Acrophobia

Several times a year in the last 18 that I have worked at National DRAGSTER, I have a recurring nightmare: I'm sitting in a Top Fuel dragster on the Pomona Raceway starting line, opposite another Top Fueler with engines running, and the stands are packed. The Tree is counting down, and I don't know how to operate any of the controls.

My dream-interpretation skills being what they are, I haven't a clue as to what any of this means. I know only that several times a year I wake up pondering what race car I would drive if given the chance. Invariably I choose a Super Gas roadster, partly because I like how they look and partly because they go fast but not too fast. In truth, it's mostly because a quarter-mile pass in just under 10 seconds is more palatable for me than 5 G acceleration that shoots a driver downtrack in less than half the time.

I have never had the desire to toss myself out of an airplane or strap my ankles to a bungee cord and jump off a bridge, largely because my undiagnosed acrophobia resides as strongly in my stomach as it does in my mind. Speed on the ground, however, I can handle. My husband Bob knows this, and for Christmas he purchased for me the Dragster Adventure course at Frank Hawley's NHRA Drag Racing School at Pomona Raceway.

I was excited to get behind the wheel of a Super Comp dragster, and the excitement grew as my May 5 driving date drew closer - actually right up until the night before, when I heard the weather forecast: 70 percent chance of rain.

In what so far is Southern California's second-wettest rainy season on record, a light yet persistent mist fell as 17 adventurers received classroom instruction from "Fast Jack" Beckman in the base of the Pomona tower. In a miracle of sorts, the track was dry by the time of our morning runs; rain fell during our lunch break and continuation of our instruction, then cleared a second time.

I was feeling fine until we suited up. That's when I developed a tightness in my chest that would have been eased somewhat had I been able to vomit. I couldn't zip my jacket, and the last thing I wanted to do was tell the man in the equipment trailer, "Hey, I know you're trusting me to drive one of your race cars, but I can't operate the zipper on this jacket." But that's just what I did, and they let me drive anyway.

As a veteran of more than a dozen NHRA Staff Drags events, in which we race our daily drivers for an eighth-mile over the Pomona Raceway course, I at least had the benefit of staging and leaving off a Pro Tree, but I had never done a burnout, and I had never left with 2 G acceleration. Mashing the gas on my '98 Volvo S70 at Pomona is not too unlike my acceleration onto a SoCal freeway after the traffic meter at the base of the ramp flashes green. In other words, 2 G and "oh gee" hardly compare.

I stopped my dragster after completing the burnout and before rolling over Jack and past the cones that he had set up in front of the stage lights, which was an accomplishment in itself. I was somewhat prepared for the next part of my first eighth-mile pass - the starting-line launch - because former ND staffer and current Top Alcohol Funny Car pilot Todd Veney had filled me in by phone a few days earlier. Even so, and maybe because of Todd, I wasn't bashful about stabbing the throttle. That's when I seemingly lost all muscle control in my left leg, which would have shot up over my head if my body hadn't been in the way. Not to worry, I was able to keep both feet forward on the next run.

With each pass I became more comfortable in the car, and by the time we broke for lunch and rain began to fall again, I seriously thought that I had experienced enough that driving the entire quarter-mile wouldn't be much different from driving the eighth, and if we were to lose the afternoon to rain, I would have been satisfied. Clearly, I wasn't thinking clearly.

My last pass of the day wasn't my best - I was told I had low e.t. for my car on my first quarter-mile blast - but I learned something: The more I drove, the more time it seemed I had to experience the ride. Each pass was less shocking, for lack of a better term, and though it's not as if I had time to sightsee, I did have more time to think, and it was on my last pass that I truly felt the car.

I was almost to the finish line when I could feel the car move around, though I'm almost certain that it didn't move much if at all; I was just so much more keenly aware. It was then that I heard Todd's voice reminding me, "If you feel the least bit uncomfortable, lift." So I did. (That may be the first time I ever listened to Todd.)

Bob's gift to me proved to be more than just a day at the dragstrip; it was an experience unlike any other. It's like being strapped into a roller coaster without rails - and you're in absolute control.

Though I may continue to have nightmares of driving a Top Fueler, I understand now how drivers can drive so fast. The best analogy I can draw is watching a Major League Baseball player hit 90-mph fastballs with relative ease: It's his progression from 50-mph Little League pitchers through high-school hurlers and on up to those he's facing in the bigs. I'm sure that after the progression from handling a Super-class car to a Comp dragster, through alcohol and up to nitro, I'd have no trouble behind the wheel of a Top Fueler. Sure, Vic, dream on.

As managing editor of National DRAGSTER, Vicky Walker doesn't have to be asleep to have visions of Top Fuelers, and every other kind of drag vehicle, driving in her head.

Copyright National Hot Rod Association Jun 3, 2005
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