As I awkwardly shimmied into the uncomfortably low plastic throne, three sentences played on a constant loop in my mind.
“I live my life a quarter mile at a time. Nothing else matters: not the mortgage, not the store, not my team and all their bullshit. For those ten seconds or less, I’m free.”
I mean, is there really a better time to inappropriately quote Hollywood’s favorite chrome-domed action hero than when you’re a grown-ass human stepping into a GoKart at an indoor track in suburban Colorado on a Thursday afternoon?
Answer: no. No there is not.
Just replace that “else” with loans, deadlines, and the knuckleheads I surround myself with, and that snappy little soliloquy from the 2001 Vin Diesel classic (perhaps the most oxymoronic phrase of all time) “The Fast and the Furious,” summed me up pretty nicely that day at the track. Oh, and scribble over the whole “ten seconds or less” thing with fourteen laps of sinuous, electric-powered fury.
The broken record repetition of that golden quote was a product of being inundated by the aura, environment and general attitude of the brand-spanking-new kart track, K1 Speed in Littleton. Basically, that of a 10-year-old’s birthday bash replete with adolescent awkwardness, too much high-fructose corn syrup and some casual 40 mph turns.
Extremely unassuming from the outside — save for a modest sign that’s a bit too easy to miss while cruising toward K1’s location right off of South Santa Fe Boulevard — the interior of the beige warehouse was a high-octane fuel-injection to the senses. Multi-colored strobe lights were devilishly disorienting as I was subjected to the trebly top-40 jams constantly piped through the reception area. And as if the perma-inst-ah-inst-ahs heard in whatever atrocity Billboard has decided to sanctify this week wasn’t enough to get my oil cooking hot, the walls of the space were covered with a spattering of racing memorabilia thrown on top of gargantuan murals of Formula 1 greats like Fernando Alonso. Not that that name means very much to me, or most Americans for that matter, but the blurry image of his Banco Santander speedster still whets the appetite for hustled velocity as well as conjuring up wonderfully cheesy movie quotes (“Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”) Of course there was no lack of Red Bull paraphernalia, because, well, no semi-action sport is complete until you’re thoroughly surrounded with blue, red and chrome reminders of everyone’s favorite taurine and glucose cocktail.
So, after going through that pre-race fever dream, I was, needless to say, revved and ready to race some GoKarts, and definitely mumbling about channeling my inner Speed Racer, or something. As I stepped onto the actual track to get my safety run down, my nostrils were inundated with that tangy scent of burnt rubber. Oh, baby. I was instructed to toss on a neon head sock — which I’m now considering wearing all the time while moonlighting as a ninja — and a crimson helmet. Walking over to my chariot, kart 36, I was told that she’s an Italian broad who retails for a gasket-popping $10,000. Seeing as I can barely afford a $10 Italian sub, to say I was intimidated would be the understatement of the karting world. But, I couldn’t let her know I was nervous, so – FATF quotes abound – I took an audible gulp, somehow crammed by 6-foot-5 frame into the seat and threw down my visor. I was ready to race some karts.
Now, I knew these puppies were electric and that means torque, but wow. These suckers are not your local vegan’s Prius. Upon first slamming pedal to metal on the first full-speed turn, I was grinning wider than I ever have while traveling at 40 miles per hour – mostly because I have never travelled at that speed with a mere three inches separating me from what could be some serious road rash. Elbows locked in, leaning with the course and throwing in the occasional break slam just to entertain my inner-drifter, Vinny D’s FATF line felt truer than ever. Hearing the whine of the motor echo off the walls, the vertigo-like sensation of accelerating to the limit down the backstretch – in that moment I was every getaway driver Hollywood has ever seen. I was free. I was a karter.
After 14 laps of goofily grinning under my head sock, I triumphantly tucked kart 36 into the pit, allowing the FATF quotes to float out of my mind, and trying to regain my adrenaline-soaked composure. Back in the discotheque/reception area, I took a peak at my stat sheet, which revealed I was ranked 326,553 out of the 3,755,047 karters in the K1 Speed world. Definitely putting that on the old resume. While it’s not the result I was hoping for, surely I couldn’t have been expected to seriously compete with folks on the K1 Speed all-time speed list, which was filled with names like Clive Uston, Jet Underwood and Russ Mcgrane — all of which are as great racer names as Mickey is for a shrill-voiced mouse.
Cooled down and sobered from seeing Mr. Uston’s top times, I took my spot atop the picture-opportunity podium with my faux gold, spray-painted trophy. I took a moment to revel in my temporary transition to the freedom of adolescence and relish the fact that I was, at that very moment, King of Thursday afternoon Go Karts. Or, you know, something like that.
Hopefully the skid marks I left pulling out of the parking lot weren’t too noticeable.