My experiences on track in 2015 changed everything.

A sense of fallibility and seriousness set in.  And I, the allegedly fast driving Dr. Mom, faced a few problems:

1. Habitually over-braking in Bianca, the 911.

2. Fear of crashing Bianca.

3. Realizing the absolute necessity to develop momentum driving skills.

4. Improper seating causing exhaustion.

5. Knowing that any necessary safety/seating modifications would depreciate the car’s value.

6. A stubborn insistence upon doing more with less.

The solution would have to be a race-prepped track-ready car. But which one? The Cayman in Tennessee? The Boxster in Wilmington? The G series 911 in Virginia? Conversations and consultations flew around electronically:  VtechPower, Greenfrog, Vader, Mr. LeMans, Tex, Koldcrest, SCDon, GillesV and Mr. 912 kindly shared their time, wisdom, experience and knowledge. Eventually, I decided.

But Swami had already known it. That’s why he’s the Swami.

There were plenty on the market. After taking a test drive I nearly bought a non-Spec Miata in Fayetteville. A hiccup on the pricing and delay on funding sources put the kibosh on that.

Serendipitously, just as I was clearing up the cash flow line,  a friend of a friend, legendarily known as The Jamochan Shaker, directed me toward a proven badass car. She was the real deal. And, for a Spec-Miata, was a steal.

The seller, TRVB, obviously loved this car. He had used her to work on obtaining his NASA racing license. He trekked 3 hours each way to lovingly deliver her personally.  With good cheer and great patience, he took time to go over the controls and equipment with me.

I felt baffled and excited and fearful as I slid into the driver’s seat. Her display panel was cryptic and unfamiliar. Once again, despite my lifelong enthusiasm for cars, I felt completely lost. I had to hoist myself into the cabin by grabbing on to the roll cage.

Here was a whisper of possibility. Someday I might reach my goal!

The racing steering wheel was hanging off the rollcage, and took muscle to manipulate onto the shaft. I felt intimidation and puzzlement at that quirky starter set-up, the surreal pull-pin fire suppression system, the missing windows, the unidirectional kill switch and the bizarre door-latch apparatus.

I giggled out loud when I saw the wide angle  rear view mirror: I could see so much! The Recaro seat smoothly slid up, and my foot floored the clutch effortlessly. The seat itself felt roomy around my hips but snug at my lower back and the new harness held me tight. It fit. I fit!

TRVB showed me how to start the engine. Without a muffler this tiny little fireball had the subtlety of a streetwalker. In that blast I heard her name. Moxie.

The neighborhood teenagers flocked to my driveway. A handsome but pimply boy shyly asked to look in. She is the only car I’ve owned that has no steering wheel, no ignition key, no passenger seat and no windows. She obviously has more track experience than Bianca and I combined. I felt intimidated, but I wanted to learn from her.

The puppies and kids approved. “MOM! That sounds so badass!” Even hubby expressed a mild interest. As TRVB pulled away in his trailer, I parked her next to Bianca in the garage.

My silver gladiatrix was ready, with slicks! And was not street legal.

I had to find a way to get her to Road Atlanta in seven days’ time. I began to worry that I might not. I was cutting it close.