We wound up at a place called Club Spring Mountain, which felt like a country club with a racetrack instead of a golf course. Sadly, though, I didnít get to do any driving because I donít know how to drive a stick. Yeah, I know, Iím a guy from Michigan who can only drive an automatic. Itís like living in Las Vegas and not knowing how to place a Super Bowl bet.† Okay, I admit it: I felt like a total bitch.

But there was an upside to my lack of stick-shift knowledge: I got to ride shotgun while one of the hot chicks drove. Not too bad ñ even though I would have preferred being behind the wheel of a Lotus, zipping along a racetrack. Before we hit the curves, the guy who owns the track invited us for a helicopter ride. It was pretty awesome, as his ëcopter is as souped-up as his cars.† We swooped through canyons, flew two feet above the ground, banked around as if we were on a thrill ride.

Surprisingly, though, driving on the track proved to be more treacherous than flying in the helicopter. One turn at Club Spring Mountain is known as Ego Check ñ and for good reason. A friend of mine definitely did not have his ego in check, and he hit the turn with a little too much gusto. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw him doing a 180. He narrowly avoided hitting another car and wasnít nearly as rattled as he should have been ñ even after that mishap, he kept right on driving.† Pretty impressive!

I thought that maybe Iíd get my chance behind the wheel when I noticed that the owner of the track had a really sweet BMW M3 ñ with an automatic transmission. He let one of the girls drive it and I asked if I could take it for a spin as well. I even offered to cover the insurance deductible if I messed it up. But he said no. I guess you have to be a hot girl to drive the ownerís car.

That night there was a good game in Bobbyís Room. I went down there and put my name on the list. But I didnít get a seat until 4:00 a.m. ñ and the game broke up immediately after. That was an uneventful end to a very eventful day.