Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale
a tale of a fateful trip...
Okay, the tale you’re about to hear did not start from a tropic port or a tiny ship (unless you consider a Sprint Car or Formula Ford a tiny ship). Instead, it started at a 3/8th-mile oval track in a Vancouver, Canada suburb, where I watched my first car race at the age of five. But I’m going to focus this story on the stuff that has happened in the last forty years. My driving years.
When I look back at my racing/driving career, and view it from the perspective of when I learned the most, performed the best, and had the most fun, and comparing those things to time, I see some trends.
And some lessons that I wished I’d known back in the days when Gilligan was annoying the Skipper in one of the silliest sitcoms of all time.
The lessons came in stages.
In the beginning of my driving career, I was a sponge. I read everything about driving that I could get my hands on — things like YouTube and the internet were quite a way off in time. I learned a LOT by reading and thinking about driving. I also stumbled into something that has been valuable to my driving and coaching: deliberate practice. I don’t know why it seemed natural to me (perhaps because of the way I had been coached in other sports, particularly tennis), but the idea of breaking driving down into small, discreet parts, and practicing them individually just made sense to me. The first two cars that I owned were old and British (often, not a good combination for reliable transportation!): a ’66 Mini, and then a ’69 Lotus Elan +2. Just for fun, I’d go for drives in them almost every day. And what seemed like “just for fun,” I’d focus on improving just one part of my driving. I’d practice deliberately, strategically. I didn’t know that I was doing something worthwhile, but I sure did learn a lot in a short period of time. (Stage 1 in the graph comparing my learning/performance with time)
For a number of years, all I focused on was learning, and not on what anyone thought of me and my driving. I cared about winning races, for sure! I’m a competitive person, and winning was the reason I raced. Any time I saw even a hint of a weakness in my driving, I got very specific about the reason for it, and then I’d “work” away at improving it. Sometimes that was reading more, sometimes it was talking to someone else, sometimes it was practicing in a very deliberate way (either on the track, or on the road… safely – mostly), and sometimes it was using visualization (or, as I learned later, mental imagery, where I incorporated physical movement and imagining what I heard into the visual image in my head). My performance improved a lot during this period. (Stage 2)
I won some races and championships. Okay, they weren’t the highest level of pro racing, but I was climbing the ladder. And I loved winning. Almost too much. Or, more accurately, I hated losing. So, I spent a lot of time comparing myself to my competitors, looking for ways to improve and beat them. That both helped and hurt. Pushing myself to learn definitely helped, but at the same time, the harder I tried to win, the worse I seemed to drive. (Stage 3)
Somehow, I stumbled into finding the book, Thinking Body, Dancing Mind, and it changed not only my driving life but influenced every other part of my life. Amongst many great things in the book, there was a chapter on competition, and it introduced what seemed like a bizarre concept to me: Focus on your own performance, and in doing so you’ll perform better; perform better and you’re more likely to get the result – winning – more often. But focus on the result – winning – and you’ll perform worse, and therefore reduce the chances of getting the desired result.
This took some time for me to wrap my head around, but the more I let go of my hyper-focus on the result, and kept my eye on doing what I needed to do to perform at my best, the better I drove. And it paid off with results. (Stage 4)
Now, this period in my career was a bit of a wasteland, as I had no money, and never completed an entire season in one race series. I jumped around from car to car, team to team, wherever I could get in someone’s car and race. So, my results were not exactly building the kind of resume needed to catch the eye of Roger Penske, but I knew that my driving improved. I could feel it.
A little before this time (and then definitely during and shortly after), I started spending more time instructing and coaching other drivers. This was partly driven by a love I have for helping others and teaching, and partly by a need. The need was making enough money to stay alive! Beyond high-performance and race driving, I also did a lot of driver training for police, emergency services crews, military, fleet drivers, and everyday motorists from teens to moms and dads in their mini-vans. Like everything I get into, I studied this other world of driving, and became recognized as a bit of a traffic safety “expert” (I like this definition of an expert: Someone from out of town!).
With the reputation I had accidentally acquired, I felt an expectation to be safe, and set an example. It was an awkward position to be in. One day, when I was in my first year of racing an Indy car, I was in a rush to drive across Vancouver to get to a sponsor event. At the time, I had been writing a weekly column in the major Vancouver newspaper (remember newspapers?!) all about safe driving, aimed at the average, everyday motorist who read the paper. It was rush-hour traffic, pouring rain, and my car was running on fumes. I needed to stop for gas or I wouldn’t get there, but stopping was going to make me late (something I hate!). I pulled into a gas station, and all the pumps were being used, so I positioned my car where I thought I’d get to the first one that would be empty. To leave, the car there backed out of the area, holding me up for a few seconds, and in that time another car pulled in off the street and took my spot. By this point, my impatience level was beyond the redline, and I was about to leap out of my car and threaten the driver of that car to move or have me move it for them, when another pump opened up. I quickly pulled up to it, jumped out and stuck the gas nozzle into the filler, but I still wasn’t a happy camper – even though I had “calmed down” to just below the rev limiter. At this point, the person on the other side of the gas pump island looks at me and says, “Hey, you’re Ross Bentley. I love reading your articles about driving. Thanks for helping me be a safer driver.” That was my trigger. I needed to calm down, chill out, and take my own advice. But I left that situation with a BIG THOUGHT: I have to set an example for every driver in the world; I have to be calm, smart, and not make mistakes.
Over the next few years – if I’m honest, and why shouldn’t I be since no one is going to hire me to drive for them anymore – I hit a plateau. Actually, if I’m really honest, my performance got worse. It was because I was too worried about my reputation as a coach and instructor, and even as a driver, thinking that if I made a mistake someone would think less of me. (Stage 5)
Having talked to dozens and dozens of instructors in similar situations, I now know that I wasn’t alone. In fact, there’s a trend I’ve seen: many drivers stop improving at the rate they once were after they take on some role where other drivers are supposed to look up to them. At least, that’s what I thought was the entire problem… pressure to live up to others’ expectations. But there was more.
“Driving by the book.” I actually wrote that on a track map once, identifying what the real issue was that was causing the plateau. What I mean by that is that I was so focused on doing everything just right, that I was a bit slow. Sure, my line was perfect, and the way I turned the steering and used the pedals were exactly as theory said I should. My driving was mechanical, not flowing.
In the process of thinking about driving, talking about driving, writing about driving, and teaching driving, I had gotten overly-focused on doing it just as I had thought, talked, written about, and taught. Technically, my driving was as close to “perfect” as you could get. But to be that precise, I had to leave a tiny bit on the table because if I’d pushed a little more there was a good chance that I’d go beyond the limit and “get messy.” I needed to be perfect (I thought).
And yes, I had some fear, but it was not of getting hurt or damaging the car. It was the fear of failure, and specifically what a spin or crash might say about me – at least, what I thought others would say about me. This mindset was holding me back, and slowing (reversing even) my learning and improving. I was so zoomed-in on “mastering” driving, that I was doing everything that kept me from doing so.
When someone goes to art school, they spend time learning how to copy the Masters. Then, they begin to experiment a bit, “feel” their art, and develop their own style. That is when they truly create art. I had to ask myself, “Are you ready to move beyond copying the Masters? Are you ready to play offense, rather than just defense? Are you ready to take some risks and take a chance at leveling up, improving again?”
I’m not the only driver who has ever “driven by the book.” It’s okay to drive like this for a while. In fact, I think drivers need to spend some time doing things very right, but eventually you need to let go and “play” with your driving. That means experimenting a little.
As my friend Samir Abid says, “We learn more through experimentation than we do from experience.”
How many people do you know with ten years of experience who really only have one year of experience, ten times?
I was recently asked why young drivers improve so quickly, seemingly much faster than older drivers. My response? Because they don’t know they shouldn’t. They’re not afraid to make mistakes, they experiment (often, unintentionally). They develop more through experimentation than through experience.
After three years of driving uncompetitive Indy cars, and being so broke that Robin and I wondered at times how we were going to pay rent and buy groceries, I knew I needed a change.
It’s funny how things seem to “just happen.” Call it karma, luck, being prepared, putting things out there in the universe, or whatever, but I began to let go of my dream of winning the Indy 500, and that opened some doors. My mindset began a slow transition, from one of not wanting to risk enough, to being willing to let go and just see what happens. Although the results didn’t look much different, the way I drove my last few Indy car races was very different. In the back of my mind, I pretty much knew that they were going to be my last ones, so it was time to just appreciate what I had going. Yeah, it was an uncompetitive Indy car, but I was driving an Indy car! That’s Michael Andretti, Al Unser Jr, Bobby Rahal, Emerson Fittipaldi, Nigel Mansell, and Paul Tracy in those cars right in front of me. (Stage 6)
A couple of weeks later I got a call, with an offer to test an IMSA prototype car at Portland International Raceway. I didn’t have to worry about paying for it, as they were giving me a tryout for a drive for the following season, and that led to signing a contract that meant I was going to be paid to drive sports cars in IMSA.
The feeling of being chosen helped me let go of the need to prove myself. I also let go of the need to protect what I had, and as I did, I could see and feel my driving performance loosen up. I got better again.
Throughout my IMSA years, my driving performance stayed strong. Sure, there were minor ups and downs, but as a whole, these were some of my best performances. The removal of my fears – that of having enough money to get to the next race, and of what others might say about me – made me feel lighter, and as we all know, lighter race cars are faster. (Zone 7)
Are there times, still, when I feel the need to live up to a reputation and the expectations that have been created around me? Sure. As much as I’d like to be a super-hero, I think this says that I’m human, one who is a work-in-progress.
I haven’t factored age-related issues into this look into my progression — like physical strength/stamina, vision, and reactions, as well as desire and commitment. But that’s a tale for another day.
Ross , enjoyed your thoughts on your progressing through the various stages of your career. I’m actually 67 , so I’ll be hopeful ( even though I assume you are much younger ) that you will present your thoughts on dealing with the physical inevitability of reaction times , visual and concentration issues the occur with age . Thanks , Bucky
Great insights! Reminded me of the quote:
“Always make new mistakes”
- Esther Dyson