January 26, 2006
A sister's need for speed
Put Jill behind the wheel for a fast fun squeal.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Having "Indy" blood, I love to speed. I'm an aggressive driver and a "life in the fast lane" constituent -- best to stay out of the left lane.

My high school boyfriend taught me skill by providing lessons on how not to be a chick driver. We'd practice top speeds, "donuts" in the snow, and maneuvering in and out of traffic on the highway.

We were a parent's worst nightmare.

After many speeding tickets, trips to traffic court, insurance hikes and some needed maturity, I'm finally learning to slow down.

I still hold a torch for parallel parking.

At a recent charity event I was granted the opportunity to unleash my honed skills and race around the track at Fastimes Indoor Karting.

Here, I learned a little something about myself: under pressure, I'm a hormone-injected chicken.

I suited up to race against some guys from Q95. We wore goofy mechanic jumpers, closed-toed shoes, balaclavas (better known as head socks) and helmets, ruining my otherwise perfect hair day.

And what is it about zipping up a one-piece that immediately causes the urge to use the facilities?

After a quick movie and signing a waiver stating that broken bones were OK by me, we were off.
I couldn't hear anything from underneath my helmet, and for what it's worth, I couldn't see too well, either.

I felt like a toothpick balancing a giant muskmelon on my head.

One of the guys yelled, "Blah, blah, blah" and I panicked.

I raised the flap on my helmet, screaming back, "What?"

"Keep your helmet open a bit -- it'll help you breathe," he calmly suggested.

"Yeah, great, thanks," I replied. More panic.

We lined up to enter the karts, the movie drills still churning in my head: don't crush the tie rod end; foot off the seat; don't grab the muffler. I was laughing and whimpering simultaneously, and just once I think I breathed, "I want my mommy."

The race began. The men took off leaving me in a lonely cloud of track dust. Me: the Sunday driver. Slowly making my way through the first hairpin turn I bellowed with laughter, thinking, "Wait a minute, this is fun."

I climbed the hills of the bi-level track and skidded around its corners; the wind swept my helmet and I hadn't even reached 40 mph. This was living; this was exhilaration at its finest. I was terrible and each guy lapped me three times.

And for a mere $18 a race, I can't wait to try again.