Aside from a pair of blown engine mounts, shifting problems going into 2nd gear at full-throttle, and mutilated tread blocks on the shoulders of new tires... Is this photo.
If we can compare music with paintings and cars, it's that they can all find a home at a museum- and it's all art. When you play a piece on the piano or splatter paint on a canvas (Never done it, but looks fun) it's the application of an acquired skill-set, then expressing it in a manner that reflects your temperament.
Autocross is no different: For you to be competitive, it takes dedicated book-work to study things like driving technique or suspension theory. Once you've got an idea of how you can approach a corner with vigor, then it's an emphasis on seat-time, which takes years. I say with no exaggeration that practice can inadvertently involve nailing a curb, spinning out of control, or at the very least taking away thousands of usable miles from a set of tires as you sheer them away through awfully carved "racing lines."
For me, it was about 5 years that included tributes to the solidity of many curbs and mangling several brands of tires before we set out to compete. As a group, my friends and I sought to run together and found the process of registering for an event easy in both of the leagues we participated in (SCCA and Equipe Rapide).
It was after one of those events that I found this photo: Here's a shot on the final corner, at over forty-five miles an hour and climbing, right before passing the timing lights. Those with an experienced eye can see the weight transfer to the front of the car as I'm letting off and on the throttle. The rear-end is high and pressured by the rear sway bar to yield, taking grip from the rear in favor of the front. These elements describe my driving style in a specific situation: a subtle scoot of the rear suspension and lots of steering corrections at speed.
The photographer caught this moment between two clumps of clouds and at an angle that captures the undulated arena. Tire marks lend an impression of motion, which contrast ironically with the frozen image captured of the Sentra here in this strange moment of clarity, where you can even (Somehow) make out the spokes of the wheels. This image, expertly caught and aided by luck, is like that pivotal moment every book is supposed to have, tagged onto my timeline of ownership.
Here's my take: 110,000 miles after inheriting the Sentra, I'm working towards more.
Can we do more? I think YES.
