It all came rushing back. As I sat, gripping the wheel, it dawned on me that this was the moment I’d be training for, if not my whole life, then every other weekend between the ages of seven and sixteen. The engines roared, my seat belt was pulled tight and my helmet visor down. I was ready. But as I sat, I experienced a crushing sense of doubt – did I really want to subject my loved ones to the humiliation that comes with being beaten on a go-kart track?
We went to Phillip Island. It was a school holiday/ kid-friendly trip, so certain things you might otherwise associate with a vacation – such as ‘rest’ and ‘recuperation’ – were instantly eliminated. This would have more in common with an episode of ‘Survivor’ than it would ‘Postcards’. Nerves were destined to be frayed as we would be pushed to the limit, both physically and emotionally.
First cmes the car trip. Loading a car for a family vacation is an art, a science and (possibly) a divine miracle, all rolled into one. For reasons that escape me, we pack not so much what we need but whatever we can find that isn’t nailed down. We’re a tribe of chronic over-packers. As a result, loading up the car is kind of an out-sized reverse-Jenga experience. It takes ages.
As a result of some previous, quite fractious car trips, we now have a strict rule when it comes to music – each person can select two (and no more than two) songs for the Spotify queue. This rule was imposed after some rather harrowing journeys that involved nothing but tunes from obscure off-off-off Broadway musical productions that weren’t so much songs as they were an assault on the senses. Some things are off Broadway for good reason. If that sounds harsh, then try travelling to Diamond Creek with the sounds of ‘Operation Mincemeat’ ringing in your ears. (Yes, Operation Mincemeat is a musical. Allegedly.)
But I can handle two songs. For two songs, I can be curious and interested and polite and not overwhelmed by the sudden urge to rip the ears from my head with my bare hands. Granted, there have been attempts to subvert this iron-clad car rule – such as when the twenty-one-year-old chose an eighteen minute piece by Rachmaninov (which I liked, but which outraged the others). The ‘two song rule’ largely works; save that the eleven year old wants to hear the same two songs repeatedly. Right now, the two songs on constant rotation are ‘Love Story’ by Taylor Swift and (sigh) ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ by ‘NSYNC’. Apparently, the latter is featured in the ‘Deadpool and Wolverine’ movie.
We were always going to end up seeing the penguins and looking at koalas – it’s hard not to at Phillip Island. But it was also inevitable that we’d wind up at the go-kart track. To put it simply – I am surrounded by highly competitive people. I knew I was in trouble when each family member started talking down their prospects before we’d even begun.
It’d been raining and the instructor spoke to us sternly about the treacherous conditions, saying that each one of us was ‘destined’ to come off the track at some point. We lowered ourselves into tiny bucket seats and waited as the engines growled. It was then that instinct kicked in – this was, essentially, a faster version of the ride-on lawnmower that accounted for my every other weekend when I was a kid. I was in my element.
When the flag dropped, I took off at a great rate of knots. There was water everywhere. I knew the eleven-year-old was in front of me, because I could hear the strains of NSYNC’s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ from somewhere over the other side of the track. The nineteen-year-old – who we thought would baulk at the whole idea – was now hurtling through space (and possibly time) as his go-kart left the track entirely and plunged into the lawn. He was having a lot of fun.
I, on the other hand, was putting safety first. In that respect, I was very much on my own. One of the rules of the go-kart track is that you must slow down when the lights are orange because someone might be on the track. When I dutifully eased to a crawl in the face of an amber flashing light, I was then overtaken by my partner, Katrina, who had seen her chance to leave me in her wake and had taken it.
I came stone-cold last. But of all those driving that day, I was almost certainly the safest. I was definitely the only one using their indicators. After our time was done, we each exited our vehicle and awaited the official results which, of course, could then be disputed on the journey home. After we piled into the car and I started the engine, I was greeted by the sounds of NSYNC’s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ for the thirtieth time that day. I was wet, cold, I’d just come last by a considerable distance and now I was being subjected to a dodgy boyband from the nineties. And I was happy.