As instructed, I was ready to rumble right at noon. A marshal with a clipboard checked my name off a list, then waved me onto the hot pit lane.

Cars were launched at about minute and a half intervals- each driver in turn was let onto the track when the previous car started their flying lap. This ensured that each driver would have nothing but empty track in front of them, making it a true timed event. Of course, these times were for bragging rights only since they didn’t count for official rankings in anything but the club, but still…

While I was waiting for the marshal to wave me on, that same red 911 with the huge spoiler pulled up behind me. I had no idea who the driver was, or even whether I’d actually met him, but he was clearly one of the fastest out there that day.

I caught his eye in my rear-view mirror, and he smiled and gave me a thumb’s up. I returned the gesture, feeling good about having a challenge.

A moment after the car ahead of me flew by for the start of their flying lap, the marshal waved me on. I didn’t bother with the race start, since my first lap was just for warming up. All that really mattered was that I hit turn nine fast and perfect for the best drive possible onto the front straight.

I took one at a decent clip, then gradually picked up speed. By the time I entered nine I was really flying. Using the car’s all-wheel drive to best advantage I motored onto the front straight, letting the turn drive me way over to the left edge of the track. That V-8 engine right behind me was absolutely thundering as I flew past the starting line, my foot slammed to the floor.

Turn one is visually intimidating- it looks like a ninety degree left as you rise up the slope of the front straight. The thing is, the track is ridiculously wide and has more banking than you’d think. Immediately after the exit you start your bend to the right into the very long turn two, so you can stay wide late on one and let it slingshot you well into two, if you’re confident.

I was feeling good- the track was hot and had a ton of grip, my tires were working well, and I was focused to the point where nothing else existed. I drifted right on my way up the straight, waiting until the very last to ease the brakes on for the turn.

I’d probably gone through that turn faster in my race car, but again, the Spyder’s limitation was the street-legal Michelins and the reduced grip in comparison to true race tires.

I could feel it, too- I was right at the limit of the traction provided by the sport street rubber. That was fine- it just let me know that I couldn’t get away with as much as I could in the GT3, that’s all.

I didn’t want to push too hard, since every time I had to correct a slip I was losing precious hundredths, but if I wasn’t slipping at all I wasn’t going as fast as I could, either.

My biggest moment came in eight just as I began to turn in for nine. The car never really got too far out of shape, but it did kill my drive. Frustrated that I blew my perfect lap at the very last moment but otherwise pleased with my car’s performance, I kept my foot flat until I passed the finish line. Looking up, I could see the red car out on the track in their warm-up lap. Briefly wishing him a better finish to his timed lap than I had in mine, I rolled around for my cool-down lap before pulling it in.

My time was displayed on the timing board- I’d run a 1:24.24. I rolled the car back to the garage a bit disappointed, since I’d hoped to break 1:24.

“That was damned fast,” Joachim said, taking my helmet and setting it on the drying fan.

“I blew it in nine,” I admitted. “But that wasn’t all. I’m sure there were at least two tenths out there that I left on the table.”

“Well, we’ll throw on fresh tires for your run this afternoon. That might make the difference- these are a bit shagged,” Joachim said, running his hand on the tread of the right rear tire.

“They didn’t feel too bad, but I was running right at the edge a lot,” I said, rummaging around in the cooler for a Coke.

“Here- eat up,” Manny said, setting a plate on the table. “You only got half an hour before your next session.”

I dug into the sandwich gratefully, suddenly realizing that yes, I actually was quite hungry. I just had time to finish my lunch and use the restroom before the one o’clock session began.

Rolling up to the hot pit entry, I saw the red 911 up ahead, so I jumped at the chance to follow him out onto the track.

He gave a little wave out his window when he spotted me behind him, so it was clear he wanted to play, too. He accelerated hard onto the track, but I had no problem matching him. To be fair, I probably had over two hundred horsepower and the benefit of all-wheel drive, but some of those track-spec 911 series cars can get going fast in a hurry.

Unfortunately we weren’t the first ones on the track, so pretty soon we had traffic to go around. Red Porsche Guy was a bit more willing to wait for other drivers to move over than I was, but I sat behind him and followed his lead. After the third or fourth car we passed I realized that Red Porsche Guy was waiting to pass until we could both get by the slower car together.

We did this until we reached the front of the field. Once I’d gotten past the last of the cars that had entered the track before us, Red Porsche Guy took off. Of course there was no way I was going to let him get a gap on me, so I took off after him. We had almost five laps before we got into traffic, five laps in which we traded places several times, gapping each other here and there where one of us was faster than the other.

He could hold a tighter line faster than I could, so he was faster in four, five and six, but I was more willing to let it fly in eight and nine and got better drive onto the front straight. This meant that if he was in frontcoming out of six, I could get past him before nine and the straight, but he could reel me back in over the top of the track. He managed to pass me in six, cutting inside where my favorite line had me wide to the left, which was a very gutsy move.

When we did catch up to the stragglers in the group we both backed off a bit and passed the same way we had earlier, until the checkered flag came out and it was time to bring it in.

I dropped the car off with the guys at the garage, then went out looking to see if I could find the red car with the giant spoiler to talk to the guy. Pete Miranda saw me and waved me over.

“That was some driving out there,” he said. “And your flying lap earlier- pretty damned good,” he added. “Anyway, my car is yours any time you want to take it out. My pit is down that aisle,” he said, indicating one of the rows of pit setups. “Look for the black Boxster with gold racing stripes. My wife knows you’ll be taking it out, and she’ll give you the key.”

“Thanks, Pete, I really appreciate it,” I said. “I’ll get your info so I know where to have the new tires sent.”

“I’ll have my wife give you my card,” he said with a nod of thanks, but really, it was him doing me a favor.

I walked past the black Boxster before in my search for the red 911. Its driver was sitting in the shade of a canopy extended from the side of his toy hauler, enjoying the breeze from a big fan blowing directly on him. He was older, late fifties, maybe early sixty, with short salt and pepper hair. Lean and wiry, he looked very fit and athletic despite his age.

“There you are!” he said when I walked up. “I looked around the pits but couldn’t find your car anywhere.”

“Garage two oh seven,” I said.

“That explains it,” he said with a laugh, indicating I should help myself from the cooler.

I grabbed a bottle of water, then used the cooler as a seat. “That was a lot of fun,” I said, tilting my head back towards the track.

“I can’t believe how fast you go through eight,” he said. “And nine- that’s really ballsy.”

“I just have big ovaries, that’s all,” I replied.

“That must be it,” he agreed with a smile. “Hey, my name’s Jeff. I don’t think we’ve met- I would have remembered you for sure.”

“Leah,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I’d ask if you come here often, but the answer is pretty obvious,” Jeff said.

“Actually, it’s only my second time at this particular track,” I said with a shrug.

“Where do you normally drive?” Jeff asked, surprised.

“We just moved down from the Bay Area, so it was mostly Northern California tracks up until recently,” I explained.

“I live in Vegas, so it’s a treat for me to come out and play here at Willow Springs,” Jeff volunteered. “I have to say, it’s also a treat to see a 918 actually being driven the way it should. In fact, yours is the first I’ve seen on the track.”

“Today’s my first day to bring it to the track,” I replied. “The only reason I brought it today is that it’s my only Porsche, and I was told that bringing a non-Porsche to a Porsche Club track day was frowned upon.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it would be,” Jeff said with a laugh. “So, if it’s not the 918, what’s your regular track toy?”

“I’ve got a BMW,” I said.

Jeff looked at me for a moment, then grinned. “I’m guessing it’s something pretty fast, judging by how you seem very comfortable at warp speed.”

“Yeah, pretty fast,” I admitted. “It’s a factory GT3 car.”

Laughing out loud at that, Jeff said, “Yeah, that would do it. The Spyder must seem slow in comparison.”

“Well, no, it’s not slow,” I said, thinking about it. “In fact, the race start mode on the Porsche is unbelievable. Way faster than the BMW. It has more ponies and all wheel drive, so it gets off the line like nobody’s business. Where the BMW is faster is when grip is an issue. Those big race tires and all that downforce keep the BMW stuck to the track, where the Porsche gets a bit squirrelly.”

“Like turn eight?” Jeff asked.

“Yeah, turn eight, but also four and six.”

“If you were going that fast and feeling squirrelly in eight, I can’t imagine how you take it when you’re feeling stuck to the pavement,” Jeff said, shaking his head.

“Faster,” I confessed.

We stayed silent for a little bit, just relaxing companionably.

“Leah,” Jeff finally said after a minute or two. “Can I ask a question? I don’t want this to, well, come across the wrong way or anything…”

“Sure,” I said, leaning back a bit to look him straight in the eye.

“I’m guessing there’s a story behind the paint job on your 918,” he said. “It’s a very, um, specific color.”

“I was originally going to go for bubblegum pink, but when I saw the color samples I liked the lavender better,” I admitted. “So, not that specific, I guess.”

“I guess what I meant is that it’s, um, an aggressively feminine color. Bubblegum pink would have been, too. These are colors very, very few people would choose.”

“You got me,” I said with a smile. “I wanted everybody here today to know for absolute certain that they just got passed by a girl.”

“You had it painted just for this track day?” he asked, amazed.

“Wrapped,” I corrected. “But it might well stay that color- I kind of enjoy the, like you said, aggressive femininity of it.”

“What color is the paint underneath?”

“Sapphire Metallic, but when I bought it it had a wrap done in the Gulf Racing scheme,” I said.

“I would have liked to have seen that. That could have looked amazing.”

“It did, but it was a bit too gaudy for me,” I replied.

“Says the woman driving an aggressively lavender supercar,” Jeff laughed.

“One of the instructors here is letting me take his race-prepped Boxster out this afternoon,” I said, changing the subject. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’ll get to see how the little people do it,” Jeff said with a smile to let me know he was teasing.

“I did tell him that if I wrecked it, I’d buy I'm a new one,” I said. “I figure that’s fair.”

“A new Boxster… That’s what, one car payment on the 918?” Jeff teased.

“I only ever had one payment on the 918, and I can assure you it was a lot more than any Boxster could ever cost,” I replied with a laugh.

Just then the P.A. system called out the five minute warning, so I stood up and said, “See you out there.”

I hustled back to the garage and grabbed my helmet off the fan. The car was ready and waiting, so I hopped in and waved my thanks to Joachim and Manny. They really were doing an amazing job of keeping me rolling with no issues.

That session and the next I worked on fine-tuning my lines through a few of the turns, not really worrying about outright speed or lap times. I wanted to break into the 1:23 range at the afternoon time attack, so I needed to squeeze out a couple of tenths. Improving my lines, even if only slightly, was the way to do it.

Of course, I was still doing a lot more passing than I was getting passed, but I’d come to the conclusion by that point that even in the ‘fast’ group, not many drivers were willing to put their cars at any sort of risk, so ‘fast’ meant seven tenths, and slow maybe meant four tenths of what their cars were capable of.

For the three o’clock session I did go out in Pete Miranda’s Boxster. It was a pure race car- internal roll cage, completely stripped interior, single seat, the whole nine yards. I have no idea exactly how much weight that saved, but the car just felt light. It felt way down on power compared to what I was used to as well, but I’d expected that.

The suspension was well tuned and the car handled extremely precisely, which helped make up for the lack of outright speed. It had on a set race-day treaded Toyos that worked well on the hot track and allowed me to hold an extremely tight line. This steering precision was very different from what I was used to- it made the track feel twice as wide. Of course, simply going slower had that effect, too. And it’s not like I was really going all that much slower, really. According to the onboard lap timer I was hitting in the low 1:30s, so it was less than a ten per cent differential. I could see how with a bit of time behind the wheel I could squeeze out a few seconds, which doesn't sound like much, but at those speeds each second is a hundred and fifty feet of track.

I handed the key back to Pete at his pit, thanking him for letting play with his little race car. “That Boxster of yours handles so crisp!” I said. “You can take any line you want, anywhere.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of fun,” Pete agreed.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t I return the favor? Let me know which session you want to take the 918 out, and you can see what it’s like.”

“I’d hate to do any damage…” Pete said, hemming and hawing.

“Well, don’t crash into anybody or run off the track, then,” I said.

“If you’re serious, I’d hate to pass up a chance like that,” Pete grudgingly admitted.

“Then don’t pass it up. Simple.”

The five o’clock time attack went better than the noon session had and all those little hundredths added up. Of course, not blowing the turn onto the final straight made a big difference, too, and I just squeaked under the 1:24 mark. When the final times for the day were posted, I made my way over to Jeff’s pit to congratulate him for edging me out by seven one hundredths of a second.

“I put everything I had into that lap,” Jeff admitted. “I thought for sure you were going to take it.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” I said.

“Yeah, there is,” he agreed. “It’s supposed to be hotter, which might make the track greasy later in the day.”

“If it is, it is,” I said with a shrug.

That night Joachim, Manny and I ate at a little Thai restaurant across the street from our hotel. The food was surprisingly good, especially given the dumpy exterior and ramshackle decorations inside. My green curry was about was good as I’d ever had, and Manny and Joachim both said their dinners were excellent as well. Chalk it up as one of life’s little pleasant surprises, I guess.

“I’m sure you coulda taken at least three tenths off with fresh tires,” Joachim said when the subject of the time attacks came up. “Tomorrow, we’ll swap fresh tires on for your noon run. We shoulda done it for the afternoon run today, but…” he said with a shrug.

The reason we hadn’t is that I’d thought the tires on there were probably good enough and I wanted to save the hassle of a tire swap right at the end of the day.

“Let’s break out the Rs this time,” I said. “Put them on for the eleven o’clock session so I can get a feel for ‘em before the timed runs.”

“It’s time for the good stuff!” Manny chortled, rubbing his hands together like some old-time movie villain. “They ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em!”