LALLOUZ INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Just on a hunch, I would guess that the first thing that comes to someone’s mind when contemplating a trip to the Côte d’Azur is not how to ship their remains back home.

But, hey… I had already sipped Courvoisier ‘and got stuck with the bill’ too many times at The Hermitage in Monaco, frolicked beachside with topless beauties (Vive La France!), and cavorted endlessly with the R(ich) & F(amous) at the harbor in St. Tropez.

So, what could possibly make my next trip more memorable? How about suicide?

What else would you call it? For a small fee you can drive a special little car around a little track just down the road from Nice. But this car has room for just you and a 700 horsepower engine sitting right behind your head. It has the capacity to launch you to 100 mph in 3 seconds, quadruple the weight of your head in a turn, and stop you from 200 mph to 30 in a heartbeat. And if you hit the wrong pedal at the wrong time… well, thus my interest in posthumous transport.

The reality of strapping yourself into a bomb, lighting it up, and shooting down the track... with others equally unprepared right along side you. There must be another word for fear, because that word just doesn’t do justice to what is going on just behind your eyeballs... and throughout the far reaches of your intestinal tract.

by S. Thomas

Eclectic writer, Thomas R. Sebastian, penned S. Thomas, is the author of racing cult classic, ‘Miracle at Monaco’ reviewed as the most accurate portrayal of the ‘Formula 1’ experience currently available in the book world. He is also one of the few automotive journalists who actually owns the cars he writes about. His Formula One racing experiences have been featured at GrandPrix.com. Thomas can be reached via email: plus8mog@yahoo.com

Living in Monaco at the time, my French, while good, could not actually be described as proficient with the technical terms required for the world of Formula One. Ordering Steak au Poivre and conversing with the local sommelier is a bit different than assessing the efficiency of trail-braking through a 90- vs. a 45-degree turn. I bluffed my way through the classroom well enough -- but on the track, the last-minute instructions ‘as technical and esoteric as you can imagine’ came faster than my capacity to absorb. Well, I did ask for something memorable...

One of the many frightening moments... ‘this one more-so for the instructor than moi-même’ came at the end of the entrance ramp when Monsieur Henri gave me the last, critical instructions regarding the proper launch mode. With time, late that night, I was able to figure it out. But at that moment, with stomach in mouth and brains vibrating from all of that throbbing power, I simply did not get it.

In an instant it hit him. There was the possibility that this crazed American was about to take off in his multi-million dollar vehicle with no understanding of what it takes to run, or even stop it.

He took stock of the line of racers behind me, then his watch, and finally, the position of the sun, which was flitting in and out of a rather ominous looking fog.

Alas, he made the French equivalent of The Executive Decision. It would take too much time to take me off the track and clear up any technical misunderstandings... or to simply throw me out of the program. He took one last doleful look into my eyes, and then waved me onto the track.

First Gear: Now, there is no way to be coy with these things. That came through quite clearly in the instructions. If you dally, you will stall. And starting these things is quite an event in and of itself. A special démarreur, or starter, has to be wheeled out and plugged into the back of the car. You can’t reach the unbelievable RPM’s these things work off with the key and ignition systems that get most of you out of the garage each morning. No. A restart out on the track would be far too embarrassing an event, and probably be the straw that ended my racing career.

So…WHAMMO!! Your head hits the headrest with such force that one hand is jarred loose from the steering wheel.

By the time you hit sixth, ‘if you ever reach it’ you are starting to think that all that boredom in the bar back at the Hotel Paris might be more your thing after all! The first thing that comes to mind is that you haven’t taken a breath, yet. And then... just as with that other ‘first-breath’ at your own birth, you find yourself in a strange new universe.

I could go on at length about that day... about how I ran over a chicken on the track, was almost killed by an overweight French farmer who thought his best chance to break into big time racing was to ignore his brakes altogether. Or about how the blinding fog rolled in off the Rive... and we didn’t even stop!

Ah, yes... and then there is the uniquely French tradition of drinking strong wine during the breaks. But I won’t.

I will however, leave you with this advice: If you have a choice between hanging out with bathing beauties or being launched down the track in some land-based rocket... Don’t be stupid! Choose life!

FORMULA 1