What the hell and I doing here? Though my question was rhetorical -- I had asked no one but myself the question – my fear was real, and it demanded an answer. I looked up at Scott, my mechanic, and hoped that he would see my fear and agree: Yes, what are you doing here? You should get out now before the serious racing begins.

Not likely. Instead, Scott buckled me into the cockpit of a navy blue open-wheeled Reynard F2000, clapped on the steering wheel and pushed the starter button.

Here I go.
This was the real thing – an automotive demon with a long pointed nose and a huge wheel – and I had no business being in the cockpit.

A vehicle this awesome would bring out the inner race car driver in most guys (and a few women) I have known. I'm the exception. I was to challenge my fears in a day-long program at Bridgestone Driving Academy, one hour east of Toronto in Mosport, Canada. We started off with a 40 minute prep session given by Bridgestone's chief instructor Ugo Provencher, a sexy French race car driver with a fun personality. He was basically everything I could have dreamed up in a driving teacher.

"I 'm here for the adrenaline," he exclaimed, as he went on to tell us that we would learn how to drive as fast as we were capable. I'm thinking, "Ugh."

Provencher then described how to shift gears -- the box is so small you only need to use three fingers and your wrist and how to power into corners. He pointed to a map of the one mile, 12 corner track explaining how we each get a run with a pace car.