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It was August 1980, in Jesolo, Italy. Ayrton Senna, aged 20, lay in a deck chair by the hotel pool—steely-eyed, angry. He had been beaten the day before in one of the world’s most prestigious karting events, a race he had dominated until the final lap.
You’ve probably seen the driverless race car that’s set to compete in a new series called “Roborace.” Come later this year, teams will do battle on city streets and purpose-built racetracks in what is being dubbed the “battle of algorithms.” The consensus among race fans remains that this is an awful idea. But I’m not buying that. In fact, I think it’s awesome, and it could, ultimately, be the answer to motorsport’s biggest problem: Innovation.
I’m a child, just like you. I like to go sideways, in a plume of my own tire smoke. I enjoy opposite lock, balancing the throttle and brake in a smooth, effortless symphony. Generally I prefer to do this on gravel. Sounds familiar, right?
You’ve never felt nerves like those on the morning of the Indianapolis 500.
I knew it was coming. That feeling of utter helplessness, of panic. I was sweating profusely. The question of “if” was gone, replaced by “when”—a question that was to be answered about 15 seconds later. I zipped down my race suit to act as a sick bag, lifted my helmet as best I could, and prepared for the inevitable. This was among the lowest moments of my life.
The 25 Hours of Thunderhill is a race that remains far more grueling than the Rolex 24 at Daytona. Why? Because—in an event designed for amateurs—shit breaks, people crash, drivers sleep in freezing trailers (not $500,000 RVs), and blind corners hide many wayward Miatas.
When life gives you lemons, drive an Acura NSX.
By now, you’ve probably spotted a few Dodge Darts on your local roads; after all, they have been on sale for practically six-months. The first drives of the Dart came around the time we were adjusting our review format, meaning we haven’t yet unearthed its digits. Given the buzz surrounding the resurrection of the Dart, we figured it’s about time we did. So here it is: The Dodge Dart, Jalopniked up and everything.
Throughout the How To Drive Fast series, I’ve offered opinions based on the experience I’ve amassed during my 17-years behind the wheel. The whole basis of this column is to help you drive faster, and learn the tricks and techniques utilized in the quest for victory. But for this piece, I turned to my friends for help: This is how to achieve the perfect lap, and it’s told by four of the fastest drivers on the planet.
Tucked away in a factory, deep in the heart of England, a group of engineers worked tirelessly through the winter. Their dream was to craft a World Championship winning machine, capable of re-writing the history books. They garnered the most powerful engines, enlisted the world’s fastest drivers, and constructed an ingenious chassis that combined to produce a car so dominant it’s known today as the greatest Formula One car of all-time: the McLaren MP4/4.
Most of my “How To Drive Fast” column is, unsurprisingly, about how to drive fast. As well as posing techniques, some of my pieces offer a glimpse into the inner-workings of motorsport, while others are just plain ridiculous. Siphoning through the bunch, you’ll notice I haven’t much talked about safety. So let’s start now, mixed with a dollop of speed for good measure. Here is why braking with your left foot will make you faster on the racetrack and, more importantly, safer on the road.
One man has blown up my twitter in the past 48 hours. That man is fellow Jalopnian, James F Johnson Jr. (@dmidwestredneck), and he desperately wants me to race in Robby Gordon’s new Stadium Super Truck Series. And, if you look at the kickass video below, it isn’t hard to see why.
The Fiat 500 Abarth is one of the most hoonable cars on planet Earth. Despite being front-wheel drive, shaped like an Ostrich egg (and measuring about the same size), it oozes character, flamboyance, and drivability. It is, in fact, impossible to drive the little Abarth and not hoon – regardless of what the trip entails: You’ll hoon to the grocery store, hoon to pick up the kids; you’ll probably even hoon to a colonoscopy, such is the intoxicating nature of this mad Italian shoebox. The 500 Abar
Entering the turn, aboard a NISMO 370Z, I stabbed the clutch, hit the gas, and turned a hard left. The backend pivoted heroically, the rear tires bellowed smoke, and I felt like the most badass motherfucker in history.
Stories are told about how drivers change when the helmet goes on, the visor slams shut and the engines roar to life. Some say the "nice guy" demeanor is replaced by a wild, savage creature desperate for success, no matter the consequences.
Ever wondered what happens when a professional racecar driver steps out of his car during a race weekend? You might imagine a mass of flashing cameras, adoring fans, and servants delivering gallons of caviar to $2 million motorhomes. But that, unfortunately for racers, is not the case.
If you've been so busy making tender love to your fake girlfriend and you've been unable to catch the news let me fill you in: Lance Armstrong admitted to cheating. Many of us did know that Lance Armstrong doped throughout his career, and a few nights back, he finally fessed up. Cheating in sports is unfortunately far more common than most realize. Usually, it's only those with an intimate knowledge of the sport that truly know, and they often ignore it in an effort to avoid alienation from th
What makes Jimmie Johnson so much better than Dale Jr.? Why can Felipe Massa never keep pace with Fernando Alonso? What is it that makes the top drivers stand tall above the rest? Is it purely a greater dedication to the cause, or maybe they're just braver? Perhaps it is simply a matter of genetics?
Let's face it: racing is expensive. Many people can't afford to purchase a car, make it race-ready, and then proceed to crash it every weekend. Indoor go-karting, therefore, may be the most cost effective way to express your inner Jeff Gordon.
How does one prepare for the deciding round of the Formula One World Championship? If you're 1976 World Champion James Hunt, you embark on a rampage of alcohol, cannabis and cocaine. You might also have sex with 33 flight attendants in two weeks.
You know what question I get asked most as a racecar driver? No, not, "Do you get scared?" and, amazingly, not even, "How fast does your car go?" The most commonly asked question is, "Why do you have to be fit to drive a racecar? All you do is sit down and turn a wheel?"
It's starting to feel like the main reason publications indulge in Car Of The Year awards is so the winning automaker will put their name in a bunch of advertisements, making the publication feel like a big shot. At Jalopnik, we don't buy in to this. We receive hand jobs from our partners, not from the automakers.
It will come as no surprise to hear that in this line of work we get to drive some pretty badass cars. At the same time, sometimes, juuuuust sometimes, we are handed the keys to a car that is — how do I put this gently? Crap.
My racing career has always been about driving high performance, insanely fast, purpose-built racecars. Open-wheel bullets, such as IndyCars, have traditionally been my meat of choice. And while these machines may be some of the coolest, toughest cars to handle on Planet Earth, the techniques required to drive a production car fast can differ wildly.
Ever wondered how you could become a ridiculously wealthy racecar driver? An individual who only bathes in SmartWater, possesses 17 white Persian kittens and maintains a staff of five to dispose of all the purple Skittles?
On a bitterly cold December morning in 2004, a slightly spottier version of me sporting a ridiculous haircut was readying to pilot a 980+ horsepower McLaren Formula One car at the legendary Silverstone racetrack. It would be my first time driving such a machine and I remember the emotions exceptionally well.
Back in the summer of 1995, at the tender age of 10, I sat shotgun in my father's TVR Griffith, headed to the traditional establishment that all respectable Brits frequent every Sunday: The pub.