I don’t know how fast I was going. Or how slow. It felt quick. Adrenaline speeds things up. So does wind in your hair. Gripping a steering wheel. Breathing noxious engine fumes. Knowing your hindquarters are just inches off the ground.
Who cares how fast you’re going? It’s really how fast you THINK you’re going.
And it felt FAST! Rocket car fast.
These were go-karts at a local “adventure speedway.” We were there for a birthday party. One of my daughter’s closest school chums. It warms the heart to see two little girls hug. Like they haven’t seen each other in ages — not just a couple days ago.
Little boys don’t do that. They slug each other in the arm and say, “Happy birthday, pickle breath. Hope your momma’ got you good looks for a present.” Little boys don’t show affection. That is until they see something amazing and incredible and stupendous … like a go-cart. Then they scream, “I LOVE you!” and run over to hug it like they haven’t seen each other in ages.
That was pretty much my reaction when a ticket to the speedway was tucked into my hand.
“Oh, thanks,” I said at first, nonchalantly, not realizing what I had. It hadn’t sunk in. It took a moment. For the meaning to register. For it to rush back. The memories. The thrill. The … dang, let’s go burnout a go-cart!
All afternoon it had been building to this. I had been pretty calm and adult-like through the party. Controlled in the arcade. When my daughter was handed a bag of tokens, I didn’t freak out when I heard the jingle. I didn’t grab it from her hand and race into the forest of squawking, flashing video games to get my digital fix. (But I wanted to.)
When she pulled up to the ski-ball and struggled, I played it cool and suggested this or that. But I could feel something cooking in me. I could feel the little childhood arcade birthday party demon waking up.
“Here, let me show you how it’s done,” I told her … softly … gently. I picked up a ball, made a couple of deliberate test swings and then rocketed that sucker down the lane so hard that it slammed the back of the game with a horrendous metal CLANK!
“Ohhhh … that’s how you do it,” my daughter replied.
I felt flush and tingly and alive.
“Why don’t I just show you a couple more … to be sure you know what you’re doing,” I said. But she wasn’t buying it. She could see the crazed fruitcake look in my eyes. “You’re not getting any more of my ski balls, dad.”
I wandered around the arcade, drool dribbling down my face. My eyes pulsed from the flashing lights. I considered getting my own tokens. I looked for lost ones in change dispensers and under games, desperate to find my own. Just … one … game!
I kept it together. I kept it together right until the go-cart ticket was tucked into my hand.
That’s when I became the man-child idiot.
It’s like a swollen river bursting a dam. Once it starts — once the first trickle gets through — you know it’s over. There’s no stopping it. You shake with excitement. You try to cut people in line (“Get out of the way kid. I have a real driver’s license!”) You bounce in line like a kid who has to go to the bathroom. (Wait a minute! I DO have to go to the bathroom. Oh well, no time …) You’re so far gone that you can’t even remember how to buckle your seat belt.
It wasn’t fast, I’ll tell you that. It just seems that way when you feel like a kid again. When your mind is spinning faster than the wheels. When you’re cutting corners and revving engines and generally making a complete ass of yourself. As you scream and holler and yell at little children you’re passing: “HAHA! I just blew by you!”
If you see me around with a deranged look on my face, now you know why. It will also explain why my hair is plastered backward like a ski jump and I smell of gasoline exhaust. Once you get that feeling back, it’s hard to get rid of it. No matter how fast or how slow you were going.