Speed Hypnosis
By Carl Kozlowski

There are some things the human body is not meant to do. Racing down 90 miles of desert freeway at 120 mph is one of them.

Unfortunately, I realized this five minutes before I was due to strap on a helmet, twist myself like a pretzel, and wedge my body into the shotgun seat of a Corvette for the most terrifying ride of my life-a run through the Silver State Classic Road Rally, in the heart of Nevada.

Sure, the 'Vette was specially-modified with a roll cage and a safety harnesses. Sure, the man behind the wheel had driven in 14 previous Silver State races. Sure, I had no reason to fear for my life. "Only" one person had ever died in the 15-year history of the event. That is indeed a pretty sterling safety record for a race that takes place twice a year and averages more than 120 cars each time. But…

And so there I was, with five minutes to spare before the race, doubled over inside the narrow confines of a Porta Potty and emptying my breakfast into its gaping hole. I should have known better than to go out there, for I am a 275-pound desk jockey who, until recently, has barely lifted a finger in exercise my entire life.

Three months prior, I had fallen asleep at the wheel of my ratty Toyota Corolla and turned my car into an accordion. Perhaps I was seeking to overcome that memory and reclaim my right to the road, or to exorcise the demon that overtook me anytime I found myself in a fast car since the accident. Either way, I had no time to psychoanalyze, for Jim, the driver, was headed toward me in full-throttle fury, screaming for me to get in the car and looking like he'd turn the Porta Potty upside down if he had to.

I took a deep breath, ran out to the Corvette, wedged my way in, and tried to jam the helmet over my head as Jim strapped my harnesses around me. Of course my helmet wouldn't seem to go on without requiring me to crack my skull, and my harness had to be wedged so tight around my crotch that I was certain I would never father children. (Or maybe Jim was just pissed and making it more painful than it had to be.)

My glasses slipped off my head and hit the floor, but I had no room to bend over and pick them up. I was certain I'd either step on them mid-race or they would become deadly projectiles when we had our inevitable squealing-tire car wreck. I just knew I'd wind up blind by the end of the race-or to be more precise, within the hour. But, there was no point in worrying any more. Jim had roared his car's engine to life, rolled to the line, and we were counting down to the starting signal. When the traffic light at the starting line turned green, I was to hit the timer on his stopwatch and keep my mouth shut.

Green! There went the timer. Bam! My head rocked back into my seat. We were off.

"I used to race motorcycles, and then I road-rallied cars in Bolivia before racing from Ensenada to San Felipe in Mexico each year. We then wondered why no one was doing road races in America," explains Steve Waldman, the polite but tough-talking executive director of the Silver State Classic, who is also a compact barrel of energy. "Having been in the hotel business in Vegas a long time, I knew a lot of people in the state government. When the copper mines shut down around the town of Ely, they needed extra income for the town, so they made the nearby highway available for the race so that racers and their friends would come and spend tourist dollars."

That was back in 1988, and indeed the effort has paid off handsomely for everyone. Waldman estimates that the race has brought in over $14 million in non-gambling dollars to the economically depressed area over the last 15 years. Waldman and an extensive board of nonprofit directors and volunteers organize the race on 90 miles of Highway 318 each May and September. With up to 233 cars participating at its peak and an average of four people traveling in each car, "that's more than 900 people right there each race season, spending a minimum of $300 per person over four days, that's over $300,000 right there in one shot."

When I first heard about the Silver State Classic, giddy visions of automotive anarchy filled my head. In reality, the race is a lot more scientific and refined. Each car is assigned a speed class, ranging from 95 to 180 mph, based on how jacked-up its engine is and how specialized its safety features are. Each speed class is timed out to an exact minute at which the cars should cross the finish line-for instance, 150 mph-class cars should finish the 90-mile race in 36 minutes-and then each individual car tries to cross the finish line at precisely their assigned time. Timers calibrated by Global Positioning System satellites measure each car's finish to 1/10,000th of a second.

"There are three radar points along the way to make sure you're staying within your speed class: one that allows you to order a souvenir printout proving how fast you are racing, one at the finish line to make sure you're crossing without going too fast or too slow in order to hit your time goal, and one that's hidden to just flat-out bust and disqualify speeding drivers," explains Dale Schaub, an eight-time racer who now serves as one of the Silver State's racing instructors. "You can miss your time target by 2/10th of a second and kiss the trophy goodbye."

Each car starts the race one minute apart so that the drivers are able to put a couple miles of distance between one another and limit the chances that cars will bunch up and endanger each other. After all the speed-class cars have finished, one final class of cars starts two minutes apart: the unlimited class, whose drivers are allowed to race as fast as possible in an attempt to flat-out set the fastest time for the race. The record for the Silver State Classic is a car that averaged 207 mph across the entire 90 miles-a feat that also set the Guinness World Record for fastest open-road speed, period.

But even with the race's format of each driver racing against him or herself, the risks are ever-present and extreme. Any curve in the road can result in a spinout, and any spinout can lead to a car hitting rough terrain and flipping over.

There's a reason it costs anywhere from $395 to $695 for drivers to enter the race: someone has to pay for the cost of insurance and the logistics of 285 volunteer course workers, several crews of EMTs, two Medevac helicopters, emergency vehicles and the sheriff's deputies needed to shut down 90 miles of state highway for 9 hours. The costs also include a safety course on the professional speedway at the Derek Daly Racing Academy outside of Las Vegas and a full technical inspection that can eliminate a car and its team for any factor from leaky fluids to imperfect tires.

And what do you get for all the fees, troubles, and the cost of customizing your car to the tune of $50,000-70,000?

"It's not about the money," says Wayne Motes of Tucson, who was part of a four-man crew on a half-ton pickup truck that could go 170 mph. "If you win, you get a commemorative plate. This is about pride, bragging rights, and friendship. What more do you need?"

What I needed was to find someone with fast wheels, an open shotgun seat, and a willingness to have a potentially sniveling copilot along for the ride.

Drivers take on a copilot to navigate and act as lookout, keeping their eyes open for sudden turns, drops, and foreign objects in the roadway ranging from fellow racers' cars to stray parts or the occasional burro. In other words, it was a lot of responsibility for someone to accept if they couldn't promise not to puke.

I was not able to make such a promise, but Waldman, the director, assured me that once I got rolling in the race I would enter a state of "speed hypnosis," in which my body would numb itself to the potential dangers and just accept the fact that it was hurtling through space at 120 mph as a completely natural state of existence. I was assured that I would have my moment of glory.

The road to glory began at about at 8 a.m. Thursday, my first full day in Vegas, when I joined the full class of first-time drivers and navigators for a racing class on the speedway of the Derek Daly Driving Academy. I didn't need to put on a full fireproof suit because we were "only" going 90 mph around the course's rapid-fire twists and turns, but like a kid in a candy store I grabbed one off a wall anyway, slipped it on along with a helmet, and hopped into the passenger seat of a spiffed-up BMW.

In the interest of providing a you-are-there perspective on what it's like speeding on a racetrack for the first time, I switched on my mini-tape recorder before we hit full throttle and recorded my thoughts for your edification:

"Oh shit! Holy fuck! Holy shit! Oh fuck! Is that legal? Are you sure? Is this safe? We're going sideways! What's that mean? Oh, that! Don't do that! That's crazy! Don't do that! Oh shit! Holy fuck!"

Normally my speech is as pure as the Pope's.

The driver-Daly's chief instructor and a former pro racer named Richard Zimmerman-said the most important part of the class was helping new racers learn the impact that G-forces have on the human body. It also was designed to teach how to respond to sudden obstacles in the road, ranging from blown tires to bunnies, and how to absorb the impact of hitting an animal if they simply can't be avoided.

"When you're going that fast, amazing things happen. I've seen a bird get hit and get sucked into a headlight," says Zimmerman, who set the world record for closed-course electric-car racing by zipping along at 110 mph. "In racing, cornering at high speeds makes blood run away from your head, and the bigger you are the faster it happens. You have to be physically fit or it'll wear you out, and if you're physically or mentally tired that's when you'll make mistakes."

One fact gives a pretty thorough depiction of the town of Ely: Stephen King set up shop here at the classic Old West-style Hotel Nevada for six weeks back in 1995 and emerged with a novel he entitled Desperation. Yet if you're of a sunnier disposition than the Master of Horror, you can find all the eccentricities of classic Small Town America - and then some.

Ely is a town with one Catholic Church and two brothels, yet even in the flesh trade times have taken a tumble as the legendary Green Lantern bordello serviced its last customer five years ago. It's the kind of town with an abandoned elementary school but a thriving old-fashioned soda fountain. The mayor works part-time and from home, and the only two bars in sight both offer wet-T-shirt contests and really loud, really bad cover bands for weekend fun. There are no movie theaters, the big prospective teen club sports a sign saying "Opening Someday" and the high school kids cut loose in the fields and mountains on the outskirts of town.

All of these factors point out why the Silver State Classic means so much to the town's 4,119 people. They're proud and excited to see people from all walks of life - doctors, lawyers, mechanics and engineers, even an aerial photographer for the DEA - come from all over the country in all sorts of cars, ranging from a 1935 Dodge to the latest Lamborghinis and Porsches.

But they're most excited by one car in particular, a vehicle that is instantly recognizable throughout the nation and perhaps the world by the Confederate flag on its roof and the "01" emblazoned on its side door. That's right. If you grew up in America from 1977 to 1984-or knew someone who did-you know the car I'm talking about: The General Lee.

I walked past without noticing it on my way back into my hotel, but there was no way I could miss its driver when he stepped into the elevator with me. As a boy in Arkansas, I had grown up believing this guy was the greatest American ever: John Schneider of "The Dukes of Hazzard." Sure, he has made a big comeback playing Clark Kent/Superman's dad on the WB's "Smallville," but if you're from the South he will always be first and foremost Bo Duke.

Ely's nightlife choices consists of two bars with wet T-shirt contests. And both of them had their bartenders reduced to begging for contestants by offering free drinks. When my buddy Earl noticed that the women were expected to dunk their chests into children's' plastic swimming pools, he suddenly thought of his 8-year-old daughter, felt extremely guilty and suggested we find other entertainment. There was only one place left to go: the front bar of the Stardust Ranch, the less-scary-looking of the town's two bordellos. We assumed the place would be packed with dozens of the racers out to have even more fun than would be legal anywhere else.

The vibe of the place was more mid-'70s rec room than actual bar, and any sexual shenanigans were out of sight and hearing out back - unless you counted an Asian woman rubbing up against a guy who looked like he otherwise could be eligible for a Grandpa of the Year award. While Grandpa was considering his thrills, Kelly Gibbs of the Silver State Classic's board of directors tried to explain the appeal of the race.

"The fact is, you've got people with cars capable of going well over 100 mph but nowhere they can safely and legally push their cars to the limit," said Gibbs, who no longer runs in the race personally. "It's one of the last great ways to get a full adrenaline rush for a sustained period of time, and it's a way to challenge yourself and your car and your senses on every possible level in an extreme situation. But when you factor in all our safety precautions, our records are still far safer than any stretch of normal highway in a city like Los Angeles. There's been some spectacular crashes but in reality, this is a very safe event."