1997 Arrows Formula 1 Car- Driving Impression

I think it was Nikki Lauda, or maybe it was Heinz-Harald Frentzen, who said, "Whenever I describe what it's like to drive an F1 car, it always sounds like I'm relating the details of getting jumped in an alley. Something smacked the back of my head, there was a lot of shrieking, I couldn't see much, and now my balls hurt."

My mugging is about to take place in Catalunya, Spain, where, thanks to Michelin, I'm about to get one lap behind the wheel of a real F1 car, a 1997 Arrows powered by a 3.5-liter Cosworth V8.

The instructions, given by Michel, one of the Michelin staff, are fairly simple: "Ze F1 car eez not a toy." He presses two fingers toward me and cocks his thumb. "It eez a gun.

"Zer are no computers on zees car. You are ze computer," the briefer continues. "To start ze car moving, push ze clutch een, pull back on ze right paddle to engage first gear. Slowly raise ze revs until ze mechanic tells you to stop, zen slowly, very slowly, raise ze clutch pedal until you start moving. Keep raising eet slowly."

"To upshift, lift your foot completely off ze gas and pull back on ze right paddle. Zees eez not PlayStation. Shift slowly or eet won't shift."

"Ze brakes are fully manual and require 144 pounds of pedal pressure. Push as hard as you can. If you can hurt zem, I'll buy you champagne."

Michel pauses for dramatic effect.

"Zer eez no traction control, and zees car makes 650 hp. So, once you have braked and downshifted by pulling back on ze left paddle, turn in, go around ze turn, and when ze steering wheel eez straight, very progressively press on ze accelerator."

"Hmmm," I think, "this is probably the only chance I'll ever have to drive an F1 car, and they want me to drive Miss Daisy? Around El Circuito de Catalunya, voted last year's best F1 facility? Screw that."

Nomexed up, and under threatening gray skies, I slide into the driver's cocoon, a cavity that's the ominous shape and darkness of a coffin, only with a carbon-fiber headrest. There isn't a seat per se, only an unpadded carbon-fiber shell. Lateral and longitudinal support comes from the 3-inch wide straps of a Willans five-point harness. I'm just under 6-feet tall and weigh 158 pounds, and I barely, and I mean barely, fit, both in terms of length and girth.

The cockpit is set up so a minimum of movement is required to operate the car. Other than the five or so inches your feet move to operate the pedals and your hands working a 10-inch steering wheel, the only other organic matter that moves is your bowels.

A team of Frenchmen lock me in place, giving me a last "zees car is more important zan you" glance, just to remind me that I'm behind the wheel of a vehicle that cost more than 30 years of my salary.

All I see are the tops of two very large rain slicks, nose-mounted antennae, and the inviting fresh black of the front straight. Now, I figure, would be a good time for deep-breathing exercises, but in a moment of panic, I realize I can't fill my chest with air. The harness straps are cinched down so tight it feels like Oprah is perched on my sternum.

The 3.5 liters of Cosworth V8 braaaaaaaping down the straight sets the crew in motion and the splined rod of the electric starter is popped into the car's rear. A crewmember sticks his hand into the cockpit, flipping up the ECU and fuel pump switches located to the left of the steering wheel. He motions to the man straddling to the starter to let 'er rip, and WWIII erupts. Even with earplugs in place and a helmet squeezed over my ears, a tremendous volume of noise washes through me.

The engine settles to a fast idle, and the crew steps back. The starter pulls his right hand back, simulating the clutch. Leg quivering, I depress the left pedal, toggle the right paddle and "1" appears on the LCD readout above the steering wheel. The starter's left hand moves up, and I move into the throttle pedal ever so slightly. The pedal is long and perfectly progressive, and the engine's song steps up an octave. His left hand stops, and he slowly pushes his right fist forward. Revs up, I inch out the stiff pedal. The car starts forward at a leisurely pace, and I'm free of the start grid.

"Even if it's not nearly as cool, I'll use the clutch," I decide. Off the gas, clutch in, grab the paddle and the transmission unhappily finds second gear. I have but one chance down the straight, to experience the power-to-weight ratio of, well, an F1 car.

I roll into the throttle, fearful of breaking loose the rear tires. Inconel exhaust pipes breathe, then scream, and something red blinks. Off the gas, squeeze the paddle, and "3" appears in my peripheral vision. The M3 chase car speeds down pit road to my right, and blasts onto the straight behind, like a Jack Russel pursuing a Greyhound.

Hammer down. Swaddled in fireproof fiber, bound to a composite sled and naked to the Gods of speed, I'm flung feet first on a lead-fueled prayer. A "4" flashes and reason revisits. Turn One appears like a still picture, and my right foot finds the brake pedal. Despite the fact that I'm slamming carbon pads into carbon rotors, in a vehicle with theoretically the best brakes on earth, the Arrows chassis embraces momentum. "Oh, shit," I think, and bear down on the pedal with all my leg can muster.

Operating temperature for carbon brakes is somewhere between 400 and 600 degrees Celsius; I'll get them up to about 70 degrees. Deceleration finally favors me and I pull back on the left paddle, the engine blips, and third gear is engaged for Turn One, an uphill right-hander. Or, driven while scared shitless, a not-so-fast right-hander. Turn Two is a slight kink to the left, steady throttle, and the long, sweeping right-hand Turn Three follows. I keep it in third gear. Second gear would wow, but I'm more worried about not stuffing it than turning lap times. Turn Three opens widely onto a short straight, I catch fourth gear, but a sea of cones are set up to keep us civil; I brake and downshift to third gear for the increasing radius Curva Repsol #4, impressing myself with my smooth shift and pedal operation, thank you.

Turn five, an extremely tight downhill left-hander, trots into view, and I use the same braking point I used in recon laps in the Pilot Sport PS2-shod M3s with massive AP Racing brakes.

"Shit, shit, shiiiiiiiiit," I think as I hammer down on the brake pedal and again, and the F1 slows with all the intention of a cruise ship. The tiger-striped apex glows brightly to my left. Two options present themselves: a gravel trap, the end of my run and massive humiliation in front of me, or turn in going good and fast and see what happens.

"It is an F1 car," I figure, and bend the steering wheel hard to the left. The apex is now in front of me, I'm still moving forward, and amazingly enough I'm still in control. I get back into the accelerator and ... nothing happens. The engine stumbles, engine song no longer connected to the go pedal, and I wonder if my high g proved my lack of sense and they remotely shut the engine.

As I roll down the hill, the engine stalls and I put the clutch in. The silence is oppressive. The M3 pulls up behind me, and someone runs over and says something in French. Then he reaches into the cockpit and flips up the little switch marked "ignition," located behind my left index finger. My harness is popped, and my chest expands like a life raft. I'm unsure whether I breathed even once since entering the straight. I lift myself out, shaking. They throw me in the M3 and tow the F1 car back to the straight.

Why such critical switches are located in such an easily snagged place is a mystery, as is how I managed to snag one in my moment of panic, but it happened.

Riding back to the pits in the M3, balls aching, I'm in shock. No, I'm pissed. "Damn," I sigh. "I only got five turns in an F1 car." Then it hits me. "Holy shit, I just got five turns in an F1 car!"

Buy a set of Michelin tires and the same ride can be yours. For details, go to www.michelinman.com. If you win, make sure to chop off your index finger.