Ask people to imagine a “race car” and they’ll think of a dragster, or some disgusting NASCAR thing, or a Corvette, or an F1 car. They’ll picture something expensive, with wide tires and a loud exhaust, that goes very, very fast. Even the average car enthusiast has some preconceived ideas: the car should be rear wheel drive, perhaps. Or the car should at least be a coupe. And it is these preconcieved ideas, precisely, that makes doing a track day in a disgusting beastie-piece like my ’94 Mazda Protégé DX an experience that everyone interested in road racing should have.

This is my beastie-piece. It has 232,000 miles right now. It has 102 horsepower (for the uninitiated, that’s not a lot). I do not change the oil. I do not rotate the tires. I do not flush the coolant or replace the air filter or wash the exterior or vacuum the carpet. It clunks over bumps. It burns, leaks, or otherwise consumes oil somehow. The shifter rattles constantly and is almost falling out of the car. But it’s also lightweight, tossable, and possessed of surprisingly good cornering grip—a lot more grip than it ought to have—because it has some basic suspension upgrades. On a short and technical course like the roval at NHIS, where I was this past Tuesday, this old beast can fly.

But first the sensible and mature reasons why, if you’re interested in roadcourse racing, you should make a point of doing a few track days with a beater like my Protégé: Having a low-powered car out on the track makes you a better driver. You learn very quickly to concentrate on carrying speed through corners (which you know is critical since you’ve read all of Noah’s articles on the line and driving technique). You learn to plan 2 and 3 corners ahead because you have no choice; with little power, a mistake at the beginning of a series of corners ruins ½ of your lap. Additionally, with a slower car you have significantly more time to plan and strategize while you’re on track. My VR-4 eats up a track pretty quickly even if I have a bad lap, but the Protégé is so painfully slow that each straightaway is a moment in the office, so to speak, where I can think about a new line to try or a new reference point to use. Tracking a stupid car, in my opinion, improves your driving quicker than anything else.

And now the real reasons to track a stupid car, beginning with the act of transforming a car specifically designed to be rather staid and innocuous into a standout. It is a hilarious metamorphosis: The beastie-piece cannot be ignored when it’s on the track because it is not supposed to be on the track at all. A successful session is one in which almost everyone (instead of just everyone) passes you. Like kitsch art and 20-30% of all Kids In The Hall sketches, it’s funny because it’s intentionally bad. You become the pilot of a moving blight, an ugly cube in a sea of aerodynamic shapes. The other drivers—particularly the more experienced ones—love it. They understand the disadvantages and they revel in the irony of trying to drive a slow car fast. It’s a moment of vindication, proof of what they (and we at the PansyPatrol) have known all along: A car is only as fast as its driver.

That maxim brings me to the other reason why it’s awesome to track a beastie-piece: The absurd joy of hanging with a car that should be much faster. In one of my sessions I managed to stay even with a Porsche Cayman, a car that the Protégé has absolutely no business being near. As he lapped, I thought to myself, “this driver is probably taking it a bit easy today. Maybe it’s his first time with the car, or maybe he’s (legitimately) cautious about driving as hard as he can, because a small mistake at 10/10ths driving in that car could be a major problem for his health and his wallet.” I know that when I track the VR-4 I sometimes simply don’t have the guts to go all out all the time, and the Cayman is a more capable and “faster” car than my VR-4. Yet there was another part of me that chuckled and thought, “Haha, here I am, sticking the nose of my ugly Protégé into all the pictures people are taking of his car. Now, whenever he shows them to someone, he’ll have to explain, over and over, why he was out on a track with such a disgusting piece of crap.” I was able to think this for about 3 seconds. Then I was lapped by a Noble and put in my place.

All kidding aside, I haven’t had as much fun—haven’t had that exact kind of fun—in a car in a long time. With a slow car you can experiment, get away with mistakes, and learn more quickly. You can also flog the car as hard as you want, slide around, drive over curbs and rumble strips without fear, and drift through corners like a maniac. It is the best of all possible circumstances. But above all that, you get to be the answer to that track day’s trivia question: “Who the hell is driving that disgusting beastie-piece?”