Victory Lap
It has been proven that 30 year olds can get kicked out of a go-cart track in Florida.
We had been standing in line for an hour, surrounded by annoying kids and their annoying parents. People were looking at us, probably wondering where our kids were. I kept making eye contact with the same mom.
“Hi there,” she said as one kid was punching her in the butt. “Which kids are yours?”
“Actually we are all just here with our friends.”
I didn’t feel like explaining to her the history and composition of this group of 30 year old kids at the beach together.
She smiled but looked confused. I was going to say something else but my thought process was interrupted by the birthday party full of little boys that had just gotten in line behind us. They were yelling obscenities at people walking by, and one tried to pick a fight with one of our friends regarding his snowcone.
Finally our time had come. Bets were flying on who was going to have the best finish. I noticed a spiral tower near the end of the track. It appeared that if you went fast enough, you could potentially sail off the track, across the parking lot, and into the ocean.
The guys made it their mission to T-Bone all the girls into the walls as they flew past us yelling, “Rubbin’ is Racin’!” This would automatically shut off our go-carts and we would be forced to wait until someone could come and pull us back onto the track and restart our go-carts. This was only funny the first six times it happened.
A man with a stand alone mustache flew past me and yelled, “Man, them boys like keepin’ y’all loose during the race!” I sat on that one for a few minutes. It wasn’t until two days later that I learned that was “race lingo” for speeding up behind us and spinning us out.
Every time you completed a lap, a countdown sign told you how many laps you had left. At the end of your last lap, a Track Lifeguard (TL) came and stood out in the middle and flagged you to the side to park between the cones. Everyone had gotten out of their carts and were standing on the sidewalk. Everyone except Andy and Josh.
TL took his job a little too seriously. He was fully dressed in his The Track uniform which consisted of khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt (of course) and a lanyard name tag with a whistle.
He looked over at me and Kelly and sort of nodded his head. I was hoping he would ask Kelly for her number.
“So, ladies, it gets pretty rough out here.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of these what ‘out-of-towners’ come in here, and try to be all bad ass and run an extra lap. Not the locals, man, not the locals. They know to respect ‘The Track.’”
We asked if he could give us examples.
TL adjusted his lanyard.
“Sometimes these older kids that are like 13 and 14 will come in here, what, with their attitudes and such, and run right past us when it’s time to come in. It’s tough to handle, but we handle it. Well.”
“That is so brave,” I responded.
The next seven minutes are still a blur. All of the sudden, Josh and Andy came barreling around the corner, screaming like little girls. They plowed through all of the cones causing them to fly left and right. One cone flew over to the sidewalk and knocked over a little kid standing in line with his fried pickle.
They sped off yelling, “Victory lap!!”
TL threw down his clipboard and pounced out in the middle of the track, blowing his whistle non-stop and waving his arms frantically.
“STOP!! YOUR TURN IS OVER!! PULL OVER OR ELSE! NOW!!!!!!!!!”
Josh and Andy kept going, giving him the bird. TL got upset and ripped open his Hawaiian print shirt to reveal a black wife-beater tank and a halfway finished tattoo. He threw down his whistle and his lanyard and began chasing them down the track, yelling for them to stop.
We had now officially caused a scene.
Josh and Andy continued their Victory Lap, and all the little kids were applauding. The parents looked worried. One seven year old hopped in a parked cart and took it out on the track too. Complete chaos had taken over.
The guys were taking as long as humanly possible to finish their Victory Lap. TL had called security, and three overweight “security guards” (last name “Blart”) came waddling over with funnel cakes and diet cokes. I was hoping they would break into a run, but they just stood there munching on their cakes. TL ran out and stood in front of the guys as they rounded the final corner and now were stopped right in front of us.
“Are you out of your mind??” the security guard yelled after taking a bite.
“Maybe,” Andy said.
“That’s it! You guys are outta here! We are escorting you off of this property, and you are never welcome back. Neither are your friends!” and he pointed to all twenty of us.
It was a walk of shame, of sorts, to be escorted with twenty 30 year olds out of a go cart track in Destin, Florida. Then to be told you were never welcomed back. As we got to the other side of the gate, I looked back at TL. He was pacing back and forth, throwing his hands up in the air, and crying.
A line of kids had formed around the exit door. They were applauding as we left.
Birthday Boy gave Josh and Andy a high five and told them this was his favorite birthday ever. Then he asked to have his picture made with them in front of the go cart track.
