Florida All-Stars
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Florida All-Stars
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Kart Racing
Compared to a street car, driving a Kart on a dirt track is like
climbing onto a rocket strapped to a skateboard. Loads of horsepower, a short
wide wheelbase, and snug driving quarters, make even the good handling Karts
feel “twitchy”. They are often better aimed than driven. The tracks most
race on are wide however, and their lightweight and excellent strength make
them fairly forgiving. Aside from occasional bumps and bruises, about as
serious as bites from the family dog, they are usually quite friendly.
Following are some impressions gained while racing one on a warm summer
evening.
First you suit up in your jacket and jeans or single layer suit. If you’ve
ever done this is July or August, you literally peel it off after a race.
Soaked with perspiration you may not look forward to it again.
Next with all the style and grace you can muster, you crawl/roll/ slide
into the form-fitting seat, and find the petals.
Now it’s time for the helmet, neck collar and gloves. The helmet
refreshes your memory of claustrophobia. Fingers fumble for the attaching
straps. Pull them until it hurts your throat. It’s easy if you’ve ever
seen a picture of a crashing Kart with the helmet flying through the air by
itself. The neck collar comes next seriously limiting your ability to turn
your head. Then its time for the gloves, which go on like wet socks, because
now even you’re hands are steaming hot and sweating. The steering wheel
feels foreign, ears ring inside the helmet and your body is roasting. You fuss
and tug at the fingers of the gloves, trying to straighten their seams and
feeling their dryness between moist fingers. It’s partly because of the
confinement and partly because your body is reacting to the tension build up,
but you wonder for a second, why you’re doing this. You could be home sipping a beer on the front porch, but only for a
moment.
It’s time to line up. You here the starter and instantly the motor
explodes to life. The noise ranges from ear spitting too mildly annoying.
Growling, snarling instantly at the slightest right foot movement. If it ever
fails to excite and start the adrenaline pumping, tell Momma it’s time to
dig out the fishing poles.
With engine running, it’s time to go. From
staging area to track, you begin to feel your attachment to the Kart as slight movements
create magnified actions. Bumps are felt in your bones. As you venture onto
the race surface, it’s like you’re being dragged over railroad ties. The
track eventually smoothes as you pick up speed. You’re alone in the Kart.
You’re stripped of the security of having someone else set limits on how
fast you can go. There are no speed limits, the only restrictions are those
inside your head. Things just got serious.
Over and down is the track surface. You try to pick up sights or
otherwise sense it’s adhesion. Will something loosen up or maybe break? You
remember other nights when bad things happened. You’re sure you should have
changed something, the tires, the set up or sometimes, your hobby.
You notice now there are other Karts with you and as they assemble into
the starting lineup you glance over at the Kart beside you. You recognize who
the driver is, but the eyes are no longer the same. Not that the person has
changed, it’s that there are other things at hand now. Sometimes they no
longer look familiar, other times impersonal, still others, terrified. The
eyes express volumes. Social convention seldom allows that to come into
conversation however. Despite all the popular bumper stickers to the contrary,
there is fear here, but with these people, it doesn’t control.
The white flag on the front stretch signifies it’s almost time. You
look toward the bleachers. You’re met with returning stares by nameless
faces. You see the barrier and fence that separates you from them. Its purpose
is to keep you away from the innocent families who’ve come to watch the
show. It seems ironic as you realize there are times when no fence is there,
but still there’s something that separates you from them. You might wonder
if you belong out here or in there with timid. The world shrinks. Into turns
one and two speeds pick up. The pounding from the washboard surface fades and
is replaced by a primal thump from an unknown source. Down the back chute the
pace quickens. A hard rap from the rear is your reward if you lag. The
steering is lightning quick in your hands and the Kart bolts with the
slightest effort. Your throat dries. Thump. The yellow light across the back
chute is out. You’re cleared for take-off. The Karts jostle restlessly like
thoroughbreds in the starting gate. You wait anxiously. Thump. You’re on the
back straight, and the Karts veer toward one another. Carelessness? I doubt
it. More likely intimidation.
Somewhere a throttle rips and just as quickly returns to its previous
roar. Your senses and the Karts bounce nervously. The front rows are well into
turn three and nerves scream. You glance at your gage and cannot remember what
it told you. Just as you chance a quick look sideways. The world explodes into
Chaos. Screaming engines and spinning tires. You’re pelted with dirt and
mud. Your face stings sharply if you forgot to fully close your face shield.
Tires flail inches from your body. Violent and frightening, yet utterly
unmatched in its magnetism and primal excitement.
If the Kart works well you experience a spiritual, emotional and
mechanical waltz unknown to most. If it doesn’t you experience pain, anger,
frustration and embarrassment, sometimes all at once. The feelings are extreme
in both directions. The checker waves to soon and its over. To the winner it
signals a fleeting triumph. For everyone else it signals a need for
improvement.
A return to the pits brings a dulling of the excitement. The thump you
heard quiets as your heart rate drops. With visor up the air cools and you
anticipate your return to your crew. They wait anxious to celebrate, or to
quietly help pack up and prepare for the ride home. You see other teams
wrapping up, some excited, some pensive. On the ride home, in your mind you relive the night and begin preparation for the next race. You relax and feel the tension flow out. And you quietly RELOAD
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Florida All-Stars Terry (Hotdog) Hall 386-479-2587 or 386-532-2111 |