BACKSEAT DRIVER part II

I’m more than a little thrown by the lack of fireworks under acceleration. Sure, the Evo is quick, but for straight-line speed it is not a patch on the MRT P-25 STi, which has been undergoing final testing at the same time. I consider relaxing for a split second, before remembering that this particular four-door Lancer is shod with Dunlop race semi-slicks and has had a comprehensive going over by the boys from Whiteline Suspension.

Into turn number three, the first corner we approach at a decent rate of knots, and bam! Martin simply points the Evo’s nose where he wants it to go and like an obedient dog it follows faithfully, heaving my body against the harnesses and digging my back into the wings of the Pro2000 seat. I had suspected that this car would be a precision tool, a scalpel-sharp handling weapon honed to perfection that would need a delicate touch to produce a quick lap time, but that is simply not the case.

Squirming slightly on its tyres on turn-in, the car slides easily and is totally predictable, even from the passenger seat. It is completely amicable doing whatever Martin asks of it, no mess, no fuss. Prod the brakes with a firm stab and the car washes speed off like it’s just driven into a pool full of wet cement, where if it werre me driving, I would have been slamming the anchors for all they are worth 25m further back up the track.

Though my natural reaction is to look ahead at what’s flying towards us, I focus on Notaras to watch how he drives, trying to pick his braking markers and see where and how he is turning into each corner. While most “ordinary” drivers would be a picture of concentration and focus, Martin looks positively chilled-out, as casual as if he were driving the company car down to the shops for bread, milk and new slicks.

His eyes are scanning the corners ahead, plotting lines and making split-second calculations of gear choice, steering input angles and pressure on the brake pedal. Unlike many people’s preconceived ideas about racing cars, Notaras is Teflon-smooth with the controls, something that stems from his familiarity with the car.

He tips the car smoothly but quickly into the corner, tacking its path from the braking point and only making minor adjustments to correct oversteer as his feet dance across the pedals, kissing each control with just the right amount of pressure. Gearshifts are expedited quickly and cleanly as they only interrupt the continuous cycle of acceleration and deceleration.

As Notaras balls around Wakefield throwing the Evo from apex to apex and playing with it like a Doberman with a rag doll, he’s not puffing or sweating and the car doesn’t feel like it’s having its neck wrung or is being thrashed despite reeling off lap times in the high 1.06 region (he’s aiming for low 1.06s with some more engine work). It’s almost like driving this car in this manner is second nature to him and that the car could do 100 laps without ever showing signs of fatigue or stress.

Even when we run wide off turn six, Martin never lifts off the gas keeping the foot buried and gently merging the Evo back onto the back straight; such is the confidence he has in its handling demeanour. Similarly, when rapidly approaching a slower car Notaras had such confidence in the Mitsu’s abilities, he waits until the absolute last second, that moment where the uninitiated subconsciously suck their breath in, before tapping the anchors and slotting around the other machine.

I never felt scared or worried during the five hot laps, though it left me amazed, awe-struck, incredulous and respectful. Knowing he is so comfortable and familiar with his machine gave me unending trust that he knew its boundaries, knew its absolute limits and how far he could push it before risking my, and his own, neck.
Why does he have such strong faith in his car? Well it is largely due to ninety nine percent of work that’s been done on the car has been refining the chassis and suspension set-ups, focusing on getting handling and braking consistent instead of ramping the power output through the roof. The car’s behaviour is now predictable and sure-footed for tarmac rallies; a form of motor sport where the unknown rules.

Over the next blind crest could be a crashed car, or a random patch of gravel right at the braking point, or even some wildlife wandering on the racing line. When you’re flat-stick, pushing to clean a stage, you need to know exactly how your car will respond to every input, and that’s what Martin has with his Evo VIII.

It’s a tired old cliché, but Martin Notaras truly seems at one with the car. As we circle Wakefield five times, each lap pushing harder (possibly in the hope of scaring me) he is genuinely having fun concentrating on driving, not thinking about the amount of caster dialled in to the front-right wheel or worrying about whether the car will be quick enough at the next event.

Having the privilege of riding shotgun with such a talented steerer has taught me two very important facets of fast driving. The first is to know your weapon. Get to know your car intimately, to know exactly how it will react with any sort of input you give it in any situation.

 

The second point is to stay calm. Martin was cooler behind the wheel than a polar bear sucking a Paddlepop in a blizzard. There were no white knuckles, bulging eyes or sweating brows, instead I’ve now learnt that staying calm helps you make clear logical decisions, like the important ones regarding late-braking points and corner entry speeds. Don’t think about lap or sector times, just concentrate on nailing each section of the track.

Though I came away from this experience bruised (that seat wasn’t built for my XXXL Kelly frame), I’ve also learnt some invaluable lessons. Should any of you out there in Readerland get the opportunity to ride shotgun with a gun driver at a track, do it. You will not regret it (just have a more plausible story concocted for your physiotherapist than what I did).