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Racing is an adventure for people who aren’t smart enough to find fulfillment in less expensive obsessions, like rhinotillexomania.

Saturday, I was racing at my home track. Previously known as "Seattle International Raceway," the track had reverted, after a 25 year lease, to the Fiorito family and its original name “Pacific Raceways.” Jason Fiorito had been working feverishly since the January 1^st change and many things had been improved, or at least temporarily remedied, including, most popularly, the bathrooms.

The excitement and anticipation of my first race of the year at the “new” Pacific Raceways grew steadily. This would also be my third novice race. If I completed my novice race on Saturday without incident, I would be able to upgrade my license from "Novice" to "Area" (intermediate) and race with the senior drivers on Sunday.

The first Novice Closed Wheel practice session was wet. The BMW 325i in the paddock next to me spun in turn 5a and went backwards into the hillside at 50 mph. It was yet another reminder how treacherous the 5a-b / 6 complex can be – especially on wet pavement. The trunk and right fender were thoroughly bent. My girlfriend couldn't believe that it took less than two hours to bang out most of the dents, and the car was back on the track. When a car doesn’t have to be "shiny" it is much easier to fix.

By the afternoon’s Novice Closed Wheel race, it was dry and sunny. The grid was crowded with 41 cars. With the green flag, the pack lunged down the straight towards the first corner. Going through turn 1 four-wide was a new experience for me. The race was instantly intense. On the exit of turn 2, a Neon dropped two wheels. The driver jerked the wheel, and the car skidded back across the track in front of me. I narrowly avoided the Neon. Every instant, there was someone passing or needing to be passed, or both. There were more spins right in front of me. I’ve never driven so hard, so fast and for so long.

Jason Fiorito, the owner of the track, was driving in the novice race. The previous people who leased the track for 25 years as "Seattle International Raceway" had neglected road-racing in favor of drag racing, and let the track and facilities fall into disrepair, leading to poor pavement, awful bathrooms and dangerously few run-off barriers. Jason was now taking a direct hand in managing the track – and it was great to see him participating as a Conference driver. He lapped me in his big, V-8 powered tube frame car two-thirds through the race.

Exiting turn 8, a car spun a few cars in front of me. I dropped into second gear and floored it around the pack of cars avoiding the spin. Immediately following was turn 9 onto the straight. Turn 9 used to be a non-turn in a low speed car, but with changes to the track over the winter, it had become potentially dangerous – sharper, tighter and much more narrow (but it served the purpose of separating the straight and the dangerously slick-in-the-wet dragstrip). Because I made the mistake of not getting back on the "line" after passing the cars, I apexed early, and found myself running out of pavement very quickly. If I dropped my left-side tires off the track into the dirt, I had the option of a) going head on into a wall of tires at 90 mph, b) jerking the car back on to the pavement and spinning across the track into the wall on the other side and probably getting hit by another car while I was at it, or c) lifting suddenly and go-to b). I chose option d), feathering off the throttle and not dropping my tires – but it took a lot of luck and scared the crap out of me! It wasn’t dramatic to the untrained eye, but one of the advanced drivers who saw it said he knew I was going to have to “change my shorts” after my close call. It was a moment that I thought a lot about afterward, as it was unquestionably the closest that I had ever come to a very serious incident.

When the checkered flag waved, I was 21^st of the 41 cars. I was pleased with that result. I had finished in front of much faster cars, including a 5-liter Mustang race car, a Porsche 944 and a BMW 325i. When I came off the track, my driving suit was soaked through.

Because I finished the race without embarrassing myself or bending any metal, I was invited to upgrade from "Novice" to "Area" license. This meant that I could race Sunday with the senior drivers. Taping the letters "GP" to my car was a proud moment – it meant I wasn't a novice any more. Finally, I had class. Okay – that might be stretching it.

Sunday morning’s Group 2 qualifying session was an eye opener. I was passed at almost every conceivable place on the track. Being passed with a car on either side through 5b was... puckering.

With the start of the Group 2 race, I discovered that my 1:57 lap time was no where near enough to keep up with the G-Production cars. The slowest GP time was 1:52. I was almost able to keep up with the two slowest I Production cars, but they eventually pulled ahead and I dialed my driving down to 9/10ths to keep both driving and car clean. In part, the speed difference was because my car wasn't yet fully prepared. Mostly, however, it was because these folks were much more experienced race drivers than me.

About twenty-minutes into the race, the front runners started flying past me. I was getting passed left and right in places no novice would dare pass! It was nerve racking and I spent a lot of time watching my mirrors and pointing cars by. Coming onto the straight, just past the aforementioned turn 9, a black Miata inches behind me. I knew he was going to pass. I pointed him by to the left and moved to the right – smack into him as he passed on the inside. D'oh! Hitting another car at 90 mph was… exciting. The irony of this was that of the 40-odd cars I could have chosen to hit, I hit Bill Shaw, (yes, the same Bill Shaw who was responsible for putting the Production-class racing bug in my ear) – the only person in the group that I knew by name. Whooops. In full view of the grand-stands. We both kept going without even slowing down as it was just a brush. Afterwards, I saw that my car had received no noticeable damage. His car had significantly wrinkled sheet metal. Bill was very nice about it, and accepted my profound apology. While it's not something I want to do again, it was a valuable experience for me to know what it feels like to brush another car at high speed.

There was still a lot of work to do improving the driver, but racing was pushing my skills in leaps and bounds. Almost every time I went out on the track, I drove harder, faster and better than I had ever driven. But at the same time, my sense of accomplishment was tempered by serious reflection on my near-incident at turn 9 the day before. Racing is much safer now than it was decades ago, but there are always opportunities to damage the car, or even oneself. And I would have plenty of opportunities soon – the next race was in Portland in two weeks.