Still, the legendary crashes played through my mind: the Porsche that blew a rear tire at 190 and rolled end over end for 100 feet, leaving its driver alive but hospitalized for three months. The guy who blew his front tires out at 200 mph and took more than a mile to skid to a stop. And of course, the greatest tale of all, that of a man named Dennis "Mad Dawg" Antonucci of Huntington Beach, California. Even John Schneider-a man who spent seven years and 154 episodes taking flight in the General Lee-gives the man his props for fearlessness.

"The whole reason I got into this is because I saw a picture of 'Mad Dawg' crossing the finish line with his entire car in flames," said Schneider, incredulously. "My dad's always been into cars and I grew up loving movies like Bullitt, but there's nothing like seeing that happening in real life to make you sit up and take notice and say I've gotta be part of that."

Schneider was in the race not as a gimmick or as a paid promotion for the race, but as a genuine average guy who just happened to drive one of the most famous cars in America. It was more than a little surprising to see a TV legend standing around with his dad, who served as his navigator, mixed in with his fans and fellow racing aficionados.

"Racing fans are the most genuine people in the world. If you're down to earth and just want to be treated like anyone else, they'll respect that and just be your friend and be great to you," he explained. "But if you try to act like you're greater than everyone or something special, they're not gonna tolerate that and you'd find the exact opposite reaction. I've always just seen this as a good job and racing as something I love to do, just like anyone else here."

Schneider was speaking Saturday afternoon from the town's high school football field, where all 122 racecars had come for their technical checkups and the drivers were showcasing their cars for each other and the townspeople. Sure, there were dozens of cars tricked out, painted flashy and ready to rock the road, but at that moment only one car mattered other than the General Lee: "Mad Dawg's" Pantera. Talking with him proved to be a lesson in just how serious and risky this race could be.

"This is the same car that got burned up back in '99, when I caught fire at nearly 200 mph with a mile to go before the finish line. I knew that if I tried to engage the fire compression system it wouldn't work unless I completely stopped, and that they had safety crews with fire extinguishers on the other end of the finish line, so I just decided to go for it," recalls Antonucci. "I crossed the line at 170 mph, completely covered in flames, and I remember hearing a lady screaming 'Why doesn't he get out? Why doesn't he get out?"

He did make it out, his fireproof suit limiting his burns to his wrists, but his car seemed lost. But because the car was one of only 4,000 to enter the US during its early-70s production cycle, Antonucci was determined to save it and try racing again. He received donations and encouragement from thousands of racers around the country and had the car back on the road a year later.

"I was scared to do it again, but it's like when you get thrown from a horse you have to get back up or else you're always going to look over your shoulder wondering," said Antonucci. "I was a Vietnam vet and was a commercial diver so I grew up in formative years in extreme professions, so I was looking for something exciting to do and thought what could me more exciting than racing on an open mountain road?. Its the danger and excitement."

As my date with destiny and potential disaster approached, I had the sober business of my own final preparations. There was a medical information form to fill out that asked for our blood type and next of kin information; I couldn't remember my blood type and was damned if I was going to terrify my parents by asking them about it. They thought I was just hanging out in Vegas, not potentially hanging out of the wreckage of an overturned car in the desert.

I also had experienced the frustration of finding myself turned down at the tech inspection. My car was fine - I was supposed to ride along in a Corvette convertible, whose driver cackled "What good is a soft top gonna do you anyway?" The problem lay in my fireproof suit from the racing academy, which had a tear in the right elbow. I thought it was no big deal, but my driver laughed again and said "It's not likely we're gonna catch on fire, but if we do, even a small hole like that can lead to you cooking like a hamburger."

I was told I could come back and ride in the next race in May, but that things weren't looking good for my riding shotgun now. I had to either find a way to patch the material with the high-tech cloth designed to make it fireproof or find a car in a slower speed class that would be less likely to blow up. I was bumped down from the Corvette at 175 mph to another 'Vette in the 115 class.

And so it was that I was teamed up with Jim Marz-Vietnam vet, retired cop, beer drinker extraordinaire. (Albeit that last quality only came out after race time.) A burly tank of a man with a boisterous laugh, Marz told me to be ready at 6 a.m. Sunday for the ride out to the starting line. A long night lay ahead-meetings for all the racers and navigators to hear the final rules of the race, a separate meeting for press to learn how to take pictures of the speeding cars without becoming road kill, a festive dinner in the lavish basement of the Hotel Nevada.

At midnight, the only sounds on the streets poured forth from the bars, and the racers were nowhere to be found. It was time for them to sleep and rest and dream of fast open roads and trophies to be won. But for me, a new guy with fear in his veins, sleep would be hard to come by.

It's 8:45 a.m. on Sunday, and I'm in Jim Marz's Corvette, the world a blur as we shoot through the desert at a speed I could only dream of. I am doing all in my power to just maintain my composure and keep my pants clean-on the inside. My breath is quick yet measured, pressed up against the inside of the helmet, fists clenched in balls of tension, my stomach doing flip-flops. Mentally, however, I'm starting to feel the speed hypnosis-my mind tuned to a Zen-like state in which I would be hard-pressed to freak out verbally if my life depended on it.

Meanwhile, Marz is the picture of calm. He's been down this road before, literally, many times, and is confidently engaged in a race against himself - hands firm on the wheel, eyes no doubt locked in a steely gaze behind the shade of his helmet visor. This is what it all comes down to for the people involved, more than the car shows and camaraderie, the costs involved and the daunting dangers that lurk around every corner.

And as he lurches through an area called The Narrows, where the road tightens and turns in what seems quite risky fashion, Marz punches a fist in the air in quiet exhilaration. A bigger punch comes when he crosses the finish line, along with a cackle of pure satisfaction. Marz looks at his timer and mutters because he is late by six full seconds-an eternity in this race, where hundredths of a second often separate winners from losers.

Yet as Marz struts over to his fellow drivers for a celebratory cold one, I step out of the car to find my entire body is about to explode. For the second time in one day I make a beeline for a Porta Potty.

Later I learn that my switch into the slower car had been a lucky one after all. It turned out that Jim Marz had picked his 115 mph speed class because there were only three cars in it, period. Six seconds be damned, we were guaranteed to win. And I've got a giant silver plate with an engraved three-dimensional car leaping out of it to prove it.