It was a good few weeks into the summer holidays of three years ago, and I was eleven years of age. I was with my family on a vacation in North Wales, situated right near the sunny beaches of a town called "Pwllheli". That summer we had rented out a wooden lodge from a dear friend of my mothers and we couldn't have been staying in a more beautiful place. Around the lodge were towering trees with the hot, glorious sunshine creeping through the brittle branches and elegant little flowers swaying in the cool breeze from the glistening sea in the background.
During one of the first days of our stay we all decided to go out and explore the sights and activities of the small Welsh town. My father picked up the paper and found an advert displaying information on Go-Kart Racing. My brother and I were so excited about the discovery that my father had just made, so much so that we pleaded with him to take us.
I for one had never ridden a Go-Kart before, and I was so exhilarated about actually giving it a try for the first time in my entire life.
My father, along with my brother and I arrived at the Go-Karting Centre at around lunchtime. I was feeling both enthusiastic and alarmed at this new experience that I was about to take part in. We entered a shack-like building on the edge of the karting track and booked ourselves in for a half-hour session of just generally racing the karts around the track. As we exited the shack, I saw the go-karts blistering around the race course. I was paralysed with shock at the power and speed of these energetic machines. After watching the more experienced riders taking the...