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.
And the graceful, gliding hurdler went BAMMMM!!!
Graceful. Gliding. Effortless. Precise. Powerful. Poetic. Beautiful. See, these were words going through my head. I was watching the Olympics. Hurdlers, actually. A special breed, the hurdler. They are like no other. Don’t categorize them with track and field athletes. No, they belong in a special grouping of adventure-seeking sportsmen. Like hunters who wrestle bears. Motorcyclists who jump through rings of burning gas. Snowboarders who race avalanches down mountainsides. You know, idiots. But in a good, thrill-seeking, “hey-look-my-pants-are-on-fire” kind of way.