Vroom!

I am a runner and enjoy running fast, but there’s a certain speed limit to what you can do on two feet. That is why go-kart racing this weekend kind of twirled my Nikes.

Photo Credit: gokartracer.com

I promised this outing to my dad and my brother-in-law, Steve, at Christmas as a manly-men-doing-manly-things sort of thing. My mom and sister tagged along to admire us. We visited GoKart Racer, a Peninsula warehouse that is enjoying an exciting second act as a racetrack.

We donned navy-blue jumpsuits, complete with yellow piping, and pulled motorcycle helmets from the rack. Then we entered the prep area to meet the vehicles. There’s not much to a go-kart: a seat, a 9-hp Honda engine, a gas tank ensconced under your knees, a roll bar and a plastic guard around the base to blunt the inevitable collisions. As you strap into the shoulder and waist belts, a guy in a black polo shirt and padded headphones comes by and pulls a chain, starting you up like a lawnmower.

I snapped my visor into place and tentatively brought my foot down on the green accelerator pedal. Brrm brrrm brrrm vroom! In a moment I was speeding the track, which snaked around under cold lights. A go-kart can manage 35 miles per hour, and while I’m not sure I ever reached terminal velocity, I went fast enough to get my neurons into a tizzy. It doesn’t take much when you’re doing hairpins on a track fifteen feet wide and hovering an inch off the ground.

Real-time results for the 10 racers were posted on screens in the viewing area, so our cheering section knew for whom to root. I’m proud to say on the Yokohama track I edged out Steve to take seventh place. Next up was the more technical and twisty Monza track, and I felt confident I would only do better.

Steve surprised everyone by coming in third. I surprised myself by grinding into the wall on a particularly tight turn not once, but twice, and so firmly that a padded-earphone guy had to climb onto the track and back me out of the predicament by hand. I emerged in ninth place. The only thing that kept me out of the cellar was Dad, who exhibited the same caution on the racetrack as he did behind the wheel of the family Chevy Nova when I was ten.

Despite my embarrassing performance, I walked out, or better strode out, like an astronaut on final approach to a space-shuttle launch. I got behind the wheel of my 2005 Scion xB, which my friends have unkindly compared to a hearse, and took a turn wide back toward San Francisco, ignoring the lane lines. After all, it’s my road, isn’t it?