I’m not a very good driver. Sure, I like to hurdle down Interstate Highway 5 at 90 mph as much as the next girl, but odds are I’m going to make as least one San Diegan scream in terror along the way.
So, a scant 15 to 20 minutes from campus, the Miramar Speed Circuit offers the opportunity to quench this rabid thirst for speed, at almost all hours. The track is seemingly always open — I showed up at 9 p.m. on a Friday (it’s open until midnight on Fridays and Saturdays, 9 p.m. Sundays and Mondays and 11 p.m. every other day) with enough time for a few sessions before closing. Though the track isn’t very big — it takes a minute at most to go around the whole thing — the excitement comes from navigating its sharp right-angle turns as your tires screech with effort, and dodging (and sometimes ramming) other drivers.
Twenty-three dollars earns you 10 minutes on the track (they also have lessons and a Grand Prix option, among other things), and after forking over the money, you’re directed to a set of doors with “drivers only” scrawled along the top. There’s a flurry of movement: families sitting on the side of the track watching, numerous people careening down the track’s lanes, employees warning daredevils to slow down. Glaring fluorescent lights illuminate the indoor track, and kart colors are thrown into sharp relief. It’s exhilarating.
After donning a head protector that resembles a black polyester condom, it’s time to pick out a helmet from an array of color-coded sizes. At the track, an elusive employee (these men are neither chatty nor easy to flag down) explains the rules: no excessive ramming, slow down when the light is yellow or when you’re causing yourself undue pain. No dying. Check, check, check — let’s race.
There were four other people entering the track as my racing partners: a couple out on a date and a father-and-son team. Since the son seemed to be 12 years old (at most) and definitely did not have a valid driver’s license, I was totally positive I was about to kick some seventh-grade ass.
I sat down in my kart (ladies: no skirts, trust me on this one) and awaited instructions. The kart was designed like every standard go-kart (think a poor man’s Ariel Atom minus the intense torque, supercharged speeds and overall “holy-shit” factor) with one pedal for gas, another for the brakes, a number stamped on the front, and a wide bumper around the edges for safety. Once I settled myself into my seat, a short, dour man came to start up my kart. Three false starts later and I was off, trailing the father-son team.
Miramar’s race karts only reach up to 30 mph, but it seems a hell of a lot faster. The top of the kart is uncovered, the wind is rushing at you, and you’re heading straight at a wall. The effect is a lot more overwhelming than going at blistering speeds down a freeway. After the first 30 seconds, I began ramming the dividing walls at top speed — not by choice, mind you — knocking the wind out of me and making my ribs scream with pain. An employee hopped over the divides with practiced diligence and wagged his finger at me. Slow down.
With my ego badly bruised, I cruised along down the track. Soon, I heard the sound of a motor behind me: I was struck from behind by the 12-year-old (actually, he looked more like a 10-year-old) and unceremoniously shoved to the side of the lane. The kid was killing it down the track at an impressive 30 mph with his father tearing it up beside him. After being tossed aside by the obnoxious child four more times, I hit the gas. I’m normally not the kind to bully someone who can’t reach the top shelf at the library, but no one the size of an Oompa-Loompa was going to make a fool out of me.
I didn’t beat him — he’d lapped me about a thousand times at that point — but I did ram him in the rear pretty hard on the way back to the starting point, which was enough to make the $23 racing charge worth it all on its own.
Miramar Racetrack brings out the competitive side in its patrons, inspiring heated adrenaline rushes as they gun down the race lanes. It’s a good option for those looking to get drunk on a Friday and put a few people to shame — assuming you know how to, you know, drive.