Keeping the pedal off the metal in the U.S. 

Road trips can be rough in a race car

`Thelma and Louie' fail to get by police

NIKA ROLCZEWSKI SPECIAL TO THE STAR

Here I was, skimming through The Most Scenic Drives In America, glossing over pages of beautiful scenery and majestic roadways, longing for the open highway and a long drive without commuter traffic.

We would drive from Phoenix, Ariz., to Columbus, Ohio, in TC's new Nissan 350Z — and not just any 350Z, but a fully track-prepared version with roll bar, racing seat and harness.

Recently raced at the new Arizona Motorsports Park, the car had to be brought back to TC's shop to be primed for a race in Atlanta.

This was my chance to crank up the tunes and put the pedal to the metal.

Visions of Thelma And Louise — or in this case, "Thelma and Louie" — came to mind. "Count me in!" I agreed.

Now, I can handle a road trip. How hard can it be? After committing to the adventure, he said we'd fly to Phoenix and pack "carry-on" only.

Packing light is like asking me to donate a kidney — I'll do it gladly, but only in a crisis. The hatchback on the race car would normally fit my traveling wardrobe, emergency kit, blanket, food supplies, CD selections and maybe a T-shirt and toothbrush for TC.

But considering the trunk now held a spare rim, car parts, track gear and tools, I was given less space than a spare tire to carry my worldly belongings.

Barely enough room for a change of clothes, so I worked diligently to cram whatever I could into my tiny travel bag.

I love road trips! The scenery, the sights, the sounds! But in a race car, there's a different level of comfort.

The racing seat was, in itself, a feat to get in and out of — any fries with dinner and I would have needed a shoehorn and lard to get into it. It was snug, secure and somewhat comfortable for the first hour, but after that my muscles cried in pain.

As a passenger, though, I had the pleasure of gazing out at the hills and valleys of the Old West Highway, Route 60. We encountered all four seasons, felt the elevation changes in our ears and lusted after the curves in the road.

We also felt every bump in those curves, thanks to soft compound tires and stiffer suspension, all meant for the track. For a while, ice and snow slowed the drive to a snail's pace but, at the drop of a flag, the weather improved, the road was clear again and we were back up to speed.

What exact speed, I wasn't sure. It seems the different size of tires threw off the speedometer's accuracy by what TC estimated as 15 km/h. We found out exactly what our true speed was when we passed a predatory police officer waiting patiently in his darkened vehicle — waiting for racers like us.

I've seen enough Cops episodes to know to keep my hands from searching for lip gloss. The worst part was that the driver's side window was the bolted-in Plexiglas kind, easily removed for the track.

As the passenger with a roll-down window, I was first contact, but my innocent, doe-eyed smile couldn't save TC from the ticket — another cash grab for the county.

When my turn came to take the wheel, I approached it with trepidation. Would famous racer TC critique my performance, offer advice or just cower in fear as my other passengers do?

My first stint lasted barely 150 km before it became too dark for comfort but, from the comfort of the New Mexico hotel room, I yearned to be back in the driver's seat.

The Nissan had responded to even the slightest command and teased me to go faster.

Tomorrow would be the day.

That day, though, consisted of midwest prairie and more prairie and, yes, some more sights that looked like prairie. We were back on the beaten track, on a major, monotonous interstate.

I rambled about my life story as TC was kind enough to completely ignore me. When he surfed the radio, I napped to the soothing rhythm of the engine.

It was a road best avoided: On the interstate, driving etiquette and common courtesy were thrown out the window by left-lane bandits and slow-moving truckers — I could have been back on the 401.

Each of us had his or her own style of driving. I follow a group of fast cars, letting them lead the way, while TC is the cruise-control addict who pushes the set speed to that fine line at which the state trooper will let it slide.

I took the wheel again and he warned me throughout my drive in Ohio to be careful of my speed but, less than a minute after finishing my stint and TC taking over the driving, he slammed on the brakes again.

The golden rule of "It's never too late to brake" was blown out the exhaust — he was busted for the second time.

I tried my best to charm the young officer to show some kindness. What about Grandma Dynamite in her Taurus, who passed us at Mach 1? Her handicap plate was clearly visible, perhaps for her abnormally heavy right foot.

Although the officer agreed our car was "sweeeeeet," he didn't budge and another $150 ticket took a bite from our budget.

My days of wearing a short skirt and a smile to get out of a ticket were over and, as I glanced at TC, realized that his days of doing the same — well, they just never started.

By the time we reached Columbus on the third day, we'd driven through national forests, native reserves, over many hills and through many valleys.

At the start of the trip, traffic was sparse and when cars finally appeared, TC put it best when he said that we had "moments of pleasure mixed with moments that require patience."

I watched him eloquently shift gears and whisk through corners, our 350Z hugging the pavement.

At times, we gazed out the windshield to see a long straight roadway that went off to the horizon and, with a storm on our left and bright blue skies on our right, we sliced through in sixth gear.

The horrible gas station restrooms, the greasy fast food and the lack of creature comforts — it took its toll on me.

Would I do it again? You bet! Cannonball, anyone?