Facing your fears: Happy little death traps

“What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks do you think you’re doing?” my mind screams as I stand in the office of IMI Motorsports in Dacono.

I have just finished reading the liability waiver and am now preparing to sign away any rights to legal action, come what may. No big deal, you say?

“I UNDERSTAND, WITHOUT ANY DOUBT, THAT I AM ENTERING THIS PROPERTY AT MY OWN RISK BECAUSE I AM A CRAZY PERSON. THAT ABSOLUTELY NO INSURANCE OF ANY KIND IS PROVIDED FOR ME. ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS TO ME, REGARDLESS OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES (EVEN HELMET HAIR), IS MY RESPONSIBILITY. MYSELF, FAMILY, HEIRS AND CATS CAN NEVER MAKE A CLAIM OF ANY KIND AGAINST ANY PERSON, CORPORATION, ETC., FOR ANYTHING EVER!”

It really is printed in all caps. I may have added the bit about “crazy person” and “cats.” OK, the bit about “helmet hair,” as well (but they should include that; helmet hair begs for a lawsuit).

I’ve never done anything in my life that required such a waiver. And as I walk across the parking lot, my trepidation growing, I begin to feel like maybe now is not the best time to start.

I approach the mile-long asphalt track, and helpful IMI Motorsports employee Dave Weimert (aka “Super Dave”) calls out to me, “Ready to have some fun?”

When I stammer something like, “Not sure about this, think I left the oven on, maybe next time,” he tries to put me at ease.

Dave has picked out a nice “tame” little number for me, the Intrepid Race Kart with modified Honda four-stroke engine.

“What’s its top speed?” I ask, wondering what he means by “tame.”

“60 to 65 miles per hour.”

Blimey! I haven’t felt this nervous since, well, since 10 minutes ago with that legal disclaimer.

I’ve always considered the cute little go-carts at Boondocks mini death traps. This go-cart, however, looked like what you’d get if a Boondocks go-cart started taking performance enhancing drugs and rolling you for your lunch money.

Far from certain that I can handle it, I head into the equipment shed to suit up. Keep this in mind: I like to dress cute (always have, always will). Perhaps the hardest part of this experience — until I signed away my life and helmet hair — was deciding what to wear.

“No open-toed shoes allowed,” according to the rules on their Web site, drastically limited my choice of summer footwear. I had consoled myself with the thought of how “cool” I’d look in a sleek, fitted, black racing suit.

It was not to be.

As I clamber (very ungracefully) into the go-cart, I can’t help but notice how my little black Keds (with polkadot trim!) look incongruous at the end of my giant padded blueberry driving-suit-clad legs. It’s beginning to get really hot inside the baggy suit, helmet, neck collar and gloves, and I can feel sweat running down my neck. Dave goes over the rules and fires up the engine.

“Stick to the middle, and you’ll be fine,” he assures me.

As I ease out onto the track, I review my feelings on driving, in general. My father taught me to drive when I was 16. I failed my first driver’s test, in part because he doesn’t believe in the use of directional indicators (aka “blinkers”) and would actually scold me for using them. Another big factor in my failure was choosing to take the test during the lunch hour rush, in Boulder, when I had learned to drive at night. Why at night? Fewer people on the roads.

I don’t enjoy driving much at all. I still get that fluttery feeling in my stomach — like weasels doing water ballet in my digestive fluids — when I approach a traffic signal. Will it turn yellow? Should I slow down? Should I stomp on the gas and go for it?

If I know I need to turn right at some point, I will drive in the right lane for my entire journey. It takes a lot to make me pass another vehicle. If you’re going more than 20 miles per hour under the speed limit I might pass you — but only if I have plenty of time to get back into my lane. I’ll also plan my route to avoid having to make left-hand turns across traffic without an arrow. And forget parallel parking. I’ll park a mile away to avoid it if necessary.

Back to the mini death trap.

As thunderclouds gather overhead, I scream around the track, the go-cart engine roaring behind me. OK, well, to be honest it’s more like I putter around the track, the engine sputtering behind me (that gas pedal is tricky!).

I imagine the hosts of the BBC’s “Top Gear” program critiquing my laps. “She’s keeping quite a nice line,” says James May. “Bollocks, I could run faster than that!” responds Jeremy Clarkson.

After four laps, the turns still make me nervous. But a couple of times I find myself making a turn with my foot still on the gas — and it was OK. It was fun, even.

As I finish up my laps and enter the pit, I feel rather exhilarated. I exclaim to Dave that I must have been going at least 50 miles per hour. He estimates my top speed to be “maybe 35” on the straightaway.
But you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care that I didn’t take that cart to its top speed. I plan to take my father out to the track for his birthday, and next time I’ll drive even faster. Maybe I’ll go crazy and get that go-cart up to 40 miles per hour.

Maybe.

Got a need for speed?
IMI Motorsports in Dacono — 303-833-4949, www.imimotorsports.com. Tell Super Dave that Super Angela sent you.

— By Angela Rose
Rose is a self-proclaimed scaredy-cat who writes a bimonthly column, “Facing your fears,” where she tries out ridiculous activities and shares her terrors with you. Join her in October when she faces her lifelong fear of needles and becomes scarred for life.

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