A Gift from a Fan: Zero to Sixty in Four Point One Seconds

There have been a number of times when fans have surprised me with little gifts. I will often receive cards of thanks when a book touches someone, or when a lecture has a special impact. And increasingly fans have asked how they can help get out word about a book, or want to help put together new talks, or talks in regions where I've never been before.

Today was something very different.

A fan of Gold of Kings and The Black Madonna happens to be sales director for Jaguar Cars in South England. On Monday he wrote to invite me to a Jaguar rally.

Now I have been a huge fan of cars since before I had a license. In England, we are called 'petrol heads'. I have had a bunch of cars and loved almost all of them, even when they have been major pains to keep up.

These rallys are very big deals, and extra exclusive. The group carts out this mass of vehicles from their museum, and select drivers are permitted to take them for a couple of circuits on a closed track.

A closed track is like Daytona, only in England all the tracks are built like the roads, which means they have curves. If you have ever seen a Formula One race, you will understand when I say that I find these to be a lot more interesting than the banked ovals used in America races.

In England, almost all of the older tracks are built around air bases. This is because back in World War Two, almost all of the pilots were petrol heads as well. And so on their off time they would race around the perimeter fence, which followed the line of fields and neighboring farms and roads. Many of England's greatest tracks still follow these same winding routes—Silverstone, Castle Coomb, and where I was today, Thruxton.

When I arrived this morning just after dawn, I was in for a huge surprise. They had the vintage cars, including one of the first E-Types ever to roll off the assembly line. I spent a lot of my growing up years yearning for one of them.

But when it came time to drive, they rolled out a fleet of the new supercharged racers.

Eight cylinders, twin turbo chargers, five hundred and fifty brake horsepower, zero to sixty in four point one seconds.

Each of us were assigned a professional racing driver. Mine was named Rod. Rod was a very patient man. He needed to be. I had never been on a circuit before, and had also never driven a car with paddle shifters.

Rod drove one circuit. I was seriously scared by the end of it. And he kept saying all the while, "Now, I'm driving gentle-like, on account of how you need to be making note of all the turns and such."

And little me, I'm holding on for dear life, thinking, well, hmmm.

And of course there are a lot of turns. Sixteen in all. Each of which needs to be met at a different point, and a different speed, with a different combination of brake and acceleration.

There was no chance to take notes, I would have lost my grip on the door. And then of course there was the small matter of how on earth I could read what I had written, while driving. Which Rod told me I needed to do.

The car's engine did not go. It growled at me, and then it went. My eyeballs and other body parts were left in the pit lane. My buttons worked their way through my interior and wedded themselves to the seat cushion.

At some point in the acceleration process I think I managed to say something extremely intelligent and witty, like, "Wow."

Rod was great. He had to be. I survived that first lap. It was all down to him. He had this extremely calm voice, like a fireman entering a smoke-filled apartment filled with screaming people. He kept to this steady tone. "Aim for the sign, bank left, accelerate out of the turn, begin braking here, aim for the judge's box, shift to the center, follow the line of the course."  Like that.

We did one lap at a very easy speed, somewhere north of seventy. Then I turned it up a bit, and we did another. Twice I hit a hundred miles an hour. When I ended the lap and turned into the pit lane, my hands were so slick with sweat I could scarcely put the gear in park.

When I found my voice again, I asked Rod what was the first thing I needed to focus on. I've learned this from my writing. And from teaching others. No matter how glaring and bulky the errors, they can only be overcome if first they are separated out and attacked one at a time.

Rod looked at me, and said in an almost funereal voice, "Sir, you really need to speed up out there."

Hokey Dokey.

The thing was, I trusted Rod. And I think Rod saw that. I was determined to follow his instructions totally. Even if I thought the man was completely, utterly, unreservedly mad.

This time, when we left the pit lane, Rod said, "Hit it."

And I did.

One hundred and forty-three miles per hour on the straights.

Two of the chicanes, or S-curves, at ninety miles per hour.

Banking out of the exit-curves with the pedal on the floor, accelerating through controlled spin turns, my hands gripped the wheel so hard my fingers are still numb, four hours later.

The tires did not squeal. They stuttered. The car has a computer-controlled system that balances the suspension with the speed, and literally fights against the g-force. The car whined through the revs, the tires fought for a grip, and I left the curve at a hundred and seven miles an hour.

What I didn't tell Rob: The only reason I wasn't screaming was, I had forgotten how to breathe.

At the end of the course, Rob congratulated me and said, "On that last chicane, you were five miles below competitive track speed."

I started to tell him that entering into that first turn I thought my heart had stopped. But I decided that wouldn't sound cool. So I just thanked him. For one truly amazing ride.

I left the course feeling intensely grateful for the day, and for this sense of being drawn closer to God by, for lack of a better way to say it, an adrenaline-stoked joy. There was fear, yes, but there was also an intensity of having lived a very rare moment, a time of sheer abandon. I had stretched my limits, and counted the hour as a rare gift.

I would love to hear from others out there who have known such moments, when life's boundaries are passed through with an intensity that borders on ecstasy, and feel as though God's presence became part of the joy, and of the intensity where joy and fear merged into one.

Zoom. Zoom.