Oh, shut up.

I don't understand go-karting. I understand even less why I enjoy it. I hate driving. I suck at it, I lose my way in parking lots, and The Bellemobile pees on me when it rains. It makes perfect sense, then, that I should pay the Andretti family $1.25 a minute to... drive.

Is it the little tires piled up alongside the course? Is it the thrill of zooming along at .000001 MPH in a vehicle powered by what is essentially a lawnmower's engine? Is it the getting boxed in by two drunks at a bachelor party and an eight-year-old high on Pixie Sticks?

Ah, non. It's all about finding new ways to get lost.

G-Force and I were going nowhere slowly on the second turn, where the asphalt bore in two directions. One path led to the uphill portion of the track. The other led to the turn-in corral, where drivers left and returned to the course.

You know which path I took.

The fourteen-year-old with the checked flag had to physically pull me out and turn the cart around. Yeah, that was a big fat red-letter day for me and my Master's degree.