Our team’s previous outing ably demonstrated that with cooperation and a democratic decision-making process, a team of seven top-flight database developers could successfully outwit a technologically advanced ‘escape room’ in a time that was only 45 minutes greater than the allotted limit. Owing to this breathtaking display of camaraderie and physical indexterity, a decision was made to pursue our next team-building exercise in a fashion that relied less on successful navigation of booby-trapped hallways and more on our ability to competently dodge swiftly approaching tyre walls.
Race Centre in Darling Harbour was the place, a teenage-boy’s fantasia full-motion racing simulators and Peter Brock memorabilia. With a fine layer of pizza grease (courtesy of the good people at Criniti’s) ensuring our hands would slide gracefully across the controls, we began our first race.
It soon became clear that what while the simulation was lacking the victorious smell of burning rubber and exhaust fumes, it more than made up for it with ear-splitting volume and shoulder-wrenching force feedback.
Given that I, like most people, enjoy loud noises and being shaken violently for periods of time, this was a real treat.
High-performance racing cars are fiendishly difficult to control, but mercifully the simulators provided a number of driver-aids to assist with the clutch, gears and brakes. This allowed each driver to fully focus on avoiding walls and perfecting methods to push their team-mates into the sand traps.
We were initially concerned that the Peugeot’s we were racing would provide an unfair home-team advantage to “P”, but thanks to “S”’s ambitious throttle wizardry around turn 3, they were soon out of contention.
Our final round of Formula One racing at the unforgiving Nürburgring was a spectacular end to proceedings with “G” and “S”’s nail-biting struggle for position echoing such titanic duals as Häkkinen v. Schumacher, Prost v. Senna, Reed v. Cale and New Pepsi v. New Coke. I unfortunately spent several minutes toppling through the air, having t-boned the opening chicane at what I estimated to be at least 600km/h. The day, however, belonged to C whose technique of outright cheating proved to be far more successful than anyone else’s attempt at the same.
A good time was had by all and thanks to the magic of computers, P’s thirst for dangerous high-octane thrills was quenched without injury, we hope for good.