2000TwoVelocities

It was the best of jobs. It was the worst of jobs....

"Alright, Jim...I gotta be honest. It's hot...Hours are long....The pay is horrible. And I can only give ya Mondays off. BUT! When business is slow....Go nuts. Ride 'em all ya want."

The first paycheck with my name scribbled across it came from a little go kart track when I was a kid. I didn't have my license yet and the only driving I'd done was a clutch-poppin' rodeo ride with my Mom that ended at the bottom of the driveway . (Mom still can't tell ya what color the ceilin' in her house is.)   Since the day I first figured out that my speedometer was a decal, and the steering wheel was nothing more than orange plastic and, in no way, connected to our Buick's front wheels, I'd been dreamin' of piloting something, ANYTHING with a piston. And here was the perfect job. Is this Heaven?....No. It's Iowa....Iowa-nder when I can start. 60-75 hours a week is not a problem. And I can understand that with all those hours, the corporation can't afford to pay me minimum wage. I'll take it....And can I get "all you want" in writing?

Big, wide horseshoe of a track. Lit up like Richmond, and the highest bankin' in Western Kentucky. (Yeah-yeah, I know I said Iowa....Iowas just kidding.) 19 karts and just over an 1/8 of a mile of asphalt. For the most part, I was that jerk with the whistle that shrilled at you whenever you, Brett and Jimmy started workin' up a "sweat." I didn't mind the rubbin', but if ya busted that tire, I'm the one that had to change it. I had the authority to boot ya. I had the power. I was Bill France.....with a whistle.

During the slow parts of the day, I'd help clean 'em up, oil 'em up, gas 'em up, and tune 'em...down? I had never heard of a governor before, but we were apparently puttin' a gizmo on these things to slow 'em down. Accordin' to our Larry McBubba, "Shoo...These thangs'll do sisty...sisty-fi miles an owuh, less'n we govuhnate 'em."

....."Your sister found out you're a flower? WHAT?!"

I got a friend to interpret, and Larry went on to tell me about safety issues and insurance and state laws....And 7 year olds barrellin' down the 'pit road', wide-eyed, wide-open, and wonderin' where the "stopper thingy" was. Eh, I suppose it made sense to keep 'em whoa-ed down. So every kart had a governor attached to it, legislatin' a 22 mph speed limit. No wonder nobody could pass. No wonder everybody stayed all bunched up and bangin'. No wonder my whistle had teeth marks.

With a laminated copy of my 'contract' in my wallet, I found plenty of time to exercise the "all you want" clause too.   Slow or not, 22mph without pedallin' was good enough for me.   I'd jump into whichever one had the newest clutch and put 10 or 15 laps in. 10-15 times a day. 10-15 days a week. Never had to touch the brake, but I didn't care. I had wind on my knuckles, a muffler over my shoulder, and Steppenwolf warblin' from my pubescent larynx.

Then, one rather slow afternoon, some cat with a racing kart stopped by and we let him zip around the track for a few minutes. Swear to ya, he was doin 280. ZZZZZZZZoomin'. Looked like the IRL at Dover. And as he left, we all just stood there, numb. Eventually, I started runnin' after him, screamin' like some kid in a Alan Ladd western..."Shane!...Come back, Shane!"

My boss' favorite movie, as luck would have it.   And with a tear in his eye, he let me be governor and pardon one of our little wide track Pony-acs. Ripped out the gizmo, and strapped myself in...."Get ya motor runnin'.....Head out on the-"

Iowas flyin'....No kiddin'. Okay, It was no 280. I doubt I even got up to "sisty", but trust me..."Fitty" mph is plenty quick at tar level. My wind-chapped knuckles were white. The muffler was cookin' my shoulder . And I was havin' trouble rememberin' how that song went. "Borrrrrnnnn to be WOOOOOOOWW!!!!" Thank goodness this ox-bowed little Bristol had high banks. I needed every degree for my Ph.D. in velocity. (....A little LL Cool Jim for ya.) I missed the groove in turn two on half the laps. Never saw three. And used up more track than Rusty Wallace leadin' with 2 to go. But it was the only time in my life I've ever had to touch the left pedal. And it changed me.

I even convinced the boss to take a turn. Figured, once he took an unrestricted run, he might wanna pardon a couple more karts and juice 'em up a few miles per. That'd be a few less 'magnets' out there bashin' and bendin' and breakin' parts...."Expensive parts." Aw, c'mon. It's a RACE track. Let..them..race. They paid their 50 cents. If the sun hadn't cracked the paint, they could read all that fine print on the sign. They would understand the risks.....And I'll make sure that no one under 10 got in one. Aaaand I'll check it's speed after every run....I'll sweep the garage. I'll mow the infield. I'll babysit. Whatever! C'mon!! Unbridle a couple of these 8 HP mustangs!......(Well, Mustang II's.)

But alas, that would be the first and 'alas't time I'd reach Mock 1 in a go-kart. McBubba "restrictinated" it back to a more school zonian 22 mph. But....But....."Shane! Come ba-...(sigh)"

Back to work. Back to the whistle. Back to 19 fools swarmin' around in one giant pack, bumpin' and bangin each other, tryin to get a kart-length ahead of each other before their 3 & 1/2 minutes are up.
Oh, I hate governor-racin'.

"TWWEEEEET! Hey you! Gordon! I see ya, buddy. You and your little friend Tony better simmer down. Save that for when ya grow up to be big time (snicker-snicker) race drivers....(snort!)"    Yeah right. Like they could ever handle goin' "fitty."