On my drive back from the track last week, I saw three accidents, including this overturned Eclipse on interstate 93. As far as I could tell, he drifted to the left, mounted the New Jersey barriers, and flipped. He may have been forced over there, or he may just have been careless. As I passed by, I thought (well, I took the picture first, and then I thought), I’ve reached the point where I feel much safer driving on the track than I do driving on the street.

It’s an odd paradox. During a track day people follow each other so closely that even the worst tailgater would gasp. People exceed 100 miles an hour, slide through corners, spin onto the grass, skid, and lock up brakes. I personally have turned up the hill at Lime Rock only to see, in my rear-view mirror, an Elise overshoot the turn and hit the tire wall. Yet I’m not on edge—not in the same way, or to the same degree. On track I don’t have to worry about people making phone calls or checking directions or being in a bad mood about their boring jobs or the snippy service they got at Dunkin’ Donuts. I also know that, on track, a person who spins out is likely to remain calm and get out of the way. And, should I spin, I know that the drivers coming up on me are attentive, aware, and most likely able to control their cars and move around me. On the street, one out-of-control car usually turns into 3 or 4.

But this paradox of safety is hardly foreign. We all feel “safe” doing sports or hobbies or jobs that the average person—an outsider—sees as unsafe by definition: Racing cars. Riding motorcycles. Surfing. Boxing (well, maybe not boxing. Even the average boxer knows it’s not a good idea to take punches in the head). But driving cars on racetracks—in part because it’s uncommon, and in part because it’s an extension of something that all of us do every day—seems to present the paradox in a unique extreme. People see someone sky-diving, understand it as dangerous, and reject it outright. Not driving.

Whenever I drive somewhere, I see people look at the numbers on my car. I know they’re probably thinking three things: Does he actually race that car? Does he know how dangerous that is? Is he going to do some sort of “racing maneuver”? And meanwhile, I’m gingerly driving by, hoping no one does anything crazy, waiting until I can get to the safety of the track.