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Few NASCAR fans know what it's like to wrestle a steering wheel through a 120-mph turn. I wouldn't, either, if it weren't for a brochure that invited me to dial 1-800-BE-PETTY. That's Richard Petty, the grinning strip of jerky who's won more NASCAR races than any good ol' boy who ever sported an STP decal. For $299, the brochure promised, anyone with a valid driver's license could climb into a stock car and gun it around Charlotte Motor Speedway like some Walter Leroy Mitty. Goodbye rush hour, hello straightaway. I was game. On a sunny Wednesday morning, I arrived at the Charlotte track with a dozen other men, all of us middle-aged and a little nervous. There was Joe Drehobl, 41, an airline mechanic who'd been itching to race since he helped a pit crew back home in Oklahoma. And Steve Trapp, 39, a data processor from Charlotte who said this was his "middle-aged crazy thing." And Fred Kinder, 57, a technician from St. Louis who had started dirt- track racing a month before and wanted to crack the 145-mph limit set for our three-hour, eight-lap rookie class. "Last time at the dirt track, I beat my bumper brutally," Kinder said. "I think I'm in love with the wall." We weren't too sure about Fred. At the check-in counter, where a woman handed us a stack of waivers and liabil ity forms to sign, it dawned on me that these cars probably didn't have automatic transmissions. I'd never driven a stick shift. I told the woman, and she looked at me like I'd said I wasn't toilet trained. "Curtis!" she hollered, "can he do this if he doesn't drive manual?" Curtis Miller, a professional driver of 18 years, said he'd give me a quick lesson. We walked to a car on Pit Road and I reached for a door handle. Silly me: Stock cars don't have doors. So I climbed in a leg at a time and struggled to the seat in a torturous maneuver that made me think of childbirth in reverse. Stock-car seats are built to cradle a driver's body. The people who built this one had never seen my body; the curved sides jabbed me in the ribs like a couple of thugs with blackjacks. I stifled my whimpering as Curtis leaned his head through the window and revealed the mysteries of gear and clutch. After we finished, I saw him talking to a member of the pit crew, both of them smiling, and I knew the conversation went something like: Keep an eye on Tom Slick here. The other students and I slipped into fire-retardant jumpsuits and boarded vans to be driven around the 1 1/2-mile track for orientation. There was a tricky dogleg and four turns with 26-degree banks that were steep enough to press my left ear against the glass. Then we returned to the pit and met our machines: 17 candy-color stock cars that had been raced professionally a couple of seasons ago. As the instructors ran through safety precautions, we grew deathly silent. The school says it's never had a student injury in two years of operation. The closest was the guy who blew a tire, kissed the wall and tore loose a hunk of sheet metal, which he shipped to Petty to be autographed. No passing. No drafting. No burning rubber. In case of accident, push button to engage fire extinguisher and pull pin like grenade to remove steering wheel. A few men cupped cigarettes as they listened. They looked as solemn as fighter pilots leaving for a mission over enemy territory. Students went out two at a time, one to a car, following an instructor's lead. Finally, it was my turn. The crew pushed up a '91 Pontiac Trans-Am that was electro-blue before it got plastered with sponsor logos. There was a big 43 on the side, just like King Richard's car. I folded myself through the window, and the crew strapped and buckled me in as tightly as a trussed Thanksgiving turkey. The engine growled, I eased off the clutch and man, and metal lurched onto the track. I don't remember much about the next few minutes except the god- awful noise, my white knuckles on the wheel and the way my head was bobbing so violently that the Goody's billboard in Turn 4 seemed to scream, "Gooooooooooo!" Back on Pit Road, my body dripping, my mouth dry, I waited for the computer printout that would show how fast I had driven. Several drivers had busted 145. I had topped out at 126 - about average, I was told, and certainly better than the woman who wouldn't go over 45. So what if I wasn't the fastest thing moving? I had pushed the edge of my personal envelope, hurtling past a hundred for the first time in my life. Armed with a diploma signed by Petty himself, I felt ready for the real driving challenge that loomed ahead: Atlanta's Perimeter. The Richard Petty Driving Experience offers courses lasting from three hours to two days ($299-$2,199). Several more dates are available this year in Charlotte and, resuming next April, at Atlanta Motor Speedway. (800) 237-3889. The Buck Baker Racing School also offers courses in Charlotte and Atlanta. (704) 366-6224.
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