Some guy once told me that skydiving is like cutting your throat and seeing if you can get to the doctor before you bleed to death.

As the saying goes, truth is stranger than fiction. But only when the reality has not been subsumed by foamy legends and fantasies that radiate outward from the actual event.

Unlike conventional jocks, who tend to sell aluminum siding and give canned speeches to parochial-school athletic banquets in the off-season, race drivers never shuck their image when they leave the stadium. They are supposed to be zany, nomadic soldiers of fortune who are involved in wild endeavors during every waking moment.

Some guy once told me that skydiving is like cutting your throat and seeing if you can get to the doctor before you bleed to death.

I admit to wasting my life messing around with fast cars and motorcycles.

More books, more racing and more foolishness with cars and motorcycles are in the works.

Will a day come when our cars have carbon-fiber tubs, 18,000-rpm V-10 engines, and ground-effects tunnels? Perhaps, about the same time we have condos on the moon.