Jenny, Purveyor Extraordinaire of Fine Automobiles, made me do it. And Griffin didn’t shut her down. Ahhhh… my dear friends at Zimbrick BMW in Madison! How can I thank you enough!!
“Hi. My name is Jenny; how may I help you?”. “Well, er… sure…” I respond, trying to sound sophisticated, and financially, one of “the folks with the coin”. “I’ve been referred by the editors and columnists at Road & Track, Car & Driver, the hooligans at Top Gear, and our very own Roundel brethren, among others”. Purveyor Jenny looks puzzled. But I’m used to that; that’s the natural response whenever I try to communicate. Continuing, “I’m here to purvey… er… buy one of your new M2 conveyances; the one with the free color, you know… the one that matches the… well, matches what used to be the whites of my eyes, but that was a while back when the mountains were young. Purveyor Jenny looks profoundly confused; pronounced long sigh….
That three-year-old conversation claws at the periphery of my consciousness as I live to hear the action word.
“GO!”
Right pedal plastered to the floor, M2 and I claw past the timing lights; adrenaline messing with more stuff than it has a right to; eyes right… hard right; eyes left… hands respond urgently, firm grip on that sweet steering wheel; watch out for the damn cones! Hard accelerate; stay in it… stay in it! Scooch right then left through cones. Brain screams, “ARE YOU FREAKING NUTS???” Get ready… not yet… not yet… BRAKE NOW! Spectacles fly… cell phone flies… stomach juggles threateningly the mess that was breakfast fit for the gods an hour ago. Back in it… gently… through the tight decreasing radius U-turn aptly named “Patience”… now hard on it through the right sweeper… and the left… look for the timing lights… lights? In this maze of cones? This is madness! Jumbled brain screams, “Stop Box”!!!! Where? Here? YEAH HERE!!! I body-slam the brake. Wheels fight for traction, but the M2 Orange Flash still flies through what is intended to be a “stop box”. Moron… you DNF’d. Who, me? YEAH YOU! Back there!! Flew right through the illusive “stop box”. YOU MORON!!! The walkie-talkie wakes up, in a matter-of-fact tone; “You blew the stop box; DNF’d; get back in line; two more runs”. Bang tender head on that resting, still sweet, steering wheel. Drool on self. Two more runs. You’ll get it. You better! This is serious stuff!!!
Where? Thermal, California; BMW Performance Center.
What? Day one of two-day M-School; first run following acceleration and braking exercises.
My ride? M2; wrapped in orange with a wrapped carbon fiber roof; rumored to have been a former SEMA BMW show car. #3… my run number, slapped on its amazingly sexy haunches.
The day begins with classroom time. Instructors introduced. Chief instructor, in jest, tells us to not bother apply for a job there because… well… he puts it nicely by saying… er… they know what they are doing, and goes on to prove it. He summarizes their individual, considerable, professional motorsports attachments. I am very impressed with all, but particularly the, “Driver; Aston Martin Racing Team – Nürburgring, Germany”. You’re right pal; I don’t know what I’m doing. Note to self… he probably won’t be impressed with tales of my getting sideways (as opposed to power-sliding) in the 2002, in corner one at Blackhawk Farms.
The group? 15 fellow neophytes seeking to be enlightened. One guy is older than dirt… er… me and he races a 914/6; former Brian Redman event driver. One Porsche Cayman guy who refuses to like anything. Some youngsters with hopped up BMWs with mucho horses. A fun pediatrician lady with an M4, who wins the “Most Improved” for the event award. Several other quick folks, also here for a good time; all I think mostly from places west of the Mississip’. Oh yeah… and Billy Bob ‘n me representing Wisconsin. The folks get split into 3 run groups of 5 each, with a run group instructor for each, and several spotters. No helmets… too heavy (neck damage in an “off”) and the cars have more airbags and safety features than you can shake a stick at. Sorry; “…at which you can shake a stick”, is grammatically correct. Instructor stands off to the side at a preferred place on-track and coaches each student, complements of a walkie-talkie placed in each car; we can hear each other’s evaluations.
My “handle” is Anthony… my middle name, because there is another Peter in the run group; I confuse easily and can’t figure out what the instructor is talking about, coaching “Peter” through tight track sections, and I think he is talking to me… when I’m going at an obscene speed in the opposite direction. Then he talks to Anthony. Who’s Anthony? No Sir…I promise I’m not ignoring you… no, really…. Did I mention I confuse easily?
How many M cars can they fit into one compound? M2s; M3s; M4s; all our assigned toys for 2 days. Did I die yet? All DCT equipped, and although several levels of safety nannies are turned off, the big nanny of them all remains… and the Aston Martin instructor won’t tell me how to do a tonsillectomy; something about liability. During my on-track blitzes she keeps messin’ with progress. GRRRRR!!! Gimmie the damn car… wench!
Skid pad is my biggest challenge. Billy Bob whups my butt! I end up going backwards… a lot… unintentionally. This dry concrete surface is four times slicker than snot on a door knob. Do you know that DCT disengages, and shuts things down when flying backwards? At least that’s maybe how it goes… I’m no techie. How come they didn’t tell me that before… or maybe they did but I was thinking about Purveyor Jenny. How much time is wasted while this moron in heat finds any damn gear that will make this thing go forward? My clutch foot shoves at the fresh air to the left of the brake pedal. The timer continues to tick, tick, tick. Slide through another “stop box” swine. Sigh.
Next we get booted upstairs to the M3s for the oval “Rat Race”. We dash off, two cars at a time, on opposite sides of the oval-shaped track, to strategize/burn out/drift/slide… whatever it takes, in three laps, to cross the finish line ahead of the run-group opponent. By process of elimination, the run-group winner is chosen. Who says I didn’t learn anything on the skid pad? The M3s sure are sweet too! My prize? A big fat stuffed toy black rat; Vicki is clear… don’t come home if the rat is in tow. Really?? Thermal is awfully nice this time of year…
Day one? Other than skid pad and rat race events, think autocross, on a bigger scale, with a maze of dedicated tortured corners and varying lengths of straights connecting them. With sections blocked off, these combinations are transformed into two different configurations for the first day’s events. Lots of M2 time! I can hardly wait to get home… and for Spring’s salt-free roads. Heh, heh. Note to self… Google “How to disable remaining wench”.
Day two. I shouldn’t have enjoyed so much of such a splendid breakfast; they really outdid themselves… again! After a short briefing we put on our M4s and head off to the “South Loop” of The Thermal Club.
There were rumors about how the “other side” lives, but, I didn’t really believe it. The BMW Performance Center adjoins The Thermal Club, a private facility with three different high-speed tracks which can be strung together as one 5-mile track. Entry price for membership in this exclusive club is reported to be $1.5MM; that buys track days at the facility apparently on Mondays only, and a plot of land adjoining the track on which to build a “house”. So, with “house”, you’re in for between $2MM and $3MM… before getting yourself a track car, hiring a crew… yadda, yadda. You get the idea. Day two falls on a Sunday, so the transporters start arriving with cars I can only dream about, and the crews set about unloading and setup for the following day’s fun. Later, the members start arriving by helicopter. Clearly out of my league! Matters not. For a while we’re on their track in someone else’s wickedly fast M machine. YEEEEEHHHAAAAAWWW!!!
We attack with profound malice, different sections of the track… long straights followed by complex u-shaped corners; standing start, gut-wrenching maximum acceleration… then mere seconds later, breakfast-tossing brutal maximum braking, initially at braking marker three, and later between markers 3 and 2, followed by increasing speeds through the subsequent corners. “Anthony… er… Peter… no… Anthony; you can be a little more aggressive in the chicane”. “Ok Pal… I can bang over curbs with the best of them… your car; your problem if I break it!” Why is my mouth constantly so dry? Raw adrenaline? I’m initially hesitant… no, that’s a lie… scared is more like it. I want to steal a glance at the heads up display, to fathom just how fast this thing is actually going at braking marker 2 which, har har… if you know me, I must try (almost peed into my loafers); a momentary snatch during a late run in the day offers up a mind-bending 130mph; the 2002 can’t even imagine wet dreams about such frivolity.
This speed thing is seriously intoxicating, and before long I am Sir Jack Brabbam, Sir Jackie Stewart, Mario… er… what’s his name again? Andrattio or something like that… all rolled into one grinning-fool speed junkie. Hello dear? Yeah… having a great time! What would you think about ‘dozing the hayfield out front, and the cornfield beyond, and encroaching on the neighbor’s back forty to build our own corner 5? Yeah, you could plant flowers on the inside of the corner so it’s still zoned “agricultural”… yeah, blacktop. Pricey. Yes, you could don your fancy hat and yell, “My Hero!”, as I scamper by. Paying for it? I’ll work another year and sell rides on the side. No?
Didn’t think so…
The run group does “lead/follow” laps with the instructor, at serious speed, and up pops a kinda warning light on the instrument panel… a red square. I mention it at the next stop and he says that should never, ever show up; no, it’s not an unlatched hood… the proximity sensors report that I’m following him too close. Sorry sir… I promise I won’t do that again… sigh… Apparently I’m too used to romping with Billy Bob. Academic really, because the gas gauge says I only have 12 more miles of fun left before exhausting the last fill ‘er up of “go juice”.
We wave buh bye to The Thermal Club folks. Thanks for lending us your fun little roadway! More M2 time… figure eight skid pad fun, and one last timed banzai run on the short track. LOVE THIS M2!!!!!
We park the toys for the last time and look over our shoulders, once; twice; thrice…. at the delicious parked “fleet”, as we head into the classroom, marking the end of the two-day giddiness. I swear the M2 winks at me as I look back. The kind folks present us with dynamite gift bags of M-Performance goodies that are unique to this event. Thanks guys!!! Never a slave to fashion, this stuff might actually make me look… well… cool!
They announce the fastest time of the day during the M2 run. Billy Bob ‘n me smile.
Turns out this momentum driver stuff we live as pilots of really slow wheeled thingies also works in nose-bleed horsepower M machines. Your Wisconsin contingent showed ‘em… heh, heh. Of the three timed short-track combined-group events, we came away with two firsts and a second; the Brian Redman guy was pretty good! Of the two competitive events for our run-group only, we came away with two firsts.
Surprises? I had bought into conventional thinking that our M cars were getting fat and lazy and that BMW had “lost its way”. Horse feathers! These bad-ass M track-rat/grocery-getter conveyances are gut-wrenching in their capabilities, and execution, while being comfortable to boot! AMAZING!!! Secondly, I had dispatched DCT lovers to “sissy“ status! Who the heck prefers this electronic shift-for-you commie stuff to our beloved third pedal?? Admitting I actually liked this is… well… blasphemy, but… shhhhhh…don’t tell anybody; would not have had it any other way! WOW! That’s saying a lot. Third, these folks put on one heck of an event; the cars, the facility, the professionalism of the instructors and other staff; the fun atmosphere; the cars; the first class hotel; the food; on-time everything; the critiquing and encouragement offered in constant feedback while on-course… did I mention the cars? Double WOW! Fourth, I can actually drive mega-horsepower stuff!!! Whowouldathunk? Would I recommend this event? Dumb question! This is a Bucket List item for anyone that enjoys anything automotive.
And, I’m going back… so there. There’s this thing called Advanced M-School. The fun folks don’t even advertise it, but the 2-day M-School is the prerequisite. Can’t afford it, but I want it… before getting seriously old. Anyone want to buy a ’69 S4 Lotus Elan? Same color as the whites… er… what used to be the whites of my eyes.
Reluctantly, Billy Bob ‘n me board the jet thingy for the boring ride home; who wants to leave Heaven… er… Thermal? I fall into a restless sleep. I’m in the office; the phone rings… the digital whatsit screen says “Zimbrick BMW”. It’s a hot sounding chick named Jenny asking for some Anthony dude; his M2… the nice white one he ordered, has finally just arrived on the transporter. When might he be in to pick it up? Well lady, I don’t know any Anthony and besides he probably doesn’t like white anyway since it won’t match his eyes anymore, so cancel the order. And I hang up. Suddenly, I wake up with a start… where am I? WHO AM I??? There there, dearie, the nice nursie says… take this; it’ll calm you down. My Depends? Soaked. I fight to swallow some dang thing or the other.
Shoulda gone to the Advanced M-School when I could have. Yeah. Shoulda.
JUST DO IT!!!!
