(FORTUNE Small Business) – Finally, after years of dreaming about owning a sexy, head-turning sports car, I've got one. Each morning I strut out to my driveway in Southern California, give my black Volvo convertible a pat, and say, "That's right. I'm bad." But when I hop inside for the short drive to work, exhilaration turns to agony as I inch along in rush-hour traffic. How buff can you look when your tricked-out wheels can't break out of first gear? How to satisfy that need for speed?

There's no changing L.A.'s traffic patterns. But I've found a way to indulge my racecar fantasies: a daylong, high-performance class at the Jim Russell Racing Drivers School. When I got to the Sears Point Raceway in Sonoma, Calif., I was stunned to see that a few of my fellow accelerator junkies, each of whom paid $695, brought fairly ordinary cars: a Mazda, a Mustang. The real Andretti wannabes were revving up their Ferraris and BMWs. I didn't bring my Volvo; I drove a dreamy Porsche Carrera 4 (journalistic research) and brought along every ounce of adrenaline my body could manufacture.

We started at 8 A.M., way too early to think about accident avoidance. But the day began with basic instruction on survival techniques, like how to get out of a skid. In one exercise we had to drive at 40 mph toward a grid of four lanes, marked by orange cones, with a red light over each lane. As I neared the cones, one of the red lights changed to green, and I had to swerve--without touching the brakes--into that lane. It was harrowing.

Half the day was spent learning how to balance the car and make it through treacherous driving conditions. Who would have guessed that even a morning devoted to safety could be exhilarating? (Conclusion: I guess safety really does play a role in not dying.) But after a gourmet lunch al fresco at a nearby winery (no vino, of course), we finally let it rip on the track.

Not surprisingly, there were ten fellas and me--the chick with the 300 horses under the hood. Now, here's what I don't get about that. First of all, auto racing is one of the few sports in which men don't have a physiological advantage over women. Anyone with a lead foot and a healthy reserve of fearlessness can win the race. This was a safe place to practice. And, ladies, here's the beauty part: handsome young instructors who sit at your side and urge you on ("faster, faster," "slower, slower") in a husky voice. I raced against a screaming-yellow Ferrari, whose driver I hoped to teach the meaning of respect for the fairer sex. As it turned out, he was a nice guy, and I decided to go easy on him. My instructor, a charming Brit named Paul, sat next to me as I floored my Porsche around the 2 1/2-mile track. He murmured softly but firmly, "Brake...start your cornering...hold the curve...more throttle..." The sexual innuendo, coupled with real danger, was sort of...distracting.

Of course, you get over it when you're doing 110 mph and coming to a hairpin. Once, on a straightaway, when I shifted too early, Paul accused me of driving like a girl. Just for that, I slipped into my feminine wiles and dropped it into second. After all, a girl can finesse a Porsche from zero to 60 in 5.4 seconds about as well as any man.

Rob Walker, our Good Life columnist, is on vacation. (Vacation from the good life? Well, to each his own.)