For one day, he's Andretti

This ain't bumper cars, kids.

It's go-kart racing on steroids and a pot of coffee.

Nascart Indoor Speedway of Spokane is all about go-karts for adults. The go-kart I built as a kid never had these 6.5 horsepower engines capable of speeds up to 40 mph.

Six to eight go-karts can race on over 1,000 feet of track, and, depending on what you pay, are driven between 18-60 laps in a race.

Now I don't pretend to be Mario Andretti, and I'm the first to admit that I often drive like an old lady, so I have no illusions of winning the pole position. I just want to drive and opt to pay for the 15-minute, 30-35 lap session. This isn't a race, the attendants tell the drivers (myself and five others). This is supposed to be a fun drive for us to get the feel for using these scaled-down race cars.

The attendant takes us into a small room, like we're getting briefed before a big game, and runs through a 10-minute safety lesson. I take the time to size up my competition: Two guys roughly my age, a husband and wife in their 40s, a 12-year-old boy, and a young woman. While the attendant tells us how to understand the flags that he and his crew will be waving at us, I quietly assess my chances of beating everyone in this room.

It's gonna be close.

The flag-teaching class is easy to understand, even for someone who has never watched an Indy 500. Afterward, we all choose a helmet that fits well and comfortably on our heads, and file onto the track to pick out a car.

I walk over to go-kart No. 4, slide into the seat, and look at the brake pedal on the left and the gas pedal on the right. I've been driving for 10 years, and arrogantly assume I'll be a racing like a professional within five laps. Pulling the visor over my face, I peer around at the other drivers as the attendant starts our engines. My motor erupts with a sonic growl and becomes a roar as the other motors join in.

Only now do I feel how exciting this is going to be.

The first lap is pretty mellow for everyone on the track. We're figuring out the pedals, the rhythm of the course, and what it takes to not crash. Right away, I'm screaming with excitement into my helmet. Driving this fast and this low to the ground is exhilarating.

Someone passes me, interrupting my euphoric sense of wonder. My pride isn't hurt; it's just reminded that I'm not alone on this track.

I pull into the driver's slipstream and try to keep up with him move-for-move, but he pulls away. Three more drivers pass me.

Hey!

Pride consumes me, and I clench my jaw into my "fierce determination" look. The gas pedal is floored. I'm a madman driven by the insatiable thirst for speed and glory. I will be passed no more.

I'm imagining that I look pretty cool until I'm unexpectedly flagged down by one of the attendants. She pulls me aside and warns that she can smell my clutch burning. She pries my left foot off of the brake pedal and tells me I'm riding the brake too much. "Watch the other drivers," she says. "Do what they're doing."

Rats. I thought I was. What a humbling experience.

I re-enter the race feeling less like Mario Andretti than ever, and realize that I've been playing it too safe. I'm not driving to win; I'm driving to not crash.

All right, I figure. That's the last lesson I'll ever need.

I grip the steering wheel with an all-business, show-no-mercy, Bobby-Rahal-has-nothing-on-me attitude unrivaled by any driver on this track. I lean into every corner laughing at the foolish speed I'm racing at. I'm immune to the outside world, concerned only with the moment. I take everything I've ever learned about traffic safety and throw it out the window.

I'm born again.

And just when I've hit my stride, the checkered flag is waved. Someone 20 laps ahead of me has finished.

Sigh.

One of the attendants tells me to lead everyone back to the pit, and the other drivers file in behind me. For the first time since this race began, I'm in the lead. I look at the others, smiling behind my visor. What's left of my shattered pride is gently encouraged.

I unbuckle my seat belt and step out of the car, pulling my helmet off. I feel like I'm fresh off a carnival ride. For a brief 15 minutes, we all raced at a soaring 40 miles per hour (in my case, a sauntering 30 mph), and our bodies are still flushed with adrenaline.

I stumble to the parking lot, reeling from that all-too-brief rush, marveling at my difference in perception. I went in to the Nascart Indoor Speedway convinced that I didn't want to race, that I only wished to drive fast. And in a moment, I was overwhelmed with an unforeseeable zeal to pass anyone in my way, to be No. 1.

I tear out of the parking lot, jaw clenched, fingers tight. Not 2 minutes ago, I was a race car driver, and that's a hard feeling to let go of. I negotiate turns and corners as if I own the road, looking for breaks through which to pass slower traffic.

My passenger reminds me that I'm no longer on the race track.

"Sorry," I mutter.

This sidebar appeared with the story:

INFORMATION

Nascart The Nascart Indoor Speedway is located at 1224 E. Front Ave. in Spokane. Hours are 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Tuesday through Sunday. For information about prices and track availability call (509) 568- 1065.

Copyright 2000 Cowles Publishing Company
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.