Go-kart Racing School

My wife and I committed to one-on-one trips with our two sons. She took Nathan to England when he turned twelve and Christopher to Spain three years later. I would do something similar when they reached seventeen and I love soaring vistas. Nathan and I would climb Mt. Kilimanjaro together. The challenges of serious altitude, the Western Breach Route, and passing a dead climber produced an epic adventure that bonded us.

However, when I discussed possible mountain destinations with Christopher, he voted against any venture into altitude and suggested something with wheels and tires, fair enough. I looked at driving Off-road vehicles across the Baha Peninsula or both of us earning our competition racing licenses at Road America. We ultimately chose Jim Hall Go-Kart Racing School in Oxnard, California followed by an NHRA drag racing event in Sonoma just north of San Francisco. Go-karts offered a much safer environment and maximum track time. Of course, I rented a convertible to get us around. After all, I’d taken Nate to Africa and our parental strategy is to keep things equal.

As go-kart tracks go, this was no bug zapp’n, neon illuminated, tire lined, grab-ass, Saturday night fun-park destination. This was a purpose-built go-kart race course with eleven turns and properly angled curbs that we learned very quickly to avoid. Go-karts don’t change direction flying through the air. These karts had seats with side supports, disk brakes and a computer read-out on the steering wheel for lap times.

This was a racing school not a competition. We walked the track with our instructors as they showed us breaking points, driving lines and the subtle nuances of kart placement. Twelve inches away from the curb in one particular spot would maximize the line through the next series of corners. This information enabled us to go fast almost immediately.

The layout offered a challenging array of direction change, g-force and breath-holding curves at speeds that continued to solicit withdrawals from our adrenal glands for all five days.

The two longest sections of full throttle presented us with completely different thrills. Our fastest speed at the end of the longest straight was seventy-miles-per-hour if we did everything right in the previous two bends. Then, brake as you turn to rotate the kart, apply the gas and sail in a fluid arc hugging the left side of the track. Then, arc right, then left, twelve inches from that curb, then left again for 180 degrees at full song, grunting as you endure one and a half times gravity. Holding your breath, long enough to taste the bacon you consumed at the hotel breakfast buffet, vowing, mid-corner, to switch to oatmeal and bananas the next morning. The kart would straighten and settle, but you only have enough time for a quick inhale and you fly through the fastest right-hand sweeper on the track. Five awesome corners and you never lifted your foot, all done sitting only one inch above the track surface. The old saying is: Karting is the most fun as you can have with your pants on.

We dined at our hotel that first night, the fatigue from fifty-plus laps hung on us like a humid August night. When our plates arrived, we were both beguiled by the difficulty we had picking up our forks. Our gripping muscles depleted by the stranglehold we’d forced on the steering wheels. However, there was deep satisfaction to our weariness and the shared experience; as dinner wound down, Christopher looked up at me with a quiet smile and said, “Dad, that was a day well spent.”

The endeavor to bond with my two sons outside of our comfort zones was diverse. Nonetheless, the pride on Nathan’s face at 19,340 feet and Christopher’s endless grin after getting the day’s fastest lap, will warm my soul forever.