Erin Baker: Drag racing is the absolute business

I’ve been to Santa Pod twice, once as a spectator and once, 12 years ago, as a passenger in a modified two-seat dragster for a proper taste of the quarter-mile sensation. Looking back, it was clearly my initiation onto the Telegraph Motoring team: I was the new girl when the invitation came in: I remember Telegraph correspondent Andy English and Pete Hall, then Motoring Editor, grinning broadly before handing the invite to me. I had no idea what it would entail, and no idea I could say no: both were pointed out to me after I came back, pale and trembling, the next day.  

There’s no doubt the raceway feels like a proper motorsport occasion: from the well-managed traffic jams to get in, to the hype and the buzz, the noise and the smell. It’s a far better family event than any of the blue-riband, top-tier affairs such as Formula One: you can wander among the garages, looking at the cars, talking to the teams. When I went, one of the mechanics happily let one of our boys sit in a dragster as it was being towed back from its run. Imagine that in F1.

There’s also a keen sense of rivalry, anticipation and nerves, which are palpable and crucial elements of any motorsport occasion to get the crowds going. Then there’s the action. As a spectator, I find the whole thing deeply weird: the Funny Cars, Top Methanol dragsters, Super Gas, Pro Mod and Pro Stock cars, bike dragsters… what’s it all about, other than hitting the throttle pedal and steering straight for a few seconds? Is there any skill, any heroic bravery, any - let’s be blunt - intelligence needed? All that’s initially apparent is that it is very, very, very loud. You really have to try it to know the answers. 

My passenger ride in 2005 was in what amounted to a shopping trolley covered in aluminium alloy, with a 9.7-litre, supercharged big-block Chevy engine capable of 984b ft of torque, 1,000bhp and 0-60mph in one second (to put that in context, Top Fuel dragsters have 10,000bhp; we’re talking 300mph in about 3 seconds). 

You get your arms strapped firmly down, so that they don’t snap off if the thing rolls and you automatically raise them to protect yourself. Sensible, but it just adds to the general feeling that only lunatics take part.

History records my feeling about the 7.9-second experience. It was mainly a combination of post-event expletives, an inability to breathe during the ride, and the biggest adrenaline rush of my life.

Was it motorsport, or a fairground ride? Well, my dog-eared, faded time sheet from the run records the following: 0-60ft in 1.189 seconds, 330ft in 3.249 seconds and a top speed of 161.82mph. We experienced 2g and eye-shattering negative G when the parachutes were pulled for deceleration (Top Fuel dragsters experience up to negative 6G).

I think, really, that counts as motorsport. To have the reactions for the starting lights, the ability to remain calm and concentrate at high speed, under incredible physical forces, while keeping an eye on the finish line to deploy the parachutes, with a huge engine just behind your neck? I think that counts for something.

Even more up my street, is the fact that women seem to be particularly good at this: my driver back in 2005 was Susanne Callin, a 21-year old Swede who came third in the FIA European Championships aged 19. This year, Anita Makela is defending the same crown, which she’s won for the past two years.   

It’s a bit of a Marmite sport, to be sure, but there’s something about drag racing I find hugely engaging, even if it’s only its nature as an antidote to F1, lying at the opposite end of the spectrum in nearly every respect. Motorsport needs a broad range of events, characters, colour, noise and even idiocy, so long live Santa Pod.