I was three years old. I had a go-kart that my dad had on a leash so I would not go too quick.
I think I was five when I had my real first go-kart.
With twelve horse power at our command, we considered that we could permit the weight of the machine with operator to rise to 750 or 800 pounds, and still have as much surplus power as we had originally allowed for in the first estimate of 550 pounds.
I brought the Beetle to life with a roar. Well. Not really a roar. A Volkswagen Bug doesn't roar. But it sort of growled.
I drove a tractor almost as soon as I could reach the pedals.
I do have a bit of a garden, and I'd love a hovercraft to get around it - one of the big four-seater ones with the fan on the back.
Dad bought me a go-kart when I was two, and I couldn't even drive it until I was six.
A skittish motorbike with a touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth, because of its logical extension of our faculties, and the hint, the provocation, to excess conferred by its honeyed untiring smoothness.
