(FORTUNE Magazine) – When people ask me where I got my love of adrenaline, I blame it on my father. As my three older brothers and I grew up, my father fueled our budding thrill addictions with his own: snow walks in the Alps, white-water kayaking in Zimbabwe, dirt biking in the California desert, swimming the 2.5 miles from Europe to Asia across Turkey's Dardanelles. It was all good, competitive fun, but the defining moment for me was at 14, when my father took us to Watkins Glen to watch Paul Newman race with the Datsun team. When Newman coasted into the pit lane and asked me to help him push the car, I couldn't have cared less who he was; he was simply a real racecar driver. My passion for speed was locked in.

So when I heard about a new driving program that puts mere mortals behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car, I knew whom to call; it was time to return a few favors. "Want to go with me?" I asked my old man. "When do we leave?" Dad said.

Patrick Xuereb, 53, along with his 26-year-old son, Patrick Jr., runs RaceInc International, a Toronto-based driving program that all but guarantees that by the end of one (long) day, any reasonably fit person can be whizzing around the track in a 1994 Arrows FA15 Formula 1 powered by a 650-horsepower Ford Cosworth engine. Yet Xuereb, an eccentric and zealous Maltese car nut, isn't dumb enough to tempt fate with his pricey machinery. Rather, he slowly builds up your confidence by putting you into successively more ripsnorting vehicles.

Before you fire up your Ayrton Senna-Michael Schumacher fantasies, however, let me warn you that there's a big catch: The make-your-friends-drool experience costs $8,000 per person. It's beyond steep, but from the moment I took my turn at the helm, life has not been the same.

With a gulp, my father and my employer ante up the dough, and we head to Toronto (during the winter months, Xuereb will run his one-day program at Phoenix International Raceway, in Phoenix). The names of famous father-child racers float in my mind--Andretti, Villeneuve, Unser...Zesiger? One of Xuereb's employees meets us at the airport and chauffeurs us to Belleville, near the Shannonville racetrack. That night I don't sleep well, and judging by the fact that he misses his wake-up call, I don't think Dad does either.

The Xuerebs meet us trackside suited up in red Nomex; after we don ours, class begins (there's a maximum of six students allowed, but today it's just us). Patrick Jr. walks us through some basics, including the fact that this is a driving experience, not a racing school, so no wheel-to-wheel tactics will be taught--or appreciated. I look at Dad and wink. Then he discusses hand position (keep them nine o'clock and three o'clock), seat position (upright and close to the steering wheel), downshifting ("No heel-and-toe, no trail-braking," he warns those of us who have been to performance driving schools).

An hour later, the track portion begins benignly enough in BMW 3-Series sedans. We complete several shifting and braking exercises to prove we can handle all three pedals, and then we lap the 1.3-mile track a few times to get a feel for it. By late morning we climb into 170-horsepower Formula Star Mazda open-wheelers. If you've never squeezed yourself into a single-seat racecar, then you haven't had the pleasure of the coffin-like fit, strangely horizontal view of the world, or knee-bumping lack of maneuvering room. Then there's the stiff clutch and a gearbox that's as smooth as gravel. My father and I grind our way around, sounding like teenagers learning (and failing) to handle a manual car. I can only imagine that things will get worse from here; if I'm uncomfortable with this little calf, what will riding the big bull be like? I'm so preoccupied I even forget to notice how Dad's doing.

Both Xuerebs reassure us over sandwiches in the air-conditioned coach that we are ready to move to the '95 Reynard Formula 3000, and that we had better keep our wits about us because things are going to get really interesting.

The Formula 3000 racecar has the same 650-horsepower engine as the Formula 1, but its aerodynamics make it up to 20% slower than its big brother. "That clutch weighs more than 75 pounds," Xuereb explains, "but once you get going, it'll lighten up. Just take it really easy in the two hairpin turns--if you give it the slightest bit of gas mid-turn, you will spin."

I slither into the red rocket, strap in tight, and stall it several times trying to leave the pits. As I finally manage to accelerate out onto the track, the feeling of all that power comes on hard. The sequential shifter, which clicks away from me for upshifts and toward me for downshifts, is surprisingly easy to handle. I suddenly feel invincible. Click, whoosh, click, whoosh, click, whoosh--my allotted ten laps are done before I know it.

Thank God Dad has as much trouble taking off as I did, but he speeds up quickly. "That's something," he says breathlessly upon return, looking a little dazed.

Finally, it's time to face the F1, with its bulbous body, deceptively cheerful confetti paint job, and sidewalk-wide racing slicks. "Just remember, for the same amount of pressure you applied to the gas pedal in the Formula 3000, you can get up to 20% more acceleration in this," says Xuereb. I strap in, quite sure that between the car and me, I know who's in charge. It's not me.

The pit crew fires up the car (a three-man task), and--joy of joys!--I manage not to stall it. As I ease out the leaden clutch, the massive wheels spin, and I am catapulted onto the track. A quarter-inch of throttle travel brings a neck-snapping burst of speed; at the 11,700 rpm max (electronically limited), the ear-splitting scream of the engine is like the wail of an endangered animal. Each little patch of track between corners is gobbled up before I realize it. Although I'm scared to death knowing that this thing could swallow me whole at any moment, I've never had a bigger thrill in my life. I'm delirious with the untamed rawness of it--it feels like the eye of a hurricane--and consider ignoring the checkered flag signaling the end of my time. Unfortunately, Xuereb won't name numbers for fear of unleashing Zesiger competitiveness, but I feel sure that I have bested my personal top speed. (Later one observer gushes, "Is it better than sex?" "You're missing the point," I retort. "It is sex." But even that toss-off doesn't do the experience justice.)

The sun begins to drop as Dad completes his F1 laps--without a hitch, like a pro. Afterward, we pop some champagne and trade war stories. Patrick Sr. takes me aside and says, "You know, most 50-year-olds would be lucky to be as fit and capable as your 69-year-old father." Hey, if you have to inherit qualities from your parents, well, I could do worse.

For more information, contact RaceInc International at 770-427-2120, or online at www.raceinc.com.