[Not to be confused with lap dancing.] Herewith, the tale of Jessica Gottlieb at the Las Vegas Speedway. She aches just like a woman, but she brakes just like Mario Andretti:
When you decide that Dream Racing is going to be part of your Las Vegas Vacation there is an optional shuttle that picks you up inside the shops at Crystals at City Center. There’s a big red Ferrari on display, you can’t miss it. Someone will check you in, make sure you have your driver’s license on you and then a driver will shuttle you there in a well maintained, impeccably cleaned van. My experience beginning at check in was that everyone spoke to my husband and then as an aside asked if I would be driving too. Uniformly they were stunned when I said yes and congratulated me on my decision to drive.
Apparently the default assumption at DR, as it is in too many other places, is that the woman is there to support her husband’s effort and nothing more. And, well:
Upon our arrival at the track while wearing the identical red wristband as my husband no one offered me a helmet. The assumption was that only my husband would be driving. As I grew more and more annoyed with the entire crew at Dream Racing my husband pulled me aside and said, “It’s not their fault. Look around.”
When I looked around the track I saw ten women. None of them were driving. They were there to watch their husbands. I will never understand this behavior.
I know several women who can outdrive me, and I think it would be seriously cool to have any of them absolutely crush my best lap time.
In this specific case, though, while he recorded the faster lap time, she hit the higher top speed, which seems consistent with her own estimation of her mad driving skillz: “My track driving is like my golf game, slightly better than novice but wildly enthusiastic.”
This is, incidentally, the same Jessica Gottlieb who thumbed down a weird-looking Italian sandal a few days back.