The helmet goes on, the visor down, the lights go green, and the racer emerges.

I’d qualified mid-pack, made a decent start but had a fellow driver up my inside into the first hairpin. As we exited he ran wide towards the curb, leaving me in no-man’s land rumbling over broken tarmac. Keeping the power on I rejoined and slotted in behind my new nemesis, no chance into the fast left, but watching his slide building on the entry to the first hairpin gave me a chance. A dab on the brake to tighten my line wasn’t matched by the guy behind me, and the tap from the rear left me T-boned in the side of my opponent with nothing to do but watch the rest of the field stream round us.

I was gutted. I thought a podium was possible, maybe more, but now I was last and about 15 seconds away from the lead.

By now you’re thinking this is probably a dream, maybe a GT5 story, and will now lead into a heroic fight back to win. You’re wrong on all counts. This was my first taste of competitive motorsport, but this was also a stag do.

Nothing we were wearing had ever been near an FIA specification chart, the karts had bumpers around the wheels to stop numpties getting into too much trouble, and the Honda engines were more ride-on mower than blueprinted race motor. However, the sensations, the emotions of racing were very much front and centre.

I’d won my first heat, and almost won the second from the back of the grid. I was dicing with the other drivers, altering my line to try and take advantage of their early turn in or maximise my speed for the longer drags, keeping out of trouble and trying to build speed each lap. I had some decent pace, and for someone with a little-indulged competitive streak, this was a glorious experience. I had made the cut for the A-final and hadn’t raced against most of the field, I was feeling racy, but all that popped when I found myself stuck.

As the marshall jogged over to clear the kart in front of me and I sat there waiting, I felt every emotion I’ve ever dismissed as pampered racing driver whinging, and I remembered the other feelings I’d had; the joy of a pass, the analysis of each kart I came up behind, indignation when another driver dared take his line when I wasn’t really in any position to make a pass stick. I’d become a little microcosm of unfiltered racing driver nonsense.

I decided to put on a charge and passed my fellow crashee for 6th place, but 5th was nowhere to be seen. My arms and shoulders ached, palms somehow burning and numb, but I wanted to show some pace, prove to myself that I could have been a contender. On the penultimate lap I managed the final corner absolutely flat, and took the fast lap of the event honours, despite carrying a cake-based weight penalty to some of my competitors.

Even though it was just a bit of fun with freinds, in this most basic form of motorsport, I can utterly understand how people get so hooked on racing at any level. It’s a real sense of achievement, high highs and low lows, the balance between strategy and aggression, the sheer focus and concentration required. Even 35 laps in a go-kart gives you the smallest glimpse into what must go through the head of Hamilton, Franchitti, Wurz, Loeb or any top-level racing driver. How they contain that and drive like Gods, I’ll never know.
 

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