Father, Son, Danger, and Bonding
We were just loading it into the back of our family’s ’63 Bel Air wagon when the police arrived.
The officer approached my dad and greeted him by name. Centralia was a small town, and my dad was well known having for years been the music director at the local community college.
“Ken,” you could tell he wasn’t comfortable asking, “have you been towing your son behind this car?”
My dad admitted that was the case.
“Well,” the officer continued, “I’m going to have to ask you to stop because we’ve had some calls about it. People said they are worried the little boy might get hurt.”
When I heard those words I was infuriated. It wasn’t that my fun might be coming to an end. It wasn’t that I suddenly realized being towed in a wooden go-kart behind a station wagon was dangerous, it wasn’t even that my dad was getting in trouble for doing something we both thoroughly enjoyed.
No, what got my goat was the term, “little boy.”
Little boy? Little boy? I wasn’t a little boy, I was nine years old! I was certainly old enough to legally drive a go-kart through the streets of Centralia, wasn’t I?
My dad never mentioned any details about needing a driver’s license, compulsory driver training, or such silly trivialities as safety.
This was back in the days when seat belts in cars was a revolutionary new idea. When public parks had rickety slides extending skyward for what seemed like miles. When people dared to ride bikes without helmets.
Keep that in mind as I describe the object of my affection at nine years old.
My dad and I both liked cars. Well, my dad liked cars, I loved them. When we decided to build a go-kart together I was thrilled.
It turned out my dad did virtually all the building. I was relegated to supervisor.
I did make one significant contribution: the Varoom motor from my bicycle. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsiKbHrHBbQ&ab_channel=KAG-GOG We mounted it on the back of the kart; a rear-engine design just like Porsche!
Unfortunately, my dad wasn’t much for metal work. His forte was wooden creations. Consequently, the frame, body, steering rack, and virtually every other part save the steering wheel, brake pedal, wheels, and Varoom motor were made of plywood and 2x4s.
I distinctly remember my excitement as we drove to the hardware store to pick out the red wheels (with built in ball-bearings!), and visited the junkyard to scavenge an old steering wheel.
The steering wheel was so large my dad had to hack-saw off the lower section to make room for my legs. I thought the modified steering wheel was totally cool, though, because it looked just like the one in the Batmobile — except the Batmobile’s steering wheel lacked the “Rambler” moniker in the center.
A moment ago when I mentioned the brake pedal you may have envisioned what you’re used to seeing in a car. In reality, it was nothing more than a bent piece of flat iron connected by a clothesline to a single, wooden brake shoe. This decidedly unsophisticated mechanism pressed against the right, rear wheel theoretically impeding the kart’s forward motion. There were no seatbelts, and the thought of using a helmet didn’t occur to either of us. Why would it-it was 1968 after all.
Ralph Nader would not have been impressed.
The idea was to attach a rope to the front of this Rube Goldberg contraption and tie the other end to the bumper of my parents’ car.
Fun and excitement were sure to ensue.
During the maiden voyage, however, a slight problem became evident. As my dad slowed his car, the feeble brake wasn’t up to the task of moderating the kart’s velocity, and the rope became slack. The go-cart ran over the flaccid cable and when the tow vehicle accelerated, the rope wrapped around the right side of the steering rack, forcing the front wheels to the left and driving the go-kart toward the curb.
At 35 miles per hour.
Fortunately for me and the go-kart, my dad was keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror. As he saw the go cart careen left and begin bouncing off the curb he immediately stopped the car before both the go-car and his son capsized.
This was a rather traumatic experience for both of us.
One might think such a near-tragedy would put the kibosh on any future karting activities. Instead, however (and since my mom had no idea of what had happened) my dad cut the rope in half and added and extension made from one of those new-fangled car seatbelts. It was new-fangled in the sense it incorporated a tensioner. The tensioner retracted as the rope slackened, thereby reducing (though not eliminating) the possibility of a repeat performance.
My dad and I bonded over the go-kart for some time, that is, until that fateful day when the police showed up. Following that, the beloved go-kart was relegated to being pushed up hills with gravity its only method of propulsion.
The go-kart and I did have one last moment in the sun. As I was piloting it down a hill near our house, I almost had a head-on collision with a yellow Volkswagen. Luckily, we swerved in opposite directions and no one was hurt. The driver jumped out of his car and rather than being angry asked if he could take a picture of me piloting the car.
The next day, along with my two friends Steve and Robin, my go-kart and I graced the front page of the local paper.
Achieving fame and fortune courtesy of the Daily Chronicle was pretty neat, but it certainly didn’t rival the adrenaline rush of speeding down West Main Street with the wind in my hair and the exhaust of a 327 Chevy in my nostrils.
I miss my dad.
