Orange cones surround the former pit area, larger than most grocery store parking lots. A trailer houses a small crew, who man a computer, track times and organize piles of paperwork. At eleven in the morning, 30 drivers line the inside wall of the track. Ranging from a college freshman to a commercial real estate agent and a married couple, they are accompanied by a suitable variety of cars—from a 70’s VW Sirrocca in requisite orange to a shiny new Porsche.

A pep talk follows an opening prayer and call to arms, capped with a reminder to mind the golfers. The SCCA has organized these Hutchinson Island meets for many years, and the golfers have lost their initial displeasure and are often oblivious to the races. From insurance waivers and accompanying bracelets to computer printouts of lap times and car classifications, the day’s organization resembles a semi-professional circuit much more than the terrain of backcountry dragsters or main street speeders. Drivers are split into two groups, and each spends half the day maintaining the safety of the course and the other half racing. Each safety station is outfitted with a red flag and radio in case of debris or malfunctions. Everyone works.

After racing the Solo 2 for five years, Nick Hallman says the competition is “less about having a hot car, and more about a driver. “The race is less about straight line speed and power and more about handling, more of a test of the driver and a test of car set up than it is a test of just engineering the fastest thing in a straight line.”

Peter Lier, a 55-year-old “semi-retired” commercial real estate man, drives a Porsche GT3. With his white moustache, drawstring sun hat, shorts, and easy smile, he looks every bit the satisfied financier. Lier’s cheerful self-deprecation is apparent as he explains that control, speed and engineering work “in concert with each other, which is much more of a driving experience in my opinion.”

I also spoke and worked the safety shift with Bryan Camera, driver of a silver 1986 Fiat X1/9 outfitted with a perfectly complimentary blue interior. In black shoes, jeans, sunglasses and an Indiana Jones hat, Camera says that after fifteen years of Auto Cross event competition “precision driving” brings him back. “I’m a competitive kind of guy just by nature,” Camera says, “and I used to drag race motorcycles. So anything with wheels, I’m cool. Anything you can scare the crap out of yourself with…”

At his Porsche, Lier agrees: “Auto Crossing forces you to drive by the seat of your pants.” I’m riding shotgun with Hallman, Lier, and Camera through one of each man’s six allotted laps. The air in the staging pit—a grid of parallel cars parked at a slight slant—hisses and mumbles as drivers adjust tire pressure, talk shop and prepare for their races. Brakes screech and cars peel out. I settle beside Camera, and as we inch to the starting line, a tall man at the grid holds his hands open, and then slowly closes them, to indicate our relative distance to the start line. He claps enthusiastically and points in a vaguely German signal to the driver on the mark. We’re ready.

The initial explosion is exciting, and ominous, in a familiar way, like stealing a cookie for the first time. As my initial lap with Camera begins, it occurs to me that we shouldn’t be traveling like this. At the first hard left, I’m convinced we’ll spill over. I’m accustomed to a Jeep. I’m in the car with a maniac. He’s gunning it to impress me. We don’t flip, but through rapid turns, I concentrate more on prayer than the details of the ride. We slip between cones like a real life tie fighter. I grip the door handle, no longer aware of where we are. I’d walked the course earlier in the day, but that’s irrelevant now. I’d been advised to “watch out for that loose stuff.” Later, a driver would wipeout at that same spot. The brakes and tires squeal as we jerk around a hairpin turn and blast forward. I keep thinking, “We should be stopping, we should be stopping” before we hit that wagon wheel, an improvised roundabout of cones, where I’m transported to a childhood playground merry-go-round that spins much too quickly.

Finally, the car halts and turns so violently that we should, in any self-respecting action film or video game, spin out in a cloud of dust. At the finish line, I find Wayne Wagnstrom, a young driver experienced in the cinematic spin out. He describes it in glowing terms as “Fun so long as you don’t hit the wall.” Essentially, it’s the means to the excitement of a relatively safe car wreck.

Wagnstrom had driven up from Amelia Island, Florida and has competed twice a month since he began last June. He loves the “turns, and turning fast.” He proudly explaines that he has “spun out in circles before.” Earlier in the day, riders were advised to take the turns slow and ignore the urge to accelerate through them. The better time would prevail. It’s sometimes faster to travel slower in Auto Cross.

As the races continue, I talk with Don Johnson, 48, who races a 2001 Ford Focus that he shares with his wife, Laura. From Effingham County, they have been racing for four years. Though they both enjoy the sport, Don explains that his wife “enjoys it more because I do more of the work.” He chuckles and says, “The one who enjoys it most is usually the one who wins. We’re fairly even and that makes it more fun.” This was his day to win, but Laura clarified the situation. “The rule is the one who wins has to go first next time,” she says. “I had eight wins in a row. That’s the record.” Both say that their Auto Cross experience has saved them from accidents on the ‘real’ road.

“It teaches you agility,” Laura says. “I had someone turn right in front of me, and I just did a little jig jag back instead of going off the road and went around them, as if all of a sudden there was a pole in the road. If I had not maneuvered I would have hit him.”

Most, but not all, of drivers are male. Teresea Hammock is another of the exceptions. A 40-year-old single mother and dedicated champion racer from Lexington, SC, she has won three different championships with two and a half years behind the wheel. She belongs to the South Carolina Region, which is different from the Buccaneer Region shared by Coastal Georgia and Northern Florida. Borrowed helmet under one arm, I approach her.

“Can I ask you a question?” Teresea doesn’t blink. “52.50.” Her latest time. Her secret? “Seat time makes a big difference, the more seat time you get the better you get.” Her young son, John Hammock, accompanies her to the track and is shouting across the track “Whooee! That was fast!” as cars zoom past. His mother struggles to describe the intensity of the drive. “It’s just overwhelming to me,” she says. “I love it and I get goose bumps when I talk about it because I just love racing so much. I’ve always been into racing. But if there’s anyone out there that likes to sit around and watch it on TV, and they get to come out here and they get to see what it’s all about and they get behind the steering wheel they’re hooked. I’ve never got out from behind it after the first time.”

Throughout the day I’m told more than once that the Savannah region upholds the reputation for hospitality and kindness. “Here are some nice people,” they say, and everyone shares tools and tips. Don “DJ” Bruner, the eventual winner is skinny and strapping, with a pointed nose and attitude. Despite his recent victory and the blazing heat, he puts on a shirt so he doesn’t “look like a heathen” in front of my camera. To emphasize the friendly atmosphere, the Johnsons lend me a helmet to wear in my rides around the track. Peter Lier, having traveled around the Southeast eventing says the Savannah chapter is “great, a wonderful bunch of people. One of the nicest bunch of people, laid back, and I’ll tell you what, I’ll be up here again.”

As for myself, the day in the sun leaves sandal tan stripes on my feet, and a decent shock of helmet hair. I depart with a grin and a heavy foot.
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