Parking the go-kart

Too often in my life, I’ve ignored the old “adage” (if you will) that all preening and flashing of feathers and plumage should be left to the boys. After all, is it so wrong for a gal to try to reel in her own prey when she tires of waiting for her predator to catch up?

This sort of overly self-assured thinking is clearly what gets me into the messes I tend to get myself into. Remember that go-karting date? Common sense and caution would have been most constructive, whereas unfounded pomp and circumstance instead overruled reason and cast massive shame on my person.

To explain, at the go-karting shindig mentioned in my prior post, I couldn’t content myself with the joy of simply operating a specialized vehicle. Instead, my competitive streak and my “closet” arrogance reared their ugly heads, scoffed at safe and not sorry, and took a massive dookie on my better sensibilities.

“I’m SO going to PWN  you!” I goaded my date, regaling Boy with tales of my supposed vehicular prowess back in the California coasting days. “I’m gonna be like, ‘Hey! Shit, I’m going fast. Wait, where’s Boy? Oh! oh! What’s that speck of dust over there?'”

The prospect still seemed entirely plausible when we were settling into our go-karts for our first race of the day and prepared to drive like Cruella de Vil chasing Dalmation puppies. The course operators eased us into the race at beginner’s pace, allowing us to adjust to the feel of and maneuverability of our mounts. And then, with a sudden kick of the engine, we were blasted into high gear.

Seeing the first turn coming up, I instinctively tapped on my brakes, taking the turn tentatively to see how it would feel. To my unbridled delight, the kart slid smoothly through the turn, flat and grounded, without so much as a lurch to warn me of my impending doom.

“IT GOES SO FAST,” I was screaming to myself. “AND IT’S SO STAAAABLE.”

I saw the next sharp turn up ahead. A brilliant thought occurred to me. I could take the next turn at full speed.

I was grinning like Ursula plotting King Triton’s demise as I gunned up the accelerator and prepared for what I would sure would be the world’s most beautiful drift. I relished at the thought of being able to prove to Boy that here I was, that rare Asian chick up afraid to speed it up in a car. Damn fly.

The turn was beautiful alright — though perhaps not in the intended way.

I wish I could say the next part was a blur, but sadly I remember every excruciating detail of my ultimate disservice to Asian women the world over.

As I hard-pedaled the accelerator straight into the turn, true to my dreams the kart lifted nary an inch off the ground. But visions of the perfect Mario Kart super turbo flew out the window as I realized with dread that my kart was not transitioning smoothly into the sharp turn.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiit,” I started moaning, watching helplessly as my kart traced an arrow-straight line across the track and sailed straight into the course barrier.

As my kart darted under the railing, I instinctively raised my right arm to keep the heavy plastic from crashing into my breasts. I felt the removal of skin from my wrist and the back of my hand as the plastic barrier then went sailing into my (fortunately protected) head. There I sat momentarily dazed, wondering how retarded dumb I probably looked to Boy just at that moment, and how I would explain away my vehicular blunder to my companions. I briefly wished the crash had killed me instead. From somewhere behind me, I heard Shara screaming.

(I was told later that Shara was in fact screaming, “Take a picture! Take a picture!”)

And then suddenly, an uncontrollable fit of the giggles seized my body, and I found myself, despite a bloody and skinned arm, and a most-bruised dignity, absolutely and completely unable to stop laughing hysterically.

Two course attendants who had run over to help me escape the clutches of the plastic beast swallowing my kart must have heard my gasps and high-pitched whimpers and interpreted them as crying,
He ducked to glance under the visor of my helmet. His jaw dropped.

“You were laughing this entire time?!” he exclaimed, face crumpling into a scowl.

I continued giggling, well aware that my face was now turning a violent shade of red. I closed the visor back over my eyes in the futile hope that this would help protect my identity from the patrons of the go-kart facility as I was promptly marched off the course by my now-rueful rescuers.

And now I have this on the back of my hand to show for it.

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One thought on “Parking the go-kart

  1. Pingback: Reversing douchebag conditioning « Love Games, or the Lack Thereof

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