A KART CHALLENGE IN THE CITY

TKART Staff

01 August 2016

It may sound absurd, but it really happened. All because of a crazy challenge: Do you want to bet we can race two karts through the streets of a city? Here’s the story, half dream, half reality, of how things went

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I have a dream... Yawn. The listlessness won’t go away. I have a drea... the words bounce around the inside of the helmet that I seem to be wearing and I let myself be lulled by their slow rhythm. I like the feeling, I don’t want to wake up. Nevertheless, I try to shrug my shoulders and breathe through my nose, just to feel alive, but the impression of being in limbo hugs me tight, like a leotard underneath the suit that has already lost its battle against the cold, rushing in between the seams, straight to my bones. It’s strange feeling so cold in a dream, but I don’t stop to think about it. The noise from the street is muffled and my field of vision is limited by the narrow slit of the visor. I push the trolley with its white and green kart over the bumps of a dimly lit pavement and walk along behind another figure, a little taller and with a helmet that is more colourful than my own. I think it was him who shook my gloved hand and threw down the challenge: Do you want to bet we can race two karts through the streets of a city centre and battle it out among the houses, shop windows, squares and uneven cobblestones?

Final checks before starting a crazy race that will never be repeated.

It’s nighttime. The streets of a city. Two drivers move towards their karts, ready to go, sitting on the pavement. That’s the unusual background of a challenge that begs to be told.

“DO YOU WANT TO BET WE CAN RACE TWO KARTS THROUGH THE STREETS OF A CITY CENTRE AND BATTLE IT OUT AMONG THE HOUSES, SHOP WINDOWS, SQUARES AND UNEVEN COBBLESTONES?”

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I honestly don’t remember accepting, because it all sounds a little daft to me. In fact, the sounds dimmed by my helmet’s padding suggest it’s all just a dream. So onwards I go, no problem. It’s ok to see busy people around me; it’s ok to sit on the freezing cold seat and grip the steering wheel almost automatically. It’s ok for someone to push me to start the engine, although the familiar sound of the 125 shifter engine seems pretty loud as it bounces off the narrow sides of the houses. I turn and can only see smiling faces: they raise their thumbs as a sign that everything is ok. Two youngsters stop to take a picture, with the incredulous look of someone who has just seen something beautiful, but as out of context as a lion in a public park. In the midst of the noise generated by the engine, I’m startled by a car horn behind me that inexplicably pierces the din of the kart. Looks and pajamas pop out from the windows overlooking the street, some just pull the curtain aside slightly, others brave the cold and open their windows so as not to miss the unexpected show: if I didn’t know it was a dream, I think I’d run a mile. However, with a steering wheel in my hands and the accelerator pedal under my right foot, I’m on auto-pilot. If I ignore the flower box next to my rear left side, the road signs and uneven cobblestones reflected in the shop windows, I could even imagine being on the starting grid of a Grand Prix.
So I slam down the accelerator pedal and, immediately after the manhole, sliding around a bit due to the freezing tyres, I shift up to second, because it’s what I do, whether I’m dreaming or not.

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