling I had going for me in the slower, controlled runs in the Jetta. However, after a while, I realized that I wasn’t having nearly as much fun in these machines that could seemingly engineer out the errors of a novice’s line.

Later that afternoon was more of a free-for-all. The day was winding down. Casual chats in the shade were ongoing. Everyone had driven what they needed to, and some took more opportunities to jump into something they hadn’t. I found myself returning to the lonely Jetta.

It was not the fanciest or the fastest belle of this ball–by a long shot–but it was the most honest with me. At the point of my return, I instinctually grasped more about brake zones, turn-in, eye lines, exits, acceleration, and signals–particularly the useful pass-me one–that it was time to check in with an old friend and get my progress report.

Then magic happened on turn 6. Before that, though, I had been carrying significantly more pace in and out of GingerMan’s sweepers, nothing perfect, but just hammering the Jetta harder than I’d dared before. We bombed across the nose of turn 4, deep and wide into 5, then shot through 6. Tight. As if into a current, flowing in effortlessly and slung out the other side. It felt so good I botched 7 recovering from the high and returned to my old habit of overthinking the remaining laps of the session, chasing what happened to me on 6 all over the asphalt.

I never replicated the heightened sensation on turn 6 again for the rest of the day. Frustrating then, but looking back now I’m quite okay with that. The Jetta’s limit and mine came together in a perfect apex once, and that was enough. I felt like I’d walked away experiencing one of many reasons why gearheads spend thousands to sample some form of tracking cars or racing for themselves. Some do it for the competition. Some come for the camaraderie. Some are crazy. For me, I learned, it’s about getting into the current in a car.

That pursuit makes pacing a dingy hotel room worth it any day.