Eric Thompson: Take to the track like a real man

Those with boy racer urges should book time on a real race track. Photo / Hawke's Bay Today

I spent the weekend driving up and down to Pukekohe for round one of the New Zealand Premier Race Championships. I was fully expecting to see enough chaotic driving to give me inspiration to fill the next year's columns.

However, much to my pleasant surprise, on the Saturday anyway, I saw nothing that made me cringe, hold my breath, fear for my life or any of those emotions I feel on a daily basis driving in New Zealand.

I began to think there was some hope for Kiwi drivers and that some of the disparaging remarks in the press, on radio and television slating our collective driving standards was beginning to sink in.

Not so, I'm afraid. All my hopes were cruelly dashed on the drive back from Pukekohe on Sunday afternoon after a great day's racing.

There must have been at least half a dozen drivers on the motorway heading north who thought they were in their own NZV8 race.

You're a spectator at a motor race meeting, you numpties, for a reason - you're not bloody good enough to race cars. So why the hell are you trying to do it on a public road full of equally bad drivers who, for the most part, are trying to stay out of trouble.

Al Unser, one of the best drivers to ever grace a race track back in the day and winner of four Indianapolis 500 and two Champcar titles, puts it rather well.

"You may drive the freeway daily at top speeds with confidence and skill. But that doesn't qualify you as a race driver. Put an ordinary driver in an Indy-type race car and he'd probably crash before he got out of the pit area." Exactly.

You lot in your Mitsubishi Evo mark whatever, or your lowered Nissan Silvia (who thought of that name?), or Hondas with big wheels, no suspension and a blow-off valve, should loosen your grip on your manhood and stop pretending you know what you're doing.

Us sensible drivers, some of whom who have actually raced before, know the public road is not a race track.

Weaving through the traffic dreaming you're a Nascar driver is not the real thing, and being able to point-and-squirt a car in a straight line means nothing.

Just because you've got lowered suspension, fat wheels, a loud exhaust and shiny engine bits doesn't mean you know how to drive.

In fact, I reckon my Mum in her Micra could blow your doors off around a race track. Next time any of you boy racers feel the urge to go fast on a public road, resist it. Instead, go straight home - at a sensible pace - pick up the phone and book yourselves on to a track day and learn some skills.

You'll probably scare yourself pooh-less trying to get around the track in one piece, and even more so if you get a chance to be taken for a blast by a professional driver.

So if you want a real man's thrill, stop spending your money on "all show and no go" shiny bits for your car, put your baseball cap on the right way around, and save up to get a proper thrill by racing on a purpose-built race track - not a commuter highway.