Chapter 1
I’m sitting in a freezing garage wearing a huge, uncomfortable white helmet, listening to (or, ok trying to at least) a monotone safety talk delivered by an aged man mustering as much enthusiasm as the tube drivers reminding us to ‘mind the closing doors’ every 2 minutes, waiting to go bloody Go-Karting. In October.
This was not the ‘super fun’ double-date my so called best friend Kate had promised me, which should have involved an ice-breaking drink, a walk to the Tate to discover my date and I had a mutual interest in post-modern art, and a cosy dinner for four where we all good-naturedly argued over how to split the bill. Kate looks delighted with her date’s choice of venue for their third date, though quite why she thought I would be equally as thrilled I can’t understand. After four disastrous attempts, I still have the badge of shame that is the Provisional Driving Licence.
Sitting a couple of seats away from me was my date, Gary. Gary had become as disinterested in the safety briefing as I had, as he had just unceremoniously unwrapped and started eating a pork pie. I couldn’t help but shudder as I bore witness to him spending a good thirty seconds extracting something stuck in his teeth, examining said extraction and proceeding to wipe it nonchalantly on his shorts. Gary was slightly taller than me and heavy set, with a stomach testing the integrity of the buttons down the middle of his short-sleeved shirt. And Mother of God, were they….crocs?
Kate and Mark (aka Mr Third Date) only have eyes for each other; Gary only has eyes for the pork pie. Me? I just have eyes for the nearest exit. Instead, I pointedly avert my gaze away from Gary and his masticating jaw, and try to focus on the briefing. The instructor was muttering something about a flag and the end of the race.
Safety briefing over, I pull Kate aside. “Can I talk to you?” I ask in an urgent undertone.
“I know what you’re going to say, Eden. Can you just stay a little longer? Please? For me? You can have your fake-dying-pet-rabbit call when we’ve finished Karting.” Kate pleads.
“Fine, but you owe me. Big time, friend.” I resign myself to having to go through with this.
Suddenly Gary is in front of us, iPhone in hand and says, “watch the birdy bitches”. His hand motions and the picture is taken. “Watch the birdy…bitches”? Jesus Christ. And now there is evidence of this nightmare day. My mind quickly races for any social media connection that would lead this picture back to me.
Kate’s expression is an echo of mine - incredulity. Giving her head a subtle shake (probably all she could achieve under these monstrous helmets), she forces a smile on her face and asks “Ready then guys?” and she links her arm through mine, both in solidarity but also to say ‘please don’t leave.’
Everyone filters out of the garage and make their way across tarmac to where rattling go karts are waiting for their drivers. Being more than aware of my lack of driving prowess, I opt for a kart at the back. Gary and Mark unsurprisingly pick up their pace to ensure front row positions. Kate, seemingly torn between wanting to be near Mark and me, choses a kart somewhere in the middle. Climbing into the kart was not something one achieves with a modicum of grace, so I am grateful for my position behind everyone else as I flop into the seat clumsily. The instructor robotically reminds me which pedal was to break and accelerate and saunters off towards the garage, given I was the last seated.
A smell of oil permeates my nose; it’s not pleasant. ‘Why am I here?’ I ask myself once again before my thoughts are interrupted by a collective growl from all the go kart revving the engines as the lights turn from red to amber to green.
We are off.
An uproar of engine noise and rush of go karts weaving across each other as they jostle to find optimum position. Gingerly, I push down on the accelerator and the garage slowly moves behind me. I nudge it a little more and as the kart picks up speed, the rattling noise gives way to the sound of wind. The smell of oil abates and as I meander my way through the turns, I start to enjoy myself and find I am slaloming around the track with surprising confidence and ease. Not only that, but I am starting to overtake other karts. Perhaps failing you driving test four times for accidental speeding lends itself well to go karting?
It’s not long before I have only two karts ahead of me – Mark and Gary. A smile crosses my lips and I am suddenly determined to pass them both before the end of the session. I hone in on Mark’s kart, embracing the competitive surge consuming me. If I can get close enough before we get to the straight I could take him there. We round onto the straight in sync and sure enough, I pass on his right, just managing to catch a look of astonishment on his face.
Just tooth-picking Gary to go. His extra weight a disadvantage and my lighter frame allowing my kart to go just fast enough to be able to catch up to him. Holding back a little, I wait for my opportunity to strike. A black and white flag is waving in my periphery…what did the instructor say? “Last lap.” That flag meant it was now or never.
Approaching the final bend, the chequered flag getting closer, I manoeuvre myself as close to Gary as I can, accelerating hard out of the corner and fly past Gary. Laughing to myself, I throw up my middle finger shouting as loudly as I can “watch my birdy, bitches” as I cross the line in first place.
