Race at 150 mph? Sure.

When the opportunity came to partner with a race car driver around a grand-prix track at 150 miles an hour in a supercharged, ground-hugging, open to the elements hell-on-wheels speedster in Austin, Texas, I said "sure."

Back story first: A community organizer and her savvy daughter invited me down to attend a house party honoring the late Texas governor, Ann Richards. The governor had founded a successful, eponymous, all-girls high school right before her death. (Richards' daughter Ellen told me that though her mom was a dear friend of Hillary's, she would have been thrilled with Obama as President. No surprise there; just sadness at the loss of the feisty female governor who said of Bush 1, "Poor George. He was born with a silver foot in his mouth." And I believe it was another late, great Texan, Molly Ivins, who dubbed Bush 2, "Shrub.")

Most of the long weekend was relaxing. I scarfed ginger pancakes at the glam downtown Driskill hotel, admired butterfly weed at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower preserve, dawdled at a downtown Mexican-art gallery, pondered a seven/eighths replica of the oval office at the LBJ Library. Normal getaway things. At a wellness retreat called the Crossings, I was even swirled in a pool for an hour during a watsu (water/shiatsu) massage, the closest thing to a womb at the inn.

Chilling out, I downed fried frogs legs and Lone Star beer, and pulled pork on Wonder Bread. I waved to Austin's homeless transvestite mayoral candidate, who was walking downtown in a bra and a beard. I watched millions of bats head out of their cave at sunset, heard live, maverick music at divey UT places, and drove through the hill country.

And then came the call. Friend of a friend opening a grand prix track at an east Austin former pecan farm on the Colorado River. The course was almost finished, but was being tested. Want to try?

I tend to say yes before I think things through.

I met Bill D a few minutes before I was about to entrust my life in his hands. He's a former Dell exec who had scrapped it all to race Ferraris in Grand Prix events, and mentor wannabe racers like Craig T Nelson ("Coach" and "a brilliant driver"), and Lance Armstrong ("feisty with the ladies" according to Bill).

Ok. Bill was a pro, and I rationalized I could add start my bucket list with this crazy endeavor. Besides, I speed on the parkways. So I helmeted up in the seat beside him with false bravado. Bill set a mic so I could scream that we stop the madness, and he strapped me in a four-points seat belt.

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The race car was open to the air and so low to the ground I felt I was sitting in the dust. Suddenly the motor whined, the tires screeched, and within a few seconds my face felt like it was plastered to the back of my head.

I can't adequately describe the terror of hurtling 150 mile per hour around a race course with unexpected curves, bumps, and straightaways. When I asked Bill later, after my face returned forward, he said the closest experience would be flying in an F-16 jet: G-forces, blinding speed, pumping adrenaline, the feeling of flying. I can only attest it was ten times scarier than the highest, wiggliest roller coaster I had ever been on. A coaster is simulated danger. This was the real deal.

I hated every minute, twice. Because when Bill, an exceptionally charming sadist, saw I was petrified, he sped me around the track again. And this time we came less than a car's length behind another car (a normal looking one) that seemed to be dawdling along (probably at 100). (Ever since driver's ed I knew you're supposed to leave two car lengths at normal speed. What was he doing?)

And then there was the "J curve," a maneuver Bill teaches the military in case they ever have to get out of an alley in Baghdad, fast. Without stopping, the car turns into reverse and speeds the other way. It was over before I opened my eyes. I somehow managed to hold down my lunch.

Afterwards, "relaxing" with Bill in the trailer, I noticed blood on his shirt. I must have been in a daze, because I didn't even see it before. I now also noticed a scar on the left side of his face, by his nose. He had said he always escaped mishaps. He just didn't say how many, and in what shape.

As we chatted further I surmised that Bill is a rare breed: an auto-sexual. He belongs to this famous downtown Austin men's club called El Reyes, where he indulges in single-blade shaves, massages, pedis and all that. I imagined him lying with a margarita in his hand in his private room, custom music playing, getting man-scaped. I wonder if I would have trusted my life in his hands if I knew they were creamed and manicured.

Anyway, I do not recommend the race-car experience. That said, I returned home ready to face the biggest risk of all: keeping my money in equities.

Lea Lane is founder/editor of sololady.com