It’s as though you’ve slipped through to another plane, one in which you’re not driving on instinct so much as working hand in hand with the fundamental laws of the universe. Everything slows down inside your brain, even if you’re traveling at triple-digit speeds, and everything just makes sense. Just as the brakes and tires work together to convert forward momentum into heat energy when you slow down; your eyes, brain, and body work together as part of a much larger system that encompasses not just you, but your vehicle.
Never in my life have I done any hard drugs, but I would imagine the feeling is similar to a junky who will stop at nothing to return to their euphoric state. My addiction is also chemical: Dopamine, I’m told, floods my system, and for days after an event, I’m on a high.
Sure, I’ve tried alternatives in the hope that something else can be my methadone. I’ve donned my helmet and played Gran Turismo for eight hours in a single sitting, forgetting to eat, drink, or pee. Like an ex-smoker sitting in a hazy pool hall, it made the craving worse. Autocross (shown) helps, but it’s no substitute.
Weeks have passed now, since my last seat time. The dopamine has long since worn off. The jonesing is unbearable—it’s always at its worst at this stage—and I know that if I don’t get back out there for a few months, it will slowly dissipate into a dull aching.