I watched my favorite IndyCar race of the year today. I sincerely doubt it’s the favorite race of most IndyCar fans, and I doubt most non-IndyCar fans have ever heard of it. It’s not Indianapolis. It’s not Long Beach. It’s not Mid-Ohio or any other well-known race. Instead, it’s Barber Motorsport Park in Alabama—a place that’s not a household name.
As usual, watching the race made me smile from ear-to-ear in an absolutely shit-eating kind of way. Thankfully, Pam was not home to hear me talking to the TV as I watched, naming each of the upcoming turns or straights, despite it being nine years since I was last there.
My 60th birthday present to myself was spending two days at Barber, while attending Porsche Sport Drive School. I loved every minute of those two days and left knowing that track like the back of my hand. It pleases me that, nine years later, I can still visualize every turn and straight. That’s what happens after driving around it so many times, sometimes as a passenger and most times as a driver, usually in a Porsche 911S.
Before I went to Barber, Pam and I celebrated our 35th anniversary in Nashville. After doing all sorts of Nashville stuff and having a blast, I dropped Pam off at the airport and headed down to Barber, with a detour via the Jack Daniels distillery on the way. Despite my love of Eric Church—and his love of Jack—I am not so much of a Jack fan, but, nonetheless, I enjoyed the tour. It really set the stage for Barber.
While there, we did all the fun stuff that can be done at a racetrack. We played on the skid pads, wet and dry. We attacked the Autocross course marked by orange pylons in the parking lot. We listened to lectures about safety and performance driving. We learned, usually the hard way, how to spot apexes, braking zones and corner exits, while focusing our attention way up the track, using our peripheral vision to get through the immediate turn. We experienced first-hand just how well a Mercedes 15 Passenger Sprinter Van can navigate a racetrack when it is driven by a professional. And, of course, we drove and drove and drove around the track.
Some of us did better. Some did worse. Some needed Dramamine. Some were competitive. Some, like me, just enjoyed every minute.
I have spent several more days on various racetracks since then. I have cherished every track experience I have had, but none were as profoundly fun as my two days at Barber—of course they were nowhere near as expensive, either.