GO-KART-MANIA

Today is  go-kart day.  I am going to attempt to race around a track and not kill myself or anyone in my immediate vicinity.

Bear in mind as I start this tale that I have only gone go-karting once or twice in my life, and certainly not in forty years or so.  The last time I drove a go-kart, helmets were not required and probably hadn't even been invented yet.  The fact that I must wear a helmet is already freaking me out because it restricts my vision.

It's not the only thing causing me agida, though.

Considering that I am a total lead-foot driver on regular streets, I am quite certain that I will not be peddling-to-the-metal at this event.  First of all, I cannot adjust the seat, and secondly, I don't know the track, which is twisty and turny and topsy and turvy and goes over and under and all around the mulberry bush.

I do not hold out much hope for this to go well.  I am semi-correct.

I get passed a few times, which is fine.  I try super hard to go into the reverse curves, but, let's be honest, the steering on these things often requires Herculean strength.  My turns are either too wide or too close to the walls.  After they instruct us NOT to step on the gas and the brake at the same time, I abandon this advice because using both pedals at the same time for turns actually works, and also because the tires chirp, and that's kind of cool.

Coming up and around a corner, my friend is at a standstill.  I can see her, but drivers coming up around me cannot.  I reduce my speed and actually stop to protect both her and the employee who is now walking into the track to help her.  This is when my other pal drives up behind me, doesn't have time to swing around as he is madly racing someone in another kart, and he smashes into me.

It's all okay; my gal pal has been spared and the employee is not road kill.

I get smashed into a few more times, some my fault and some the fault of others.  This is when I realize that the full helmets are NOT for safety; they're to cover my mouth so other people in the place cannot hear me swearing my head off.  I throw enough f-bombs to wipe out Bulgaria.  Despite my potty mouth, I am having a great time.  As a matter of fact, I am laughing so hard that it's hard to keep driving in the lines.

When it's all said and done, I don't run off the track, and don't smash into anyone, I don't need to go to the ER, and both of my friends escape unscathed from the experience.  The best thing, though, is that as soon as I am on my way home in my own car and at my own comfort level, I put the pedal to the metal, and I race home at an average speed of 80 (often more, rarely less) on the highway.  (And, no, it's not the speed limit; the speed limit is 65 mph.)

I may not be the most adept go-karter you'll ever meet, but I'm a relatively solid street racer.  Even better, I don't have to wear a helmet on the ride home and my sight lines, including having adjustable seats and a rear view mirror, make me much better on the true reverse curves than I am in the synthetic ones.