My stomach was filled with butterflies as I tossed an overnight bag into the 911 to head north. This was no ordinary weekend getaway with my husband. This weekend my ego, skill and everything I knew about driving would be put to the test.

This weekend was my first PCA Driver's Education at Raceway Park of the Midlands.

I had imagined this day for quite some time. I could see myself in complete control of the car as I quickly downshifted and hugged the inside corner, hit the apex and exploded with a burst of speed down the straight. People would marvel at my natural ability to feel the track, anticipate the execution of the straightest line and finally end my run, remove my helmet and have my hair cascade down my shoulders just like Danica Patrick.

I was going to be great.

Bob Wayman had graciously volunteered to be my instructor, so my first wheels on the track were as a passenger in the "Pumpkin" — a 1979 911 Turbo. Wow! It was an awesome ride. Thrilling, exhilarating, stomach-dropping and fun. Right then and there — strapped into that orange monster — I knew I was hooked. I wanted to learn how to do that.

The next ride was again as a passenger in my 996 with Bob at the wheel. It was amazing how he nimbly maneuvered the car around the track with such precision and ease. It was as though the car just knew what to do. I was reminded these machines were built for this, but Bob was a master. It was like watching a conductor move effortlessly through the third movement of Mozart's Requiem. It was beautiful.

Now it was my turn to get behind the wheel. As I pulled the seat belt tight around my waist, the butterflies were beginning to fade. There was no way I could run the car as hard Bob just did, so I was fairly confident I would end the first session on all four wheels.

I just needed to trust Bob and relax. I was seated next to the master, and it was time to become his student. Pay attention. Keep your eyes up. Use the whole track (whatever that meant). Brake hard. Turn in tight. Let the car unwind.

At the end of the first session, my hopes of being a "natural" were quickly dashed. I was terrible, but it was awesome.

I could hardly wait to get back out on the track. I wanted to do it over and over again. I wanted to improve my lap times. Go smoother and faster. See the track more clearly. Find the sweet spot. Hear the whine of the engine down the straights.

I watched my gal pal, Valerie Wilen, scream by me (she was really good) and smile as she weaved through turns 3 and 4. I wanted to understand what using the whole track meant.

By the end of the weekend, I was better. I was beginning to understand how to move more quickly around the track without scrubbing off as much speed. I knew where I needed to be on the track to find the straightest line.

I was hearing Bob say, "What are you doing over here?" less often. I was happy to wave on by the 20-somethings in their Hondas, just to overtake them on another part of the track. I was even more happy to remove my helmet at the end of the session and pull on a baseball cap over my matted hair.

I was truly having fun. Weeks later, I still can't wipe this big, cheesy grin off my face.