I really don’t know what all the hubbub is about; this is what the average run to the corner store for milk, cigarettes, and porn looks like when I’m driving. I typically crash a lot more than he did, I won’t give them the satisfaction of impressing a mildly pretentious jerk who lives in his Mom’s basement and eats Chef Boyardee ravioli out of a can while sitting semi-nude, basking in the warm glow of his CRT monitor. I think my problem is that I don’t have someone shouting instructions into my ear before every turn. When my Mom comes along she gives me pointers like “Watch out for that tree!” and “Slow down, you psychotic little cretin.”, but I don’t think those are the same as real racing instructions.
To be honest I think we’d both be better off if we didn’t have anyone barking instructions at us to begin with. It’s not like they mean anything, anyways. When you’re going over a hill, sideways at 90 MPH, who has time to figure out what “55 triple left hook; steady straight 300, 22, 88.” means? At that point, I’d be a lot more concerned with avoiding that nasty patch of spectators and trees in front of me than skirting some bushes half a mile up the road.