... fast, faster, more faster, even more faster ...

By Victoria Onyeabor

"Engy 500"

Mindful of the new California cell phone law, I scanned for blue and red out the driver's side window, while my right hand tossed my cell to its partner before deftly shifting up gears to narrowly cut off a blue Ford as I caught the 101 onramp with my headlights the way a sprinter catches a breath. The horizon of the freeway opened up before me, and I unzipped the rows of reflectors with a black knife shaped like a 2007 Sentra. Elvis' "K see ya" was squished between folding halves of my RAZR halfway along its trajectory from hand to passenger seat. My right foot earned free reign as I eyed Corollas carrying tired fathers home from work, and Camrys taking little Jimmys to their birthday dinners, my targets of domination. I checked the clock: after 7. I immediately weaved dangerously around an ambitious Hyundai Sonata to satiate my car's hunger for HOV diamonds. In my mind, I was already on the GoKart Track, the deathly stadium of impending collision with cackling whiplash curves, the Coliseum of man vs bloodthirsty speed demon.







In Fremont, the stately daredevils of NSBE's Silicon Valley Alumni Extension were already strapping up for the moment of truth. Gloves, helmets, blue flag means faster, black flag means faster, yellow lights mean...

FASTER

Breathless, I charged onto the makeshift track, blinded by streaks of beautiful brown as they dangerously embraced curves of tarmac. Within 60 seconds, I merged with the fast and furious, tracing the brown ribbon in an impossible loop, viciously pulling the rug out from under my brethren. Yellow flag…

Faster?







I cut off Elvo and Shred You 2 before competing for the inside turn with Brit, sending her on a spiraling collision course with the wall. Makinde the Raptor charged past me and Elvo recovered his rank as I fish tailed across the lane from a collision with Dan and Idleyute. Blue flag…

Faster?

The moderators were waving wildly, but I couldn’t hear a damn thing over the ear shattering rubber squeal of my determination, and the sputtering roar of mental machinery calculating every z-plane steering angle needed to achieve the desired x-y acceleration inside seven fellow engineering minds. I veered to the left, hogging the lane lest Disterics lap me, and focused my attention on Mr. Action. Back at the start of a long smooth curve, he floored the gas to edge up on Big Homie. I followed suit. Checkered flag…

It was over. We proudly marched from our steaming karts in slow motion and referenced the projected scoreboard for our respective judgments.

Fourth.







I’ll take that. The undepleted adrenaline demanded that we refuel at Dave and Busters. We drove in real cars on real roads like raving maniacs, and threatened the lives of those sharing the path between Lemans Karting and Dave and Busters like 16 year olds heading to the club. No one should ever drive a real car after GoKarting.

Over rigatoni pasta, chicken quesadillas, nachos, and colorful drinks, we introduced ourselves where needed and discussed the usual before launching into a heated debate over the appropriate dance floor approach of the male Homo Sapien. “He shouldn’t come up behind a female he doesn’t know,” “But it’s whack to introduce yourself first,” and “How do you make the front to back transition without looking crazy?” and “By the way, did you see those freaks ‘dancing’ behind the DJ booth at NSBE Nationals last year?”







It was late, it was Thursday, numbers exchanged, cold outside, last minute jokes, and back into the solitude of my black knife, cutting over the horizon of the 101 onramp on my way to an early Friday in my cubicle.