The amazing 650 horsepower brain

Racing fuel has a very distinct smell to it.

Once you are familiar with it you can tell it a mile away.

Six hundred and fifty horse power had a distinct sound, especially when it's unmuffled through straight pipes.

It turns even the heads of the mildly disinterested women who came along to support their man's little boy fantasies.

Now multiply it times eight and you've got a major cacophony of power that rumbles down the track at the speed of sound.

The ear to ear grin on every guy and gal who was about to get strapped in was punctuated by more than a few jitters.

A couple of people took the ride along given by the pros and emerged white faced and white knuckled.

Once strapped in you are given a litany of directions about what to do if the thing explodes, burns, spins or anything else, all again punctuated by an "if you break it you bought it".

The last warning is two fold: first, don't light off the tires (spin them by applying too much power) and second, don't stall on the take off or your instructor who you follow around the track will take you around the course slower than a slug drunk on molasses.

Do either of the above and you will be humiliated to the point of having to leave town and change your name.

I couldn't resist goosing the throttle a little bit just to feel the thing shake and get used to the noise. Ah yes, big boys like big toys.

So I launch out after the instructor and nearly perform an automotive colonoscopy on the guy who was not expecting such a fast start.

The car pulls hard toward the left as it's set up to make those constant and recurring left turns that are the mainstay of NASCAR.

Ok, so now we're breaking onto the track and shifting into 4th gear as the big V-8 sings.

I am not sure how much time goes by but I am focused on just a few things, and I mean intensely focused because I had my 6 capsules of Instant Einstein an hour or so before track time.

I keep the instructor car's rear windscreen filling up my field of vision so I know I am as close as I should be. I watch for the tell tale puffs of smoke that comes when he nails the throttle out of the corners.

If I stick to him like glue he's sure to let me go faster and faster.

The flag man whose job it is to signal me of any problems with my driving line or distance doesn't flinch. I get one or two wave offs from the instructor who is letting me know I am getting too close to his car.

"Fine, pal, go faster and you won't have this problem" I say inside the deafening roar of the cockpit.

No one can hear me but I don't care. I can barely hear myself.

Deep in the Einstein zone I notice a few peripheral things as the supplement slows down the world around me and allows me to observe while I drive.

Because of the Einstein I can see things clearly and absorb them easily even though they are happening at break neck speed.

Bits of rubber from the instructor's car fly up and hit my windshield hard.
I know I could dodge them if I had to.

Leaves rustle by in whirlwinds as we dip low onto the track for the steeply banked corner and then settle lazily down to rest again.

The flagman is bored and doesn't even bother to look at my car as it zooms by in a blur. His job is elsewhere.

We pass his stand and I catch him slowly turning back to a group of slower cars behind us. I realize I am looking in my rearview while going over 130 M.P.H. and not at all concerned about the approaching corner.

I've got it covered because my brain is working at 650 H.P. too.

I pick up on the fact that my instructor lifts of the throttle right at the point he dives down to the inside part of the track and I do the same staying glued to his bumper urging him to let me go faster.

Time stands still and in the intense concentration. I have no idea how fast we are going or how long I've been driving.

The G forces of the car as it pitches down into the corners and out again defy anything most people are used to unless they've been in a fighter jet.

Somewhere around lap 34 we catch a slower group in front of us at the beginning of a short straight; we are lined up to pass but will we?

The track boss's instructions ring in my ears, "If your instructor goes to pass you better be right behind him because you'll only get one chance."

My instructor goes and I slam the pedal to the metal and am right behind him without hesitation keying again on the tiny puff of smoke that comes when he nails his throttle.

Even though we are probably some 25 M.P.H. faster than the slower cars and are running flat out for the pass, we seem to drift by at a leisurely pace.

Will I make it? Will I get by in time to set up the corner?

It's a picture perfect pass and I slot in behind my instructor just in time to line up the corner and dive for the inside just feathering off the throttle and not touching the brakes.

The brakes, by the way, finally get used on the approach to the pits and they feel wooden and ineffective.

But stop they do and I wiggle out of the tight fitting cockpit that was my home for 36 laps of supra normal speeds.

I say a silent thanks to Instant Einstein for getting me through in one piece.

I find out I had the fastest lap times and the highest top speed of the group many of whom have done this before as well.

Coincidence?

I think not.

I think Instant Einstein gave me a 650 horsepower brain just when I needed it most.

Get some now and join me in the fast lane!

Instant Einstein

Doc