park rides except this one; and so
he found himself behind the
wheel of a go-kart,
positioned tenth and
last at the starting
line, waiting
for the green light,
which sent them off to
race 'round the circuit
for twelve minutes.
Now he considered
himself more than
a decent driver. He was fast–
really fast–moving slowly
up the grid with
each passing lap.
By the tenth lap,
he could feel his
bare hands burning from his
tight grip on the wheel, and
arm muscles aching from
the strain of a steering
mechanism that only
responded to brute force.
Then it dawned on him::he was
Then it dawned on him::he was
out of shape, gradually
running out of breath with
the discovery of this exciting,
unpredictable, and uncertain
the discovery of this exciting,
unpredictable, and uncertain
world of motorsports.
Soon he found his
rhythm in the "racing line",
the imaginary guide that traced
the fastest path 'round the race
track. And he began
to relax, his breathing
slowed down as
he quickened his
pace, attacking both
the corners and the competition
the corners and the competition
at high speeds, weaving
through the twists,
turns and traffic in
a type of trance that
only motorsports
can bring, where both
car and driver,
man and machine
become one.
The sound of the siren
snapped him back
to reality, realising the race
had ended. But his
adrenaline was still rushing
as he lifted his helmet,
and he flexed the fingers of
his red hands which had
finally loosened their grip.
Stepping off his kart, he looked
up at a large screen which announced
the three fastest drivers,
and smiled despite seeing
his kart number
finish fifth.
He left the track in
high spirits, resolving to
lift weights to strengthen his arms,
wear gloves to protect his hands, and to
start running to develop his cardio,
vowing to come back
next week to race
all over
again.
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