Gentlemen, start your engines

So I had my second race car experience in less than a week. (Yay!)
Only this time the car was a real car (red Ford Mustang convertible). (Boo.)
And the car went 140 miles per hour. (Yay!)
But I was not wearing a shiny red helmet. (Boo.)
Only a red racing hat that blew off when we left the starting line. (Ooo...)
And I didn’t eat any bugs. (Yay!!!)

I rode in one of the pace cars for the 2005 Cleveland Grand Prix. I screamed the entire time, but my driver couldn't hear me over the roar of the engine and the screech of the tires as she zoomed through the 10 turns at 80 miles an hour. And then there was the straightaway, where my driver shifted into high gear and launched the little red Mustang off the groun. My entire body felt like a ball of electricity—especially my hair, which bore a resemblance to Doc Brown's, without the help of a time-traveling-DeLorean.

That lap around the racetrack was like a gateway drug—it just wasn't enough. Now I feel the need; the need for speed.