BYPLAY: Gentlemen, Your Brakes

• Share

To anyone who has grown up male in the United States, driving an automobile transcends the rather rudimentary coordination one needs to stay in lane on highways. For reasons that swell Freudian literature, driving becomes a symbolic, even a sexual act. (Praised be the soft enchantress who likes the way we shift.)

Marxist sociologists suggest that we see ourselves in the cars we choose. Young, assertive, loud, one is a Triumph or a Porsche. As we become more burdened, we evolve into Ford station wagons. Last seen of all that ends this strange eventful history, a man becomes a settled sedan: perhaps a Seville. Perhaps a used 1967 Chevy.

Not wanting to give too much away, I own a sedate efficient diesel sedan and retain an interest in a sports car that speaks in the hollow thunder of youth. Until recently I guided each with macho faith and precious little knowledge. After three hours of instruction, concentrated mostly on parking, I obtained a license years ago. Without further instruction, I simply drove. Most of us simply drive. We study tennis, dancing, golf. We simply drive.

"We have seen studies on highway deaths," says Jacques Couture, an athletic, bearded Quebecois of 37, who presides at the Jim Russell International Racing Drivers School, near Mont Tremblant. "Speed is only the No. 3 factor. Equipment failure is second. According to these studies, the deadliest killer is driver error."

Along with ten others, I had enrolled in Couture's "high performance" program. You begin by wondering how much anyone can absorb in three days. You conclude with fatigue, a sense of achievement and at length a kind of horror. For years you have been driving out of control without realizing it.

Driving, Couture suggests, should ultimately become a system of controlled reflexes. Developing the reflexes is "not a matter of guts, but of brains. Ideally you sit behind the wheel like a computer." Safety is the first priority. The finest racers preach, "First finish. Then finish first."—We walked the track, Couture explaining, always explaining, how to attack each bend, each kink. Then he drove us to the cars: Formula Fords, long-nosed fiber-glass machines that weigh about 950 lbs. and are powered by a standard Pinto engine. Formula Fords are stripped for speed: no windscreen, no headlights, no speedometer (a tachometer is your guide).

You climb into a cockpit, strap in and start the car. You shift upward, first, second, third, fourth and then down. Gas. Clutch. Shift. Now gas, clutch, gas again. Downshift. You are learning how to double-clutch. You are learning to control a car. You cease to hear the swallows. Your universe becomes an asphalt strip. It will be afternoon before Couture regards you as competent to corner in a Formula Ford.

Each turn on track or highway has its own geometry. It has a theoretical maximum speed. Without being on a track or without a diagram in front of you, it may be hard to visualize, but there is a specific technique for attacking, say, a 90° right turn. Approach down the extreme left. Brake and downshift from fourth to third. Brake and downshift third to second. Steady throttle. Now turn at an angle that touches the inside shoulder at the very center—the apex—of the corner. Accelerate out. Unwind the wheel. Breathe.