Well, my fellow Queenslanders, I hope you are having a fabulous Labor Day (and for those of my many pregnant friends who are set to drop their bundle, please don’t take that literally).
The sun is shining, birds are singing, and the man of the manor suggested that, given the perfect conditions of the day, (ie: Kylie overindulged last night on Yalumba Merlot. Vintage 2006. Very good year for “Headache-In-A-Box”) what could be more delightful than a gentle spin around the Ormeau Go-Kart track?
He has been harping at me to come and “feel the joy” of go-karting for some time now, so I thought to myself , “I’m a big girl, these things are small, how much damage could I possibly do?”
So, we motored out to the pleasant township of “Ormeau” to the Pacific Go-Kart Arena. (and for those of you who are local on the Coast – have you seen the new sign just off Exit 45 that reads “PACIFIC HIGHWAY VIEWING PLATFORM NEXT RIGHT” ( Sorry, but if you feel that spending a gorgeous day looking at semi-trailers and rusty Monaros speeding along the M1 is quality time, you need to perhaps broaden your horizons a little)
Excitement grew as we drove up into the car park, all good and ready to feel the need for speed. I did have a general idea of how this would play out….little kiddy carts and some parents with Mario Andretti visions of the future for little John Junior. Perhaps even some strains of “Ventura Highway” in the background to complete the picture
In some sort of demented bizarro world of go-karting this may have been the case, because I was immediately overshadowed by fifteen to twenty very large, very mean-looking teens with tattoos reading ” Fuck The Highway” or even more specific, “Going to Crush Your Ass Into the Concrete”.
This was no pleasant trundle in the country – this was imminent death by the The Tonka-Truck Gang!
Swallowing my fear and a couple of mouthfuls of Mylanta, I strode up to counter and squeaked “Two thanks…and how much extra for a Panzer …”?”
I took my helmet and stood beside a gentile young skinhead wearing a Black Sabbath Tee and sporting a scowl that I interpreted as ” I am going to knock you, and your Bay City Rollers Tee-shirt out of this hemisphere, and then, if the mood takes me… I may just bite the head off a chicken”
Determined not to wuss-out of the deal, I strode towards the turnstile and reached for the handle. It was only then, that I had quite a traumatic flash-back….
July 2000
I had won the prize for a the Christmas party sweepstakes in our office. Don’t ask me how, I never win anything. If I added up all the dosh I have poured into Surf Lifesavers Raffles and the like over the years, I could perhaps have acquired a nice little penthouse in Broadbeach by now.
Anyway, I ripped open the envelope eager to see what fantastic prize I had won.
Catching sight of a bright blue piece of paper, I squealed in delight. Was it a shopping voucher? Maybe I had won myself a weekend away at Hayman Island Resort. I could have used a bit of a tan. Perhaps it was tickets to the up and coming Bob Dylan concert?
Wasting no time in yanking the coupon out, I feverishly ran my eyes over the small print.
“This voucher entitles the bearer to a FREE BUNJEE JUMP courtesy of “Jump and Wet Yourself Inc.” You too will be able to experience the lung-twisting thrill of free falling 80 meters from a stand-alone tower over a puddle in Kuranda. Feel the excitement! Feel the exhilaration!!”
Feel the bile…..
Of all the prizes that I could have possibly won in the world, I just happened to snag a “Free Ride to Panic Attack Central.”
It was decided, after much lively debate, that I would just ‘buck up and do it!
My new motto was going to be “Live once! Take a chance! Dive off a bloody tall tower into oblivion!” ‘
I even psyched myself up into believing that this was going to be fun. After all, people pay hundreds of dollars to get their legs tied together and thrown off a short plank. I should feel privileged.
We parked right behind a busload of Japanese tourists who, armed with their cameras, videos and obligatory “Hello Kitty” accessories, were eagerly gathered at the base of the jump ready to capture the looks of by those lobotomy-jobs who were insane enough to actually do this.
I was greeted by “Dave” who cheerily asked me if I was ready to “take the fall dude”?
“Dave” seemed a nice guy, to be sure and, apart from the matted dreadlocks, and the tee-shirt that sported multiple marijuana plants and read “I Support the High Life!”, he fulfilled my every confidence.
Dave the dude, strapped my ankles together with a velcro mat.
I vaguely remember telling him, on the verge of hysteria, about my experiences with velcro and how it occasionally had a habit of coming undone. (If ever you had a case-in-point – just look at jeans in the 1980s)
Dave laughed at me. “Man, you don’t have to worry. I’ve done it heaps of times. Hey? If you get into trouble, they have a little boat underneath you, just in case dude. Chill out.”
Great.
I had no more time to dwell on Dave’s reassurances. It was time to rock and roll. As they poked me forward on the narrow plank, like a pirate poking his victim off the side of the galley, I uttered a quick word to God and to my taxation accountant.
Of course, Dave the dude was there to assist….
“Now when I count to five, you just jump dude. Don’t think, just jump. If you don’t, you won’t man.”
“One..”
I can still turn back. I can, I can still turn back. So what if my husband thinks I am a coward, I have seen how he reacts to Daddy Long-Legs. I have bargaining power here.
“Two..”
Oh my God, I am wobbling. I am going to fall, I am going to fall!
“Three..”
Dave, you didn’t tell me about the fun part here, dude. When does that kick in?
“Four..”
I can’t. I can’t..I can’t..!!
“Five!!”
I was screaming before I even became aware that I was falling. The world became weightless around me as the platform dissolved away.
It was at this point, during my flight that I became acutely aware that, out of all the rules and instructions related to free falling and human aerodynamics, I had neglected the most critical one of all.
The rule that says you must tuck your shirt “in.”
Maybe those who indulge in this sado-masochistic pastime on a regular basis actually do get a chance to take in the scenery on the way down, but all I could see was the white tee shirt that was now billowing around my neck like a mini-parachute.
The next few minutes went by extraordinarily swiftly. I can’t remember if I was hollering in sheer terror or in absolute embarrassment, as I fought to keep my wayward shirt where it should be……over my chest.
I have never professed to having glamorous boobs. In fact, I would go as far as saying that I am rather mammarily-challenged.
Having said that, displaying them in such an undignified fashion as falling spread-eagled from a tower, was not really what I had in mind to prove the point.
As the bunjee boatman rowed me into the shore, I distinctly remember two things occurring simultaneously.
One, my husband running towards me with a large coat …and two, the Japanese tourists cheering and clicking their cameras as if they had just witnessed the second coming of Buddha.
The staff were extremely nice to me afterwards. They told me how brave I had been and that I should be really proud of myself. They might have been just a bit puzzled however, as to why I ran away screaming when the video-man asked me if I wanted to watch the re-run of my fall on the big screen in the public forum.
So, back to back to the present, Labor Day 2007…..
I guess you could say that my sudden decision to ditch the Go-Kart helmet and jump in the car might have been construed as cowardice.
I think it is more of taking on what is reasonable within one’s own comfort zone, which in my case was driving 100 metres to the neighboring complex of the Go Kart track….
The Mt Darlinghurst Winery.
Much more my speed……..
