Before I left for the Richard Petty Driving Experience, some office know-it-all was trying to tell me that driving a stock car wouldn't feel that fast.

Yeah, right.

Believe me, when you rev the 600-horsepower engine of a NASCAR machine, you feel it in your bones. When you dive down into a banked turn, and then power out into the backstretch, you feel it in the pit of your stomach. When you reach 124.5 mph, my top speed one afternoon in February, you feel it in your throat.

Petty promises a "heart-pounding experience," and it worked for me, a minivan-driving soccer dad.

When you arrive at the track, Walt Disney World Speedway in Orlando in my case (Homestead and Daytona Beach are the other Florida locations), you pull up to a group of buildings set up in the infield. Celebrity student photos, from Dan Marino to Leonardo DiCaprio, line the walls. After you change into a red, white and blue driving suit, there's a NASCAR orientation video to prime you for racing. Next comes your briefing on the car, the track and the racing program. There's always a pace car, driven by an instructor, and you're supposed to follow three to five car lengths behind. If he sees that you can handle your car, he'll accelerate to 120 miles an hour or faster.

It's assumed you can handle a stick shift and drive a manual transmission vehicle.

The Petty instructors tell a funny story about actor Michael J. Fox, whose feet could barely reach the pedals. Also, he hadn't driven a stick in years, so he ended up trying to speed a car around the track in second gear, with the pit crew running around and screaming for him to stop.

About 10 percent of Petty experience drivers are women, but there were none on the day I went, and it seemed very much the guy thing. Our group included former Notre Dame head football coach, Bob Davie, and his staff.
After one cautious lap, trying to stay five car lengths behind, they even brought me back into the pits. "We just wanted to make sure you were all right," they said. "Are you using your brakes?"

We all waited our turn in the speedway pits, as the engines raced and cars began speeding around the track. You could smell the fumes and feel the testosterone in the air.

Two spots before me was Andy Harris, a big British bloke. He'd been psyched about driving all day, but came out disappointed at being held below 130 mph. "It's a shame the way they slow you down," he said. "I'd pay $2,000 if they'd let you go all out."

I was at the other extreme, just hoping not to wreck one of their cars and humiliate myself. After one cautious lap, trying to stay five car lengths behind, they even brought me back into the pits. "We just wanted to make sure you were all right," they said. "Are you using your brakes?"

That's when I finally got into the spirit of the Petty experience. That's when I understood that they expect you to try to go too fast. That's when I realized there was no way I was going to rear-end the pace car.

So I stopped driving like a commuter, and started driving like a racer.

Instead of easing into the turns, I dropped right down on the white line. Instead of fading out to the rail, I darted to the fastest part of the track. Instead of worrying when they waved for me to slow down, I eased up just enough to maintain speed.

In the end, I think I was surprised at how great it felt. I'm not a NASCAR fan, and I've never watched an entire auto race in my life, but this was pretty potent stuff.

After our driving session, everyone got a time sheet with a top speed for each lap he drove. My time looked pretty good, so I couldn't help but peek at the Notre Dame guy's card. He topped out at a pokey 116, so I'd dusted him off by eight miles an hour.

When I got back to the office, I rushed to share this triumph with the office know-it-all. My story was that this stock car trip turned out to be really cool and really fast.

And yeah, I told him, you can feel it.