Women drivers, go figure

When I was about seven years old, my parents took my sister and me to ride go-carts for the first time. It scared the crap out me and very nearly cost a man his life.

Loud noises terrified me when I was a kid. This was loud times a thousand. Gas fumes choked me; I sat in a completely alien machine, had no idea how to operate it, and it seemed like 50 people were waiting for me to take off. I panicked.

My foot hit the gas peddle and I swerved out onto the course like a bat out of hell. I don’t know how I did it, but I maneuvered those turns, balls to the wall, gas pedal floored the entire time. My seven year old brain was convinced that if the go-cart hit the tires lining the track I would either explode in a ball of flame or be embarrassed in front of everybody, and it was a toss-up which would be worse.

Somehow, I didn’t crash. I made it around every lap; my knuckles were white and my body was clenched so tightly I could have produced a diamond from a lump of coal between my butt cheeks, but I hadn’t died yet, so that was good. And then I saw the red light.

All the other riders had pulled back into the pit. I could see the pit guy yelling something at me as I passed him. And I realized I was going to have to stop. But I didn’t know how.

The guy was pretty cool about it until I sped past him the second time. I think he realized we had a problem then, because he started running after me. By the third pass, he was yelling words a seven year-old should never hear and he quit chasing me. When I rounded that corner again, he was just standing there. In the middle of the track. Dead straight ahead

I saw him, and he saw me, and he didn’t move. I can still remember his eyes as I raced toward him. They were determined, a little pissed off, confident. But the closer I got, the wider they got. I wondered what it was going to feel like to run a man over, and I didn’t slow down. The go-cart barreled toward him. At the last minute he squealed and jumped out of the way. It made me jerk my foot off the pedal and I realized the thing would stop as long as I didn’t press the gas.

There was no bloodshed that day, but I think he’ll always remember the skinny little blonde girl who nearly ran him over.

I took my five year-old daughter go-cart riding last night. I wasn’t scared this time, but she was a little nervous. I buckled her in, sat behind the wheel next to her and told her there was nothing to worry about. Gas fumes perfumed the air, I knew how to handle the machine, and it didn’t matter who was waiting for us to take off.

We had a great time.