“Mario Andretti’s car is on fire,” a race track employee says as I step out onto the Pocono Raceway course for a two-seater ride with one of the most famous race car drivers in the world.

The panic is setting in, but not outwardly because everyone else is totally fine with the situation. Then the charred remains of Andretti’s first car go by behind a tow truck, and the question pops up: Why did I agree to this again?

Andretti hops into his backup car and casually resumes his rides for $500 a pop as the line shuffles along. I can barely breathe in the flame-retardant suit they stuffed me in. They throw a face mask on me and test out the smallest helmet they have, which, of course, is too big. They add a second face mask and advise me to hold onto the helmet during the ride to keep it from bouncing around.

Just breathe.

Finally, it’s time. The guy who rode before hops out, snaps a photo with Andretti and “Woo’s!” like a drunk girl in a college bar. Everything that happens next is a blur: They lift me up, put me in the car, buckle me in, and we are off before I even have time to comprehend what is happening.

All that is heard is the roaring of the engine and someone — it’s me — screaming “Holy f–k!” as the car barrels toward the first turn. The G-force of the turn silences my scream for half a second before the terrified yelps return. Then fear turns to excitement as the adrenaline pumps every time we hit one of the three corners of the famed “Tricky Triangle.”

And then it’s over, and it’s too soon, and I am shouting “Woo!,” which is apparently an unavoidable sound after an activity like that.

The two-seater ride was a snippet of the three-day IndyCar crash course at Pocono Raceway, but first let’s rewind to why a Page Six reporter was spending the weekend on the race track with Andretti and 22 other supremely talented IndyCar drivers.

It all started with a tweet.

Two days later, an email popped up asking if I wanted to come to the Poconos to shadow driver James Hinchcliffe for the weekend. Full disclosure: Before that weekend, I thought IndyCar and NASCAR were the same thing.

I quickly learned what sets IndyCar apart from all other sports: the feeling of a small-town community. The larger events were amazing, but it was the small details that gave the sense of what it’s like to be immersed in IndyCar. Someone explaining how driver Will Power’s wife chews on water bottles when she’s nervous during races. Driver Conor Daly detailing the “bro brunches” he and roommate Hinchcliffe host together. How everyone, from drivers to employees, is donning socks in remembrance of a driver lost last year. It’s one giant family.

Driving up into the center of the track — where a village of motor homes, luxury dining tents and transporters have been stationed for the weekend — I suddenly feel small and a bit out of place. The enormity of the event is overwhelming.

A publicist guides me around the garages, where fans are huddled, watching as million-dollar cars get the finishing touches before qualifying for starting positions.

Across from the garages, all of the transporters are set up like offices. Outside each is a banner showing which driver belongs to each transport.

“Step into my office,” Hinchcliffe says.

The truck is set up like a small hallway with sliding glass doors at the end, which happen to be one-sided glass. Fans are awkwardly standing outside the doors, unable to see what’s happening inside, just waiting for a glimpse of Hinchcliffe or a chance to get his autograph.

We spend 10 minutes or so exchanging niceties before he has to get ready for qualifying. I make my way down to watch qualifying, and they take me to Hinchcliffe’s pit so I can get a feel for where I’ll be stationed during the next day’s race. There are rows of extra tires and a small area filled with screens and computers for his engineers, who calculate exactly when he needs to take a pit stop.

After the drivers finish their qualifying laps, they are brought to a small line of reporters to answer a few questions. It’s almost like a red carpet for IndyCar drivers, but without the glamour and glitz of cameras flashing and people yelling at you to look their way.

The next day is meant to be race day, but fans have already extended their hotel stay with the forecast looking dicey. At this point, I’ve been following Hinchcliffe around for a full day and still haven’t gotten an interview. I’m feeling a bit like Patrick Fugit in “Almost Famous,” when he couldn’t get Billy Crudup alone for his Rolling Stone story. Unlike everyone else there, I’m cheering for rain to come.

I walk over to the drivers’ meeting after breakfast, where the drivers and their teams gather to go over last-minute rules for the race. It’s basically a meeting where drivers can air any grievances. No one has any major concerns, except for the fact that it was pretty clear the race would be postponed.

Hinchcliffe’s RV — where he stays during races — is not as luxurious as one would think. The wood paneling is a little outdated as well as the cabinets, but it’s homey and he’s apparently been playing Monopoly, as the pieces are scattered around the kitchen table. It’s pouring outside, and we get the official word that the race will begin tomorrow at noon. Which gives me an opportunity to speak with Hinchcliffe for over an hour about everything from his near-fatal accident and how hard it is to make it in IndyCar racing to why he lost respect for Alex Trebek (shaved his mustache) and what happens when you have to pee during a race. For the record, they just go to the bathroom in the suits. It’s a health issue to hold it in because if you crash, your bladder could explode.

The next day, I am standing in the pit lane with Hinchcliffe’s team as the drivers prepare. It’s sunny, bright and perfect, except there are only a handful of fans in the stands. A downside to a sport that relies on good weather.

A couple strolls over to say hello to the publicist, who introduces me to driver Josef Newgarden’s parents. They are thrilled that I’ve decided to come down and learn about IndyCar and can’t believe it’s my first race. They welcome me and head off to see their son before the race starts. In that moment, I feel like I’m a part of the IndyCar family.

I stand in line with Hinchcliffe’s team during the national anthem and take my spot near his pit area. The race starts, and I’ve got my headset tuned into Hinchcliffe’s radio as I watch the race on the big screen. I can hear his spotter, who’s on the roof of the race track building, saying things like, “Outside, outside, outside, clear” as someone passes him, and “nine cars back, eight cars back, seven cars back” to let him know the distance of the car trailing him. With each lap, his team monitors when he should come in to pit and any problems he’s having. Standing in the middle of it all — 5 feet away from where Hinchcliffe pulls in to refuel — can change your entire view on and of a sport. The laps seem to be flying by, and I can’t tear my eyes from the screen.

Hinchcliffe finishes 10th, but I walk over to the winner’s circle to see what’s happening. It’s like a scene straight out of “Talladega Nights,” with champagne bottles being sprayed everywhere.

A month ago, I knew absolutely nothing about IndyCar racing. The community (and the fans) opened their arms and welcomed me into their sport. I can’t claim to be an expert on IndyCar after a three-day crash course, but I will admit that I’ve watched every race since.