Room for improvement

By Holly Vanorse | Oct 27, 2010

I will never boast to be the best at anything ever in my life.

I've got the outlook that there's always room for improvement. Start at the bottom and work your way up. I also know to be careful when you've worked your way up because there's always someone behind you doing the same.

However, at the age of almost 10, I didn't exactly want to be standing in the kiddie line at the go-kart track. I'd let my ego grow bigger than my head, and in my cocky state, I knew I was better than the six midgets that stood in front of me that day.

Although two of those midgets were cousins and one was my younger sister.

The reason why I was in the kiddie line was because I didn't want to ride with someone else. I could have gone on the bigger go-karts but because I wasn't 10 years old yet, I would have had to ride shot-gun next to my dad. Knowing how to drive a kart by myself, that just wasn't happening, so hello mini-karts.

Hello slow-poke speeds.

As I let the gate-keeper show me how to buckle in, I watched out of the corner of my eye as my sister, a cousin, two uncles and my father whizzed by on the track next to me. All of them laughing. Did I mention they were whizzing by?

Now, I may have the thought I can always be better at what I do, but that doesn't mean by any means am I not competitive. I like to win just as much as the next girl, or guy. As a matter of fact, I love to win. I'm just really good at hiding the frustration that comes with losing.

Despite my experience with the karts, somehow my seven-year-old cousin, who had never driven a kart before, scooted past me. This was not okay in my book. With the heart and passion of a NASCAR driver, I pressed harder on the pedal of my yellow car. If there was a speedometer it would have moved from one mile per hour to two.

The ants were moving faster on the track than I was.

Finally, I'd gotten around the track to my cousin in her pink car. Like I'd seen so many times on the television at home watching racing with my dad, and like I'd seen him do on occasion when we went karting — I bumped her. A light tap in the rear corner, giving me an extra little inch to scoot by.

The gate-keeper yelled, a red flag went up, and, if I wasn't straped into the kart, I would've kicked him in the shin.

"You are not allowed to bump!" He yelled again, waving the obnoxious red flag.

My mother was out of ear-shot and my father was still on the bigger karts, so I knew whatever I said was okay. I wouldn't catch heck from my parents.

"Rubbing is racing, jerk!" I yelled back. That was it. My turn was done. My ego deflated and back to where it rightfully should have been.

A few years later, just my father, my two sisters and I went back to the same track. After a few laps, a little bumping here and there, I came in second to my father. When we went back again in another few summers, I successfully took first place.

Then at mini golf, I came in second to my father — legitimately. Third, if you want to count my younger sister's cheating attempts on the course. My putting skills are terrible.

I'll just have to work my way up with mini golf too, I suppose.

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