I've never harboured any great ambitions towards being a racing driver. Tearing around Dublin on a bicycle at 40 miles an hour? Bring it on. But doing triple that in a car on a specially designed racetrack? Not for me, I'm afraid. Too dangerous, you see. (The irony . . .)
The good lady wife sees things differently. For what did she present to me for a recent birthday, but only a gift of racing lessons at Mondello Park. Brave lady.
Last weekend, I joined the others nervously milling around registration at the driving school, getting fitted for their racing suits and helmets. They were mostly blokes in their thirties and forties, oddly enough.
Secretly, they were all hoping for some kind of revelation, of breaking the lap record at their first attempt. Of being DISCOVERED. ("If that German midget can do it . . .") I must admit the thought crossed my mind too. I'm a competent driver, I've got bottle, why not?
The course goes like this - video presentation, six laps in a Rover hatchback - two with the instructor showing me the course, four with me driving, another video and then into the single-seater Formula Rover racecars for two acclimatisation laps and 10 at full tilt.
I'm strapped into the first car. I feel about seven years old. We take off with the instructor driving at a terrifying rate of knots, keeping a steady commentary as he goes.
"Roundhereinfourthbangitupto fifthbrakeherebrakeharderhit theapexfootdownintofourthback tothirdrevitupbrakehardacceler- ateintofourthbrakedownagear hittheapexfootdownintofourthlet herripkeepitupdownagearsweep herthroughandyerdone . . ."
We reach the start again and skid to a halt. I'm having conniptions - there's so much adrenaline flowing through my veins I can actually see it. Through my racing suit. "Did you get all that?" he asks. I nod. Yeah right. Got every word mate.
My turn. I take off, shocked at the power under my foot. And this is only the hatchback.
We rip around the first corner and screech down the straight. I reckon yer man is impressed. Until we get to turn two, which I tear around, walloping the foot down as we hit the apex and leaving it there as we go into turn three. We skid off the track and into the gravel, but I hold it together and we keep going. "You know what you did wrong there, don't you?" he says. I do. "You won't do it again, will you?" I won't.
Next lap, approaching same corner, I do it again, only faster. He yanks the handbrake and we narrowly avoid rolling. He's not impressed. I'm laughing my head off. It's not like it's my car, is it?
Into the single-seater. "Yer on yer own now buddy, let's see what yer made of," the devil on my left shoulder natters in my ear. The angel on my right takes him out with a swift emotional left hook. "Easy now, this is only supposed to be a bit of fun. Remember your heavily-pregnant spouse watching from the stands."
That bloody angel ruined my laps. I could think of nothing but my unborn child as I hit the brakes 50 yards too early on every corner, of my wife's beautiful face strewn with tears by my graveside as I chickened out of belting out of the apex of every bend.
I was on my eighth lap before I managed to subdue my conscience enough to start giving it welly. By the time I'd really got into the groove, some dude was waving a black and white flag at me.
Back in the pits my instructor handed me a printout of my lap times. "Not the fastest I've ever seen, but you did all right," he said, graciously.
I'd been overtaken twice, I'd overtaken two others, and I was still alive. So, not a bad ten minutes all round. But I was now utterly wired and I hadn't had enough. I bounded like an ADD-kid on crack towards my relieved wife. She took one look at me. "Perhaps I'd best drive home, eh?"
The verdict? It was great fun and all involved were extremely helpful and welcoming. But then they'd want to be, considering you only get around 20 minutes of actual driving for your wife's hard-earned €229, wouldn't they?
