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"  As we crept forward, our lives in each other&amp;#039;s hands -- or mine in Ryan&amp;#039;s hands, and his life in my eyes -- he reminded me that he hadn&amp;#039;t been behind the wheel in seventeen years. Almost immediately the car began to veer left. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;re on a straightaway,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Just go straight.&amp;quot; That wasn&amp;#039;t going to work. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s straight?&amp;quot; he asked. I tried military tactics: &amp;quot;Think twelve o&amp;#039;clock.&amp;quot; But Ryan hadn&amp;#039;t seen a clock in over a decade.  Meanwhile we were heading straight for the median. I grabbed the wheel myself, yanking us back into the middle of the track. I&amp;#039;d broken a cardinal rule and, approaching our first turn, I settled back into my role as navigator. The speedometer climbed to fifteen miles per hour. Once we were around the first bend, we began to establish better communication. A calm &amp;quot;left&amp;quot; suggested a gentle turn, while &amp;quot;LEFTLEFTLEFT!&amp;quot; meant we were inches from hitting a damned tractor inexplicably parked in the infield. &amp;quot;Stop,&amp;quot; regardless of how calmly I said it, resulted in Ryan slamming on the brakes as violently as possible, often giggling. Afterward, Ryan took me to a field, blindfolded me, and told me to sprint. Try this. The feeling of hurtling through space, relying on someone else&amp;#039;s assurances that you&amp;#039;re not going to hit anything, is nearly impossible to do.  Watch a video of a practice run at esquire.com/wifl08. There are two sides to every story. To read What It Feels Like to Race a Car Blind, please click here. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/a4836/blind-navigator-0808/>