As the day went on, Jens' advice penetrated not only my helmet, but my brainhole as well. At first he talked about apexes and radii and sounded like my high school geometry teacher. When that sunk in, he broke down the physics of the course like an asphalt Einstein. As my track graphs flattened, he finally talked about racing. It's funny: People who have mastered something, when they talk about it, no matter what it is, when they get down to its essence, they all start to say the same things. As the thing becomes a part of you, the thing falls away. The car disappears with your water bill and your ego; it all fades, leaving only the moment. Jens remembered the fastest laps he'd ever driven. It was in the middle of the night, maybe 3 a.m., in some endurance race he barely remembers. "I was singing a song. 'I'm Henry the Eighth I am. I'm Henry the Eighth brake shift, shift brake.' I was just grooving to my own thing," he remembered, staring over the track like a sensei of speed. "You make all of your movements 'cause it's been encoded and re-encoded in your lizard brain so it just happens. So when racing becomes automatic, unconscious, instinctive, then the rest of your brain is free."