Excerpt from

ROADSTER:

"Then I wish I had a big red car," said Little Bear.

"I would go fast, fast. I would come to a big castle.

A princess would come out and say,

'Have some cake, Little Bear,'

and I would have some."

--Else Holmelund Minarik, Little Bear

PROLOGUE

Nine in the morning, and the air at the drivers' meeting is already rank. The August sky still threatens rain--it had come down in buckets the night before--but the pit-lane conference room would have felt small and close on the driest day. Those present, all members of the Lotus owners' club, listen intently as a Lime Rock Park driving instructor takes us through the course. It's shaped like a hitch-hiker's fist: Big Bend, the track's upraised thumb; the Esses, beginning in the thumb's webbing; No-Name Straight, along the clenched knuckles; Uphill Turn, down the edge of the palm, until Back Straight and West Bend take you to the wrist; and Diving Turn, the palm's heel, where drivers pour on the gas before hitting the long straightaway that ends abruptly, alarmingly, back at Big Bend.

The instructor outlines the best line through the course, noting simultaneously that the line is, for the moment, theoretical. The track is wet, and some of the prescribed turning points, or apexes, are literally underwater; hit a puddle and you'll likely end up among the weeds and frogs and waterbugs on the other side of the asphalt...muddy, black-flagged, track privileges possibly suspended. The instructor emphasizes that racing other cars will also lead to a black flag, but the men in the room--there are no women--know that by the end of the day, when fear of the unknown has given way to unwarranted confidence, the competitive juices will be flowing, irresistible.

We turn in our tech-inspection sheets, ask a few trivial questions, and divide into groups according to self-proclaimed ability. The instructors offer additional bits of wisdom: more accidents occur on car-club days than any other, if you feel good going into a turn you probably aren't doing it correctly, aim directly at a car that spins out in front of you because it "won't be there by the time you are."

The Connecticut sky now shows patches of blue. The track has begun to dry, but the air in the room remains thick and gamy, old and sweaty, spiked with anxiety and impatience and excitement. Says one driver, putting on his helmet as he proceeds to the infield, past a score of waiting roadsters with their headlights taped and spare wheels removed, "Too much testosterone."