We are taken to a racetrack in the boonies to drive worn-out police cars way too fast. I probably wouldn’t complain if it was just speeding, though I am truly a granny driver. No, we have to drive through water so we can skid and try to stop the inevitable donut-spin that comes if you don’t brake absolutely correctly! We must ram an almost done-for vehicle into the front, then the back, of a totally done-for vehicle, to move the thing out of our path.
Then there is the exercise of driving forward at about 40 mph, stopping as quickly as possible, backing up using mirrors and doing a rapid Y-turn so you are going back the way you came. I don’t get motion sickness easily, and I’m not a whiney person, but I am sure whining over this experience.
The requirement is 100 percent participation, so when I place my hand over my stomach and turn my green face toward the instructor, he simply asks, “Do you need to hurl before we continue?” Considering that my abdominal contents are unsure which way to face forward and that’s it’s 100 degrees,, yes, that is exactly what I must do.
My three days of vehicular terror are over. I had such a nice weekend planned, but now it consists of moving from the tub of hot water, where my very sore muscles are trying to un-spasm, to the couch, where I lay quietly, trying to convince my stomach that life is back to normal. Before this experience, people would tell me “crash and bang” was great fun. Just goes to prove, once again, one size does not fit all!