Yesterday I accompanied my husband to an auto cross near Monterey for the first time. The best way I can describe auto cross is as a mainly male sport in which the object seems to be to drive as fast as humanly possible, as though your life depended on it, really. And to also stay inside the cones. Each cone knocked down is a second off your time. Brendan's been wanting to get me to one of these for the sheer joy of watching me freak out on a ride-along, which I agreed to, against my better judgement. I warned him I would probably scream and there was a possibility I would also poop my pants. He didn't seem concerned. After the first screeching turn, I started screaming. My bowels, thankfully, stayed clenched. The car sped ridiculously toward each turn, then skidded and screamed around each bend. Cones met their fate. It lasted 52 seconds. I shakily unfastened my cartoonishly large helmet, wiped away the liquid that had sprung unbidden from my eyes during the ride, and vowed to never, ever, do that again.