I went to go-kart track in Tigard (just south of Portland) over the weekend. It was a pretty fancy place called "Sykart" and it left me longing for a simpler time. The cars in the parking lot out front were all newer models. Not a gun rack in sight. When I walked into the indoor track's lobby I was greeted by two clean cut slightly alternative young men, both sporting official Sykart uniforms - bright yellow tee shirts and slightly baggy jeans.
The lobby was clean, and quiet. I was curious to know where the track was even located, as I couldn't see it from the front desk. I got checked in along with the rest of my group. I had to sign some paper work and even show a valid drivers license. I paid my fee - $30 for two 10 minute races and was directed to an adjacent room decked out with a flat screen TV and an organized wall of 20-30 custom helmets clearly marked with sizes ranging from small, clear up to XXXL. It was obvious this place was pretty serious about safety. I settled on a medium helmet and joined the rest of my group in front of the TV for a safety video.
I felt uncomfortable and confused watching the video. Sykart has an advanced system of four different flags with sixteen possible combinations to communicate with racers during each heat. I felt my heart starting to pound as I struggled with the difference between a blue flag paired with a checkered flag - and a black on it's own. One meant you were winning, other other meant your car might be on fire... The video ended and I told myself not to worry. "You've done this before" I kept telling myself.
We headed out to the track, back through the lobby and up a short flight of stairs. I noticed the faint oder of two stroke oil/gasoline mixture. The track looked amazing. Twenty or so identical cars were perfectly lined up, bumper to bumper. I put on my helmet and smiled at the guy taking tickets at the track entrance gate. As I climbed into my assigned cart I felt like a kid at Disneyland. The carts were state of the art complete with seat belts and adjustable pedals.
Within a few minutes, everyone was settled in and the attendant started our engines one by one. Off we went as a second attendant violently shook a single checkered flag. The acceleration on the little car was incredible. I was approaching my first turn when I realized just how much power the car had. There was no slack in the steering wheel! I went for it and felt the back end of the car fishtail. I quickly compensated and floored it through the turn. The next eight or so minutes were a blur. Turn after turn of pure, exhilarating joy. I ruthlessly passed other cars, and kept strong, not allowing anyone gaining on me to eek by.
Heading into my final lap, I noticed the engine starting to putter. I pulled back on the gas, then back on, and the same. All around me, my friends were slowing down, or even pulling off to the sides of the track. I kept going - I had a sudden flush go over my face as I wondering if something was severely wrong with my car. The attendant came out with the yellow and checkered flag combo, signaling us to pull back into the pit. We all lined up and he cut our engines from his advanced go-kart computer station.
I felt great! What a race! I couldn't stop thinking about how to get the rest of the family down here sometime. It could be just like old times! What fun we would have! A single tear rolled down my cheek, wondering when the next time I would be karting side by side with my cousins!
The attendant approached the track. And uttered thee words that will ring forever in my mind "That was unacceptable!" And just like that, my world came crumbling down before me. My mind begin to race as he approached my car specifically. "You broke every Sykart rule in the book!" he barked as I sat stone faced, looking straight ahead. "Weren't you watching that video? Did you even read our rules!!?" I thought about explaining my past, but I realized there was no way he could understand. I offered him an apology and that was it. He told me that he had begun to cut the gas to my car from his computer in an effort to slow me down. I wondered why he hadn't simply waved the purple flag with red polka dots, but I wasn't about to get into it with him.
The mood was somber. A couple of friends gave me reassuring pats on the back. "He's just jealous", they offered. Back in the lobby, I knew what I had to do. I walked up to the counter and asked for a refund on my second race. I couldn't go on. Not like this. I couldn't race again knowing I'd have to hold back. It just wouldn't be fair to the sport. To me.
He gladly refunding my fifteen dollars. I think he saw what had happened out there on the track. I went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and smiled at the ridiculous of the whole situation. My friends wanted to know why I wasn't racing in the second heat - I just told them I'd rather take pictures and left it at that. "This place has nothing on that place in Anchorage", I whispered to myself. After all, it's not about the power of the car, the safety of the track, or the soberness of the people running the whole operation. It's the heart in the racer.
