BEING A CAR GUY, you can imagine how deliriously happy I was when ten years after the opening of EPCOT, Marty Sklar asked me to put some thought into how we could update and enhance the World of Motion pavilion. When I first came to WED, one of my favorite things to do was check in on the progress being made on the figures, show sets, and cars during the production of the attraction that showcased the history of transportation, starting with the invention of the wheel to the present day, as presented by General Motors. When I saw our figure-animation team pushing a showroom-perfect, root beer–colored 1955 Chevrolet Nomad into the MAPO building I was giddy. That is until they started taking out the engine and the seats and cutting big holes in its floor. But that’s what they had had to do to get the Audio-Animatronics family into the “family car” for one of the show scenes.

I was among the first to get to see the concepts for the scenes because the attraction designers Marc Davis and later Ward Kimball, came to me to have their original concept art dry mounted and matted. I loved World of Motion because it was designed and produced in classic Imagineering style with great sets and staging, delightfully designed and costumed animated figures, clever quick-read visual gags, and even an exclusive theme song entitled “Fun to Be Free.” The biggest challenge facing our story and design team, assembled by Marty for the sole purpose of refreshing the existing show, was how to make an already wonderful experience even better. But that was our mission—and an important one, because at the time General Motors was considering whether or not to renew their contract with the park. As we began to present some of our new enhancement concepts to the GM executives, they challenged us with this totally unexpected question: If we gave you the freedom to create something entirely new at our pavilion, what would it be? That’s the kind of question Imagineers love to be asked! Sticking with the theme of transportation, we looked at this out-of-the-blue invitation as a blue-sky opportunity to create the first E-Ticket thrill ride at Epcot.

To get the ride rolling, our fearless leader Marty, along with Barry Braverman, then executive designer for Epcot, and Bran Ferren, then vice president of Creative Technology, put together a lean and mean concept development team that included Dan Armstrong, Bruce Johnson, and Al Mirabella from Ride Systems Development and concept designers Tim Delaney, David Durham, Eric Robison, and me. We started with an “anything goes” attitude and our big thinking segued into developing and inventing, albeit theoretically, what Bran articulately called “state-of-the-art-stuff.” This stuff included infrared imaging systems, nontraditional audio and media systems, and “instantly changing environments.” Taking our inspiration from the pavilion’s original theme, our first idea was to invent a “transformer” vehicle that could mechanically turn into any vehicle imaginable. For example, you’d be speeding along in a Formula 1 race car at one moment and then be landing your fighter jet—that same vehicle in a different form—on the deck of an aircraft carrier the next.

“To pull off this big idea,” Bran directed, “we’ll have to avoid subtlety at all costs.” During this early exploratory phase, we invited the GM executives out to ride a mock-up of the Indiana Jones Adventure vehicle Dave Durham had just programmed. They were so excited by this “rolling simulator” vehicle that they asked us to explore the possibility of using a similar system for our “transformer.” But how could we use a ground-based vehicle that simulates bumps, road hazards, and skidding in our attraction story? Marty had the perfect answer: “How about a test track?” he suggested. “They’re a huge part of the GM story, and they’re pretty rigorous. Believe me, I barely survived one while we were developing Epcot.” We went to work exploring that very possibility.

“Whatever the vehicle is,” directed Bran, “it’s got to be different from anything we’ve ever done. Faster. Smarter. Better. Basically, it has to do a lot more…stuff!” Given that incredibly detailed direction, we designed a new ride vehicle that not only looked and behaved like a real car but could zip along a high-speed track that extended for quite a distance outside of the pavilion. It would also be capable of hitting any speed in between the range being set and could travel over any road surface with real tires like an actual car. This incredible go-anywhere, do-anything, supersmart ride vehicle raised the question (yes, it was so smart it could even raise questions), why simulate various road surfaces and high speeds when you could really do it? This was radical thinking.

Dave Durham laid out the very first version of our proposed test track and, after doing some research on the subject, I had a first-pass story sequence developed to go along with the layout. We invited the GM execs back to take a look. They didn’t only love it, they loved it! Why wouldn’t they? This concept was the perfect marriage between their real-world story and our attraction story. It was both fun and informative, which made it so Epcot! The excited GM execs invited us out to their test track—also known as a proving ground—in Milford, Michigan, to take a ride in their vehicles. I was excited to go for two reasons: it’s a car guy’s dream, and I knew our experience out there could, and probably would, inspire and inform our overall attraction story and “test” sequence. And that’s exactly what happened.

One of the things I’ve always loved about my job is never knowing what is going to happen next. One day I’m sitting in front of my computer plinking away, and the next I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a gazillion-horsepower Corvette nicknamed “Mad Dog”—zooming almost one hundred miles per hour—backwards! It all started when Dan, Eric, and I traveled to Milford for a “leisurely” tour (note the quotes there and consider Gilligan’s “three-hour tour”). Dan was invited because he was the ride guy; Eric was invited because he was the design guy; and I was invited because they must have found out I drove a Ford and, sensing I was susceptible to motion sickness, they wanted to punish me. “Our cars are really punished,” said a Test Track executive at dinner the night we arrived. “They are dunked, sandblasted, scorched, frozen, skidded, rolled, and crashed, as you will see tomorrow when you” (pointing at me) “get behind the wheel.” Our host, a GM executive named John, added, “Our vehicles are driven day and night over all kinds of rigorous roads. It’s our way of making sure everything goes smoothly when you get behind the wheel in your hometown.” I said nervously, “Uh, I thought this was going to be a t-t-tour.” John responded, “Oh, it will be. From the inside of a few of our…heh, heh…test vehicles.” I’m not kidding, at that moment, in the restaurant bar, a band began to play “Dead Man’s Curve” by Jan and Dean.

The next morning, we met John and Tom at the proving grounds. The four-thousand-acre site was indeed impressive, energized, as I had expected, with dozens of top secret prototype vehicles buzzing here, there, and everywhere like bees in a field of flowers. It was definitely a privilege for us non-car biz types to be there. “We’ll start on our off-road track,” said Tom. “Jump into the Suburban.” The view through the windshield to the off-road course ahead looked like the surface of the moon after an A-bomb explosion, followed by a monsoon, and then by an earthquake. “Buckle up!” instructed Tom. SCREEEECH! At that exact moment, my head flattened the foam of the headrest to the thickness of paper. I couldn’t help but regret getting GM’s money’s worth at the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet an hour earlier.

Now feeling the greasy curse of my self-serve sausage sampler, I focused not on the off-road ahead but on trying to exorcise my brain of that nausea-inducing word “sausage.” “Here comes the ‘Big Dipper,’” warned driver Tom as he launched the truck high into the air like a rocket. The flying in the air part wasn’t so bad. It was the coming back down to the ground that was extremely noticeable. Boulders, trees, mud, Mount Everest—you name it, the vehicle we were in went through or over it. You know how when severe motion sickness kicks in, the last thing you want to think about, besides life in general, is food? As he fought with the steering wheel, Tom said, “You’re in for a treat at lunchtime. I’m going to barbecue.” Trying to change the subject from food to anything else, I weakly interrupted, “How…how about those Detroit Tigers?” Tom said, “I’m a big Tigers fan, but what I really love about going to the games are their big juicy spicy sausages.” John commented from the bouncing back seat, “Me, too! I love ’em smothered with peppers and onions and sauerkraut.” I wondered if the rest of my team was feeling as sick as I was as we careened over the crevasses of the craters of the moon—or this land that was serving as moonscape. I glanced over at Eric, whose only concern was trying to keep his sunglasses on his face. Dan was just yelling “whoopee!” and “yee-haw!” in typical ride-guy fashion. As for Tom and John, it was just another day at the office. Thump! Slip! Slosh! Crash! Bang! Tom, still thinking about sausages, added, “Yeah, with gobs of spicy German mustard.” I mustered all the strength I had left to ask, “Tom, uh, is there much more of this?” He laughed and said, “Oh, you want more? Don’t worry, there’s LOTS more. Just wait’ll we get to the rough section and I drop ’er into four-wheel drive!” I must have blacked out, because I don’t remember stopping. As I slid out of the Suburban like a slug, I cursed it for being so high off the blessed flat, solid ground. What started out as clean and shiny ended up looking like a giant green-and-black mud-covered hair ball—and that was just me.

We had arrived at the legendary “Black Lake.” As large as fifty-nine football fields put together, the vast flat asphalt surface got its name because it looked exactly like a big lake after a rain. Its horizon bowed from left to right as far as the eye could see. “Nothing like it on the planet,” Tom said proudly. He respectfully removed his cap, bowed his head, and added, “You can see this from the moon.” Eric questioned, “You can see your head from the moon?” Tom ignored Eric and continued, “We do a lot of brake, steering, and general performance testing out here. It’s also where we train the Secret Service and the FBI how to drive evasively.” I was still feeling extreme motion sickness when he asked what kind of car I wanted to have out there. I mumbled, “Ambulance,” which Tom must have interpreted as “Corvette.” He drew his two-way radio out from its holster like a Colt .45, spun it around Wyatt Earp-style, and ordered cars to be brought up for Dan, Eric, and me. Suddenly, three souped-up Chevys, like the Blue Angels in perfect door-to-door formation, roared over the distant horizon of the Black Lake and came in for a perfect landing directly in front of each one of us. The driver of my Corvette was the spitting image of mustachioed actor Wilford Brimley. At that time, the real Wilford Brimley was starring in oatmeal commercials. “Oatmeal,” I whispered to myself. “I should have had oatmeal.” My driving instructor jumped out, introduced himself as C. C., ran around to the passenger side and said, “She’s all yours. Hop on in!” For those of you that have never driven a Corvette, when you drop into the driver’s seat, it feels like your butt is actually below ground level. Looking at the dash you’ll discover the speedometer and tachometer have more numbers than a New York City phone book. I had no idea what we were going to be doing out there in that astronomical expanse of asphalt, but if all those spirograph-like tire marks were any indication, it was not going to be like taking a Sunday drive to church.

“I have a wife and two little kids,” I said to C. C., emphasizing the profound importance of my staying alive. “That’s why,” he said, “I want you to do exactly what I tell you exactly when I tell you to do it.” We buckled up and I put a death grip on the wheel. “Hit the gas NOW!” I floored the pedal and we blasted like buckshot out of a barrel. Before you could say “juicy spicy sausage” we hit 90 mph and were quickly closing in on the back edge of Black Lake. C. C. pointed me onto a long, thin connecting roadway that in the blink of an eye directed us like Secretariat out of the gate onto the high-banked oval track where he said, “Take her up to one hundred miles per hour and then kick ’er in the butt!” WHOOOOOA! 125 mph…145…155…all the way up to the highest of the five severely banked lanes on the four-mile speed oval. The vertical safety rail fence posts, only inches away, dissolved into a blur until they disappeared altogether, making the horizontal rail look like it was floating in midair. C. C. appeared to be calm and relaxed despite the fact his long, droopy white mustache was now wrapped horizontally past his ears and around his head. He never told me, but I deduced “C. C.” must have stood for “Cool Cucumber.” I, on the other hand, was absolutely petrified driving over 160 mph, my hands tightly gripping the wheel like the talons of a hawk trying to fly off with a bull elephant.

“Now,” instructed C. C., “take your hands off the wheel.” I laughed nervously, in polite reaction to his stupid joke. “Really,” he said, “DO IT!” I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. “Trust me,” C. C. said calmly. “Nothing is going to happen.” I argued, “What if a UFO lands on the track in front of us? Then what?” In the time I uttered those words, at the speed we were going, we probably did ten laps. I could tell he really wanted to prove something to me so, confident I had my living trust in order, I slowly released my grip from the wheel. C. C. was right! Nothing happened. “Centrifugal force,” he said. “We could stay up here in this lane all day long. That is, unless a UFO lands in front of us. Sheesh, you Californians.”

With both hands back on the wheel, we shot back over to Black Lake, where off in the distance, I could see Dan’s and Eric’s cars zigzagging across the surface. “See that mile-long wet spot ahead?” pointed out C. C. “Yeah,” I responded while watching Eric’s car spin around and around. “I’ll bet that came from Eric!” C. C. didn’t get the joke. “Nope, it’s a chemical mixture that simulates ice on the road. I’m going to show you the difference between regular brakes and antilock brakes.” Before I could fire off a Hail Mary, C. C. flipped the NON-ABS switch on the console—and at 80 mph, we hit the edge of the “ice,” two wheels on, two wheels off. “Brake as hard as you can,” commanded C. C., “NOW!” “AAAAaaaAAAAaaaAAAAaaaahhhhhh!” Let me just say, I now know what a banana feels like in a blender. We instantly did at least eight 360-degree spins. I was not expecting that as much as I was not expecting Cindy Crawford to jump in my lap.

“Another lap!” cried C. C. as he switched back over to ABS. When he told me to brake hard again, I braced, assuming we were going to spin again. But the active antilock brake system kept that Vette moving as straight as an arrow. After all that spinnin’ and grinnin’, C. C. was chillin’ like he was relaxing in a beach chair in Maui. But he did have to scrape me off the headliner like gum under a church pew. Then, over the next hour, C. C. taught me several evasive driving techniques, like collision avoidance, steering while braking, skid recovery, and barfing breakfast safely out the driver’s side window, a special maneuver that was not on the official agenda.

We finally rolled to a much-needed, blessed stop. Who knew being an Imagineer would teach me how to be a better, safer driver? But man, I was so glad all that Black Lake lunacy was over.

“And now,” exclaimed C. C., “for the grand finale!” From the passenger side, he shifted the automatic transmission into reverse. “Ever do a one-eighty?” he asked. I answered, “A one-eighty…what?” He instructed, “Punch the accelerator all the way to the floor and hold it there NOW!” SCREEEEECH! The car was literally screaming (or maybe that was just me) like a crazed banshee as it blasted backwards. Suddenly, all I could see through the windshield was pure white smoke pouring in from both sides of the car over the contours of the pronounced fenders and hood until the front end was completely engulfed in white. I knew at any moment that blinding cloudy whiteness would dissolve, like a scene change in a movie, to reveal the pearly gates. C. C. yelled, “Slam your brake hard NOW!” SCREEEECH! “Okay,” he shouted out, “turn your wheel hard to the left until it locks NOW!” At the high speed we were traveling backwards and then hard braking, turning the wheel hard left whipped the front end of that Corvette around 180 degrees faster than a finger snap. C. C. pulled the tranny out of R, shoved it into D, and shouted, “Step hard on the gas NOW!” From 75 mph to…95…105…125…and counting.

“You did it!” he praised. I had no idea what the hell I had just done. All I know is when I finally opened my eyes, we were speeding in the opposite direction from where we started and my wallet was on the other side of my pants. It was then I spotted a ribbon of thick black smoke, the type you see after a horrific crash, billowing high into the air. “Oh, no!” I cried, thinking the worst, “Dan and Eric!” C. C. smiled. “Yep, it’s them,” he said, “and the rest of ’em, too. Looks like Tom has fired up the barbecue and he’s cookin’ up his favorite. Hope you like sausages!”

The cover of the winter 1999 WDEye magazine. Note I’m in an Autopia car and costume!

The good GM folks were marvelous hosts. They set up a shade tent and a barbecue on the Black Lake to serve us up a home-cooked meal. Over lunch, Dan’s driving instructor boasted how Dan had broken the test-track record for the most consecutive nonstop 360s in a row. Well, sure, he’s the ride guy. My instructor, C. C., told everyone how he joked with me about taking my hands off the steering wheel on the speed oval. “And he actually did it!” he proclaimed. After lunch, our research continued. We experienced various road surfaces, brake tests, potholes, water trenching, sandblasting, scorching heat, freezing cold, and anechoic chambers—and watched barrier tests, where they crash new cars manned with sensor-equipped crash dummies against thick concrete walls. By the end of the next day we had seen and done just about everything at the Milford proving ground. After I had learned to steer like an FBI agent, speed like Dale Earnhardt, and brake like Fred Flintstone, I had a newfound appreciation for everything GM does to test and prove the more than fifteen thousand parts that go into every new car. And I had gained much respect for GM’s bottom line: dedication to safety and performance. Some of what I did out there was definitely crazy, but they actually do every bit of it for a reason.

Driving back to the airport a much more skilled and safe driver, Dan, the new 360-Degree King, was gushing about our experience at the test track; and rightfully so. We got to see and do what a lot of car guys only dream about. Proudly adjusting his new GENERAL MOTORS PROVING GROUND cap, he said, “If only we could capture in the new World of Motion just a taste of the thrill we had out there, we’d have a home run attraction.” Eric agreed: “Oh, man, the place would be packed. We’d have to design a queue area the size of Black Lake.” “Imagine,” I said, “a queue you could see from the moon!”

Our experience in Milford did indeed inspire and inform our attraction story sequence. Every “test” featured in the attraction is based on a real test we personally saw or experienced at the proving ground. When we presented Test Track to Michael Eisner, he commented, “When guests get off the ride, they should be asking themselves, ‘Was that just a great ride? Or are they really doing automotive testing here?’” To maintain the automotive legitimacy of our design, we brought in two new members to our team who were automotive designers before they became Imagineers: Albert Yu, who designed our vehicle body, and Orrin Shively, who became our show producer for the project. When Orrin found out we were changing World of Motion into something else, he worried it was going to be something like “Favorite Hubcaps from the Past” or “The Happy History of the Vega.” But when he found out we were going to tell the story of a test track, he instantly understood, by the name alone, what it was and where we were going. The name perfectly and instantly communicated the attraction story and experience. That’s why I was shocked and surprised to receive an invitation from GM to take part in a “naming charette” to change our working title, Test Track, to a “real” attraction name.

“What the heck is wrong with Test Track?” I questioned Orrin. “It says what it is and it sounds fun.” Orrin insisted, “You should go to the charette.” Orrin came from the auto industry and seemed to have great insight about such things. Besides, I had to go. The company GM hired for the naming exercise was flying all the way from New York City to Los Angeles just to meet with me.

I have personally named a lot of attractions over the years but never in an all-day session with a room full of people whose only expertise is naming things. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. My experience in coming up with names is they just come to me, and when they sound and feel right, that’s it. No overthinking, no muss, no fuss. One day, Bob Zalk, who was the creative producer for the Disney Cruise Line, came into my office, as a lot of Imagineers do when they need a name for something. “Kev,” Bob said, showing me a concept sketch, “here’s a new waterslide we’re designing for the Disney Dream, and it needs a story and name. Can you help us?” The name came in an instant. “How about ‘AquaDuck’? We can connect the story with Donald and the nephews.” “Done!” exclaimed Bob, and he happily went on his merry way. Coming up with names for stuff is one of my favorite things to do.

Another example is when I was working on Blizzard Beach, I had to name a snack shack, which, considering the story of the park, came to me quickly: “Avalunch.” That’s an example of a name that can also inform the facility design, and it did. I just couldn’t see the necessity of fifteen “professional namers” traveling across the country to lock themselves in a room with me to come up with a name, especially since Test Track sounded and felt right. But apparently that’s how it works in the automotive field and other industries that don’t have Imagineering show writers on staff.

The naming session took place in the large conference room of a fancy hotel in Los Angeles. I was the first to arrive. When the entourage entered the room at precisely the correct scheduled time, they were perfectly groomed and very well-dressed, like models from Glamour and GQ, making me feel out of place in my jeans and Hawaiian shirt. None of them acknowledged me at first but sat with their backs to me facing double doors like hungry dogs waiting for their masters to get home. Suddenly, the doors burst open and a tall slender silver-haired, steely-eyed, black-suited, stiletto-shod woman entered into the room with all the calming presence of a Sherman tank. The group went silent and snapped to attention. This woman had the demeanor of Gloria Swanson meets Maleficent. She made Meryl Streep’s Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada look like Snow White. She didn’t even look at me when I stepped over to introduce myself to her. “Everyone!” she proclaimed to her royal subjects and me, “sit!” I sat. “Now,” she commanded, “give to me swift animals. Swift, swift animals! Come, come, come…” Her people started shouting out suggestions like “gazelle” and “cheetah.” “Cheetah!” she repeated. “Yes, yes, cheetah. Everyone repeat after me: cheeeetaaaaah!” Her minions quickly wrote all of the fast-animal types being shouted out on the blank paper wall that encircled us. “Now,” Gloria continued, “give to me forces of nature! Nature, nature, nature! Come, come, come…”

On it went like that for the rest of the day until the huge pile of once-juicy Sharpies went dry. It was by far the weirdest brainstorming session I had ever attended, and all for one name. At the end of the day, there were thousands of words like BRISK, SPRINGBOK, SAILFISH, and even WHIRR written on the paper wall by members of the group, and they were instructed by Gloria Maleficent to return to NYC and organize them in terms of those that best “evoke”—are you ready for this?—“a world of motion.” I KNOW! I couldn’t believe it myself. The company packed up and informed me they would soon send out their top recommendations for the new attraction name, which I fully anticipated would include such gems as The Brisk Springbok Adventure, Whirr of the Cheetah, and Gazellebration! Well, you know what we ended up with, which goes to show, when it comes to naming attractions, cheetahs never prosper.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to provide names for many different things in the Disney parks, including this snack shack for Blizzard Beach. Its name came before the concept design of the facility, making this a great example of how a name can inform the actual design!

On my flight home from that grueling but worthwhile research trip to the GM proving grounds in Michigan I tried to calm the elderly gentleman sitting next to me, who was clearly upset by the terrible air turbulence. Compared to the “turbulence” I had just experienced at the proving grounds, this plane ride was a piece of cake. I had survived every conceivable road rigor and sausage they could toss at me and came out the victor, so I was as laid-back as a bank on Sunday. “What do you do for a living, young man?” he asked, trying to keep his mind off the bumpy flight. “I’m a writer,” I responded. “Writer, eh?” I nodded affirmatively. “For the life of me,” he wondered, “I don’t know how you writers can just sit there in front of one of them computers all day long.”