And so to the top of the ramp for our practice run. I've donned knee and elbow pads and official race helmet as required, wearing my leather biking jacket and gloves seems like a good idea too. Race officials have banned personal lids in case they're unsafe, but a two-sizes-too-large bash-hat doesn't really inspire me with confidence either. I vow not to have a head-floor interface.
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| The end result of Chiltern FM's Black Blunder |
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I'm starting to think that that's a possibility. We've only pushed this kart down my road up 'til now, a slight slope and with speeds up to about 15mph. And it broke once then. Things are about to get a lot more serious. The 4Car racer is hoisted to the top of the ramp; Tom, Andy and I take the stairs. All five flights. We watch the two karts in front of us on their practice runs.
Three Blind Mice's big cheese is too heavy at the rear: it flumps onto its side, buckling both back wheels as it goes. Chiltern FM's microphone,
Black Blunder, is next-up, and fares even worse. With its single rear wheel, and foot-steered front axle, it looks slightly worse than massively unstable just standing still (no offence guys). Sadly, it doesn't even make it off the ramp before folding in a heap, leaving driver - astoundingly - unscathed. 4Car's turn.
I remember a moment from swimming lessons when I was about seven. I stood aquiver on the 10-foot diving board, and I don't mind admitting that I was scared. Below me was a ten-foot drop, and below that another ten feet of water. Nobody was expecting a triple-somersault with falco or anything, but they did want me to jump. Today please, Matthew. Eventually, after severe cajoling, I did, albeit with more flapping than a winged grouse. But standing on the edge of that board, shivering pathetically and reckoning that if I could only wait until I reached puberty I might have the courage to leap, was one of grizzlier feelings I remember from an otherwise peaceful childhood.
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| Matt paces pensively. This is really high... |
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And now I've got the same anxiety again, as I sit ensconced in the 4Car racer's snug cockpit atop the four-storey high start ramp. I can't see a great deal of the slope, to be honest, bar a few feet in front of me, and then the next thing I can see is Stevenage over yonder. Already this afternoon, this ramp has injured one ankle, and dished-out a double break to a collarbone. Oh, crap.
And so, five months after seeing an ad for tomorrow's race on the telly and thinking that entering would be a Good Idea, I wait for my practice run. More than once I've doubted my judgement on that score, and this is one of those occasions. Crap crap crap crap crap.
