WDYK: 120 MPH Bragging Rights

My children tell me it can be a challenge to find a Father’s Day gift for me. I don’t mean to be difficult, but other than socks and underwear, I have everything I need or want.     

When my kids were little, they made crayon cards and macaroni artwork, which I treasured. When they got older, gifts included trips to the ice cream stand and family cookouts. When my children became adults with families of their own, gift certificates started becoming the norm on Father’s Day. So, when my daughter handed me a Father’s Day card with a gift certificate in it, I wasn’t too surprised … until I looked at it closely. She said she was looking for something different.

The gift certificate entitled me to drive an actual NASCAR race car around the track at New Hampshire Motor Speedway in Loudon. That certainly qualifies as something different. I grew up in rural New Hampshire driving old pickup trucks on bumpy backroads and never drove much faster than the posted speed limits on the interstate. I had no experience racing cars and never had much desire to be a race car driver. Suddenly this challenge was in front of me, and I needed to do it. 

With adrenaline pumping and excitement building, Marshall Hudson and other drivers head to their cars
to get ready to race around the track.

There are a couple of different racing schools at New Hampshire Motor Speedway, and among them are several opportunities to put yourself inside a race car and zoom around the “magic mile” at high speeds. These options range from being a ride-along passenger in a race car driven by a professional, to an advanced 40-lap class for experienced drivers. 

My certificate entitled me to five minutes and a few laps around the track alone behind the wheel. There would be no instructor in the car, just some one-on-one guidance from a spotter in the tower who would communicate with me through an earpiece and microphone in my helmet. 

We arrived early on the designated day and signed pounds of legal paperwork releasing everyone from every kind of liability imaginable. I was fitted with a fire-retardant one-piece racing suit that had me feeling like Steve McQueen in his “Le Mans” movie. 

After a training video, driver’s meeting and some detailed instructions, I was taken to pit road and fitted into the No. 24 car painted with Axalta, Valvoline and Hertz logos. Disappointedly, I didn’t draw the yellow M&M’s car which had a bolder, flashier look to it. I’ll admit to being equal parts thrilled, nervous, excited, gung-ho and scared witless as we lined up four abreast on the starting line.

I put it in first gear and waited for the radio voice in my ear to holler over the roar of the engines, “Go when ready!” I popped the clutch and took off down pit road shifting rapidly up through the gears. The other three cars were eating my dust, and I was pleased at taking the lead with my rabbit-quick start, until it dawned on me that the radio voice from the tower was not starting all of us, only me.    

I was in high gear when I exited pit road and entered the racetrack. Coming into the first corner, I backed off the accelerator and eased around the curve wondering and worrying how much the centrifugal force, or a loss of traction, would pull the car out of the lane and send me skidding toward the crash wall. Thankfully, the racetrack has steeply banked curves, and the car held the lane without me wrestling the wheel.

Coming out of the corner and entering the wide-open straightaway, I felt a surge of adrenaline and impulsively goosed it. The car shot forward so fast it scared me, and I backed off immediately. I glanced down at the dashboard looking for a speedometer. There wasn’t one. 

“Keep your rpms below 4,000,” the radio voice in my ear instructed. I looked down at the tachometer, it read 4,300 and climbing. 

Perhaps I was breaking the rules, as drivers had been instructed to drive conservatively on their first lap to familiarize themselves with both the car and the track. We were told that, during our final laps, there would be an opportunity to reach the fastest speed we dared attempt. Somewhat shaken by how fast the car had just shot forward, I was thinking I might have just reached mine.

On the next straightaway, I thought I was flying along at an impressive racing speed when the voice in my ear warned me that I was about to be passed on my right. I glanced for a rearview mirror and discovered there wasn’t one.

Marshall Hudson in his car after his final 120 mph lap.

“Maintain consistent speed and stay in your lane,” the voice instructed. 

A moment later a professional driver with a ride-along passenger went by me like I was standing still; so much for flying along at an impressive racing speed.

On my last lap, approaching the final straightaway, the voice in my ear told me I had been doing well and could now push my rpms to 5,000, if I was comfortable with it. Knowing this was my final chance and quite likely the only opportunity I’d ever have, I swallowed hard, white-knuckle-death-gripped the wheel and poked the accelerator. 

The rpms soared to 5,000 … and I kept them climbing. I backed off at 5,300 thinking that if I was going to be a race car driver, I had to be willing to push the limits just a little. A radar gun from the tower clocked my high speed at just under 120 mph. I’m told that is pretty good for a first-time driver with only five minutes of track time.  

Typically, NASCAR drivers average around 180 mph on this track, so I won’t be winning any races, and professional drivers need not be concerned about me stealing their jobs. I discovered 120 mph is as fast as I want to go, and I don’t feel an urge to do it again. 

It was a thrilling once-in-a-lifetime experience that challenged me to step outside my comfort zone, and I gained some unique bragging rights. That sure beat socks and underwear as a Father’s Day gift.