We all think we're pretty handy steerers, but five laps riding shotgun with a gun race driver will quickly put you back in your place.
Control.
We take it for granted when we’ve got it, but as soon as we lose it there’s ten shades of hell to pay. When we’re behind the wheel, belting our pride and joy along a favoured piece of blacktop we’re the masters of our own destiny. We’re the ones in charge of the machine, we direct where the car goes and how fast it gets there and this instils a confidence in our own driving prowess. But, when you’re plonked in the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car with an unfamiliar driver, you lose that ultimate, executive power. You lose all control.
Should the person in the hot seat posses an above average talent for peddling cars fast then you’ll also have that little delusional bubble of self-confidence burst double quick. Hustling a race car around a track looks a doddle from the pit lane, but jump in the cabin and you realise what is actually involved, allowing you to witness the gulf in abilities between your average street driver and a veteran of motor sports.
Editor Charles thought this scenario would make for greatentertainment for all of you, so he gave me a Friday off to get hurled around Wakefield Park Raceway by Martin Notaras; a man who has conquered the 2004 Dutton Championship and won five straight Duttons events in the last two years. He’s also the bloke with the confidence-inspiring script “Mad Wog” airbrushed across the back of his helmet.
Now, I’m under no illusions that I’m a top gun driver. While I’ve accumulated plenty of experience behind the leather-wrapped steering wheels of a slew of different cars, I’m no threat to Jim Richards et al. I like to think of myself as a realist and as such I don’t hold my driving skill level in high regard, so I figured this would be an excellent learning opportunity.
We take it for granted when we’ve got it, but as soon as we lose it there’s ten shades of hell to pay. When we’re behind the wheel, belting our pride and joy along a favoured piece of blacktop we’re the masters of our own destiny. We’re the ones in charge of the machine, we direct where the car goes and how fast it gets there and this instils a confidence in our own driving prowess. But, when you’re plonked in the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car with an unfamiliar driver, you lose that ultimate, executive power. You lose all control.
Should the person in the hot seat posses an above average talent for peddling cars fast then you’ll also have that little delusional bubble of self-confidence burst double quick. Hustling a race car around a track looks a doddle from the pit lane, but jump in the cabin and you realise what is actually involved, allowing you to witness the gulf in abilities between your average street driver and a veteran of motor sports.
Editor Charles thought this scenario would make for great
Now, I’m under no illusions that I’m a top gun driver. While I’ve accumulated plenty of experience behind the leather-wrapped steering wheels of a slew of different cars, I’m no threat to Jim Richards et al. I like to think of myself as a realist and as such I don’t hold my driving skill level in high regard, so I figured this would be an excellent learning opportunity.
Walking around the stark white Evo VIII RS in the pits at Wakefield, I was surprised by how tough it looked compared to how docile it sounded, and when it rolled around the pits as easily and friendly as the near-stock Aus-delivered Evo VIII that accompanied the Notaras crew to Goulburn, I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears. The engine mods have been restricted to a set of Tomei 262-degree camshafts, a Ralliart race ECU, a custom exhaust manifold and a full three-inch exhaust, so Martin is able to retain the stock clutch, though it has a decidedly shorter lifespan than in road-going Evos.
Squeezing my six foot-tall, 118kg frame into the Sparco Pro2000 co-driver seat presents less problems than I had envisaged. I had previously given myself an injury a yoga master would have been proud of while attempting entry into a Lotus Trophy Elise and looking at the snaking, jungle gym-like integral roll cage of the Evo I had spent some time formulating a semi-plausible excuse involving bedroom gymnastics with a supermodel to explain to my physiotherapist how I had turned myself into a human pretzel. Luckily, it wasn’t needed as there is an abundance of cabin real estate, though my left leg had to do be “assisted” around one beam of the cage.
Once strapped in, I was able to soak in the race car touches: the raw carbon fibre doors, roll cage, one-piece bucket seats, rally computer, fire extinguisher and hydraulic handbrake all give the authentic hardcore track vibe, but the picture doesn’t match the soundtrack. Though a pair of Tomei bumpsticks lie within the 4G63, the exhaust emits a quiet throb (for a modified car) which is noticeably drone-free. It is a decidedly eerie sensation and I found myself wondering, “is this just the calm before the storm?”
Martin clambers in, snaps his belts tight and is ready to roll almost straight away. This is the first sign I see of how totally comfortable he is with the car. The total familiarisation breeds comfort and that is blatantly obvious watching Notaras interact with his rally toy either during preliminary, pre-run checks or while driving it around the sheds on the way out to the track proper. Everything he does, every adjustment is all too easy, it’s all blasé and laid back like any enthusiast doing the weekly oil level check on their car.
Moving out from the pitlane, Martin gently rests a foot on the brake pedal to warm the race-spec pads lying in the Brembo calipers. As we pass the end of the pit wall, I wait for an explosion of power or some kind of wailing, gnashing monstrosity to fling us up the track like a baseball out of a Howitzer field gun. Martin settles himself in the seat, adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, and… nothing.
Squeezing my six foot-tall, 118kg frame into the Sparco Pro2000 co-driver seat presents less problems than I had envisaged. I had previously given myself an injury a yoga master would have been proud of while attempting entry into a Lotus Trophy Elise and looking at the snaking, jungle gym-like integral roll cage of the Evo I had spent some time formulating a semi-plausible excuse involving bedroom gymnastics with a supermodel to explain to my physiotherapist how I had turned myself into a human pretzel. Luckily, it wasn’t needed as there is an abundance of cabin real estate, though my left leg had to do be “assisted” around one beam of the cage.
Once strapped in, I was able to soak in the race car touches: the raw carbon fibre doors, roll cage, one-piece bucket seats, rally computer, fire extinguisher and hydraulic handbrake all give the authentic hardcore track vibe, but the picture doesn’t match the soundtrack. Though a pair of Tomei bumpsticks lie within the 4G63, the exhaust emits a quiet throb (for a modified car) which is noticeably drone-free. It is a decidedly eerie sensation and I found myself wondering, “is this just the calm before the storm?”
Moving out from the pitlane, Martin gently rests a foot on the brake pedal to warm the race-spec pads lying in the Brembo calipers. As we pass the end of the pit wall, I wait for an explosion of power or some kind of wailing, gnashing monstrosity to fling us up the track like a baseball out of a Howitzer field gun. Martin settles himself in the seat, adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, and… nothing.
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