BADEN-BADEN – I am not easily scared. After all, I have sparred with Canadian heavyweight boxing champion Razor Ruddock (well, I sparred; Ruddock, as I remember, giggled). I have exceeded 275 kilometres an hour on a motorcycle with barely a second thought to my personal safety, and I have even — for a brief moment back in the late 1980s–been married. Truly, I am valiant.
But, then, I had never driven in a 620-horsepower Porsche with a mad Slovenian in Germany. Initial scrutiny of said Michael Schumacher wannabe yielded no clues I would soon journey through the valley of the shadow of death. Slightly doughy around the edges and outgoing in the extreme (far friendlier, for instance, than Yours Truly), the milquetoasty Bruce Banner-like autojournalist offered no outward indication that the simple act of depressing the gas pedal would transform him into a civilization-threatening Incredible Hulk.
Within seconds, we were strafing Black Forest backroads at a tempo I can only describe as truly breakneck. Indeed, it was the first time in all my years of co-piloting with fellow autojournalists that I actually started taking an earnest interest in the sturdiness of the guardrails lining the roadway. Trucks coming the other way seemed to grow gargoyles for hood ornaments, their repugnant faces warning me I might soon meet my jailer. I braced myself against the centre console. I held on to the door handle for dear life and, for one particularly thrilling moment, I closed my eyes, trying to meditate for the first time in my life. Had I been religious, I might have even prayed.
The ironic part of this story is that it wasn’t the absolute speed that was so desperately frightening–I have been driven over similar roads with far greater dispatch than my European friend could muster in his most throttle-pegged mania. Indeed, every drive with the Toronto Star’s Jim Kenzie ends up with melted rubber and scorched brakes. But I am never afraid.
The difference is not in how fast you drive but how you drive fast. When my estimable Canadian cohort unwinds a twisty road, it is a relatively calm and relaxed affair, the pace impressive for not only its speed but its lack of drama. My GT2-driving friend, on the other hand, was of the soap opera school of driving — actual velocity took a back seat to vehicular theatrics. Brakes were jabbed when they should have been squeezed; throttles matted when modulation might have been a better course of action.
For here is a lesson that all, especially my former Slovenian friend, need to learn — driving a car fast — on a race track or otherwise — should not be a violent affair. Sure, from the outside, it can look like one unending crisis of tire-shredding slides and last-minute braking. But the real secret of superior driving is controlled aggression.
Driving is not a binary function. Brakes are not meant to be either off or on. Likewise, there are many useful positions for the throttle pedal between idle and wide-open throttle. Stomping on the brakes has all manner of deleterious effects — weight transfer is dramatic, the balance of the car is upset and the front tires are suddenly overstressed. Mashing the gas pedal has the same effect, only in reverse. The untold story that most non-racers don’t fully appreciate is that throttle — and brake — application, even at the most elevated of speeds, is a gradual affair. Yes, the very best racers are feeding in power as fast as they think the car can handle it, but it is never, ever a digital affair. Great, dramatic shows of aggression may look great for the camera, but they are never the quickest way down a twisty road.
What does this matter for everyday driving, you ask? Well, the same lessons apply to everyday driving as well. My friend, former autojournalist and driver instructor extraordinaire Gary Magwood — who taught me the intricacies of ice racing in about 15 minutes — used to stress in his driving courses that one of the most common causes of accidents on Highway 401 near his Tweed home was young motorists driving onto the soft shoulder while looking down to switch a radio station. Upon determining they were now off-roading, they would panic and immediately try to rejoin the highway. They would turn the steering wheel forcefully, the outside front tire would dig into the soft sand and, suddenly, it was all arse over tea kettle. If they had just gently steered back onto the roadway, said Magwood, the worst that would have befallen them was dirty tires.
And if Magwood was around to teach the Slovenian, I might have saved myself some severe gastronomical distress.