The first time I went, was two hours after I learned Tony died. He died unexpectedly and traumatically hours before in the night.
The date to go go-karting had been arranged weeks ago. Hubby and I, as if on a conveyor belt, kept with the day: drop off daughter at school, meet up with her classmates' parents to go go-karting.
Three couples. Two of us (hubby and I), stunned, in shock. We raced. But this was part of the arena that we knew with Tony. As coworkers, we were all used to shutting off "life" to do our job, so it seemed strangely okay.
We raced three races. As at work, when adrenaline infiltrates the body, all else gets pushed out, and in this moment, I was thankful. It hurt too much to think that Tony was gone.
In those first three races, something began to happen. After the straight-away, I'd blow past that sweeping turn at 75km/h, and in the corner of my eye, I'd see a flash of him. There was Tony. A spark of colour, his energy. No, it wasn't his energy, it was a flag on the wall. It was my mind, putting him there, for that split-second to say "I see you Tony. You're here with me."
In my 16 year career, he was there. In those split-seconds, Tony would watch and give a nod, and I wouldn't let this be any different. By his presence or by my need, he was there, because I didn't want to say 'good bye'. It was too sad to know he was gone.
I was honoured to assist in Tony's memorial. I was able to carry his most prized things, including his World Kickboxing Championship belt to and from the memorial. It was heavy. All of those things weighed heavy in my hands, because they were his passions, so I held them as such and I'll never forget how much they weighed.
So when I raced, I was able to feel the weight of my own simple passion for racing (I was an ex-F1 fan) come to the foreground for the first time ever in my life, and to honour it. If Tony were to be standing at the end of that straight-away, he'd be happy for me. I knew he would. He'd be fuckin' cheering me on (with that Italian flare).
So that was April. To process his passing, and all that life brought, I kept on racing. Sometimes with hubby. Sometimes, after I dropped off our daughter, I'd go just by myself. Sometimes I invited some of my work gals. And I kept seeing Tony. I needed that and I needed them because they missed him dearly too.
Sometimes, when I doubted my own virulence to perform and ride that edge of adrenaline (while being a mom and wife and daughter and sister) I'd go. I went just to throw those roots down in protest that this is part of who I am - riding on that wave of adrenaline. I ain't no wilting Asian flower, because 4 has no bearing. So I raced. "AFD" raced. That's "Asian. Female. Driver", for the record.
Those guys; my fellow racers... They watched me climb in. Stuck with a girl to race with. "Hope she doesn't take me out" I could see on their faces. But not in their eyes; because eye-contact with other racers was rare. "Who's chick is she?..."
By July, the matriarch of my family was diagnosed with cancer. So I went some more. Then my dad, ... shit he was in
the thick, so I took him to try and give him what racing gave me.
...The grin on his face for 10 minutes, amidst all else...priceless. I took my daughter to race. I took my nephews. We all had a go and some loved it as much as I do. By the end of summer, we almost lost my family member. But she fought hard, with all that she had in her, and when she was okay, I went to clear my head and burn off what remained from those ICU days, to help me climb back in my own body.
After I'd learned the track, I sought racing others, because racing with, brought my level up. I trusted my own skill enough that I wouldn't take anyone out and to this day, I never have.
Months went by where I'd race and leave. Race and leave. No contact with those who I raced with. They were with their pack and I was just the loner chick who slid in.
At that point, I craved it. Racing was my outlet to clear whatever was going on, if just for 10 minutes at a time. My head was all-in to that one moment, that one turn, that one weight shift, that one tap on the brake or raise of the gas peddle, that one steering input, or one too many or too late, or the simple peace of all just right, and a good lap time to prove it...
Adrenaline takes it all and strips away everything to that one moment, after moment, after moment, and nothing does matter except pushing through with whatever resources you have, with whatever is available and there is a beauty in that. Clarity.
I might hop back in my own vehicle on the way home and have all of life come back, but it comes back in perspective, with my own system flushed out. And most times, it comes back differently than when I went in somehow.
I don't race against people. I race toward my moments. I race the next thing in my field of vision for the feeling in my own perception. I race to clear everything out, so that nothing else fits; to just hit the "Reset" button. I race for me... and sometimes I race to see Tony in that straight-away.
