Old Grouch.
We were maybe twelve. Dave Deirens older brother Dean had been into go karts and one had filtered down to us kids. As I recall it had went first to cousin Paul who when he tired of it sold it to me.
I put an old 1&1/2 horse cast Iron Briggs on it, direct drive, no clutch, no governor. It was a cool cart, slicks and mags all round, only about a half inch off the ground, this was at the time a pro kart, McCullach as I recall.
Yes they made mostly motors but we were told they built some carts too, and this was one of them.
Lester was a small town, no police. Like always, mostly we were just
bored. With no other cart to race against we got a stop watch from
somewhere and took turns doing time trials around the block. 28 seconds
seems right, but I could be wrong.
Aware of the danger we posted lookouts on each corner during runs to stop traffic until the cart cleared. The roads were summer slick, hot blacktop and pea gravel. we were having a ball.
John Folkens, Dave Deiren, Lyle Fecht and I imagine a couple others.
I was at the wheel southbound down the hill past Matilda Agesons going to beat the band when a car approached the corner from the south. Couple of our boys posted in the middle of the road raised their hands to stop it.
Some older guy and his wife, fancy car, As i skated around the corner spewing gravel I glanced up to see as big a scowl as you can imagine.
Run done he went his way, I mine.
It is a gorgeous January day 55 some years after the event. For some reason the scene pops into my mind.
It all came back, the warm summer sun, the pea gravel, the smell of raw fuel, the sound of the open exhaust, and the thought of what an old sour puss he must have been to not be able to enjoy the experience also. To not see the Norman Rockwell beauty, to only feel the inconvenience.
Out of towner, none of us kids had ever seen he or his wife before.
And I remind myself, never be that guy.
Aware of the danger we posted lookouts on each corner during runs to stop traffic until the cart cleared. The roads were summer slick, hot blacktop and pea gravel. we were having a ball.
John Folkens, Dave Deiren, Lyle Fecht and I imagine a couple others.
I was at the wheel southbound down the hill past Matilda Agesons going to beat the band when a car approached the corner from the south. Couple of our boys posted in the middle of the road raised their hands to stop it.
Some older guy and his wife, fancy car, As i skated around the corner spewing gravel I glanced up to see as big a scowl as you can imagine.
Run done he went his way, I mine.
It is a gorgeous January day 55 some years after the event. For some reason the scene pops into my mind.
It all came back, the warm summer sun, the pea gravel, the smell of raw fuel, the sound of the open exhaust, and the thought of what an old sour puss he must have been to not be able to enjoy the experience also. To not see the Norman Rockwell beauty, to only feel the inconvenience.
Out of towner, none of us kids had ever seen he or his wife before.
And I remind myself, never be that guy.
