Mo-Kan Mayhem

The Helmet, the Haircut, and the High-Speed Humbling I’ll Never Forget

Before You Read…

Some stories you retell. This one you relive. It doesn’t warm up—it redlines. It’s sweat, speed, stupidity, and the kind of laughter that still echoes years later. If you’ve ever flown too fast into a bad idea and come out the other side sore and smiling—this one’s for you.

The Kind of Story That Leaves Tire Marks on Your Soul

Some stories roll in slow—smoothed by time, shaped by love. Others kick the door down, blow out your eardrums, and leave tire marks on your soul.

This was one of those.

Mo-Kan Fuel in Our Veins

It happened when I was a senior in high school—long after we’d graduated from BB guns and backyard go-karts to real horsepower and real consequences.

Dennis, Brian Martin, and I had gone up to Mo-Kan Dragway one hot, sunny Saturday to watch the races. Mo-Kan sits right on the Missouri-Kansas line, about twenty minutes from Joplin, and on race day, it feels like the whole countryside shows up just to smell rubber and hear thunder.

We’d been watching drag races all afternoon, and by the time we left, my adrenaline was redlining. Big engines, fast launches, explosions off the line—my brain was marinated in nitromethane.

An Old Track, a New Temptation

Driving back through Joplin, we spotted a go-kart track. Dennis and I had been there plenty of times as kids, but it had been years. Without saying a word, we pulled in. I was still buzzing from Mo-Kan, and a go-kart felt like the perfect fix.

The three of us suited up in our usual summer uniform—cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and in my case, a tank top that probably hadn’t been washed in days. We jumped in the regular Briggs & Stratton-powered carts and started tearing around the track, trading paint and fighting for position like we were racing for pink slips. Don’t ask me who won. It didn’t matter. We were grinning like fools and laughing the whole time.

Then I Saw the Monsters

Just as we were about to leave, I spotted something sitting near the shed—racing karts. These weren’t your average rental beaters. These were monsters. Modified frames. Single and double chainsaw engines. The kind of machines that sounded angry even when they were off.

My mouth started watering.

Ten Laps, No Mercy

I talked to the track owner and begged for a ride. At first, he said no—race day was tomorrow and he didn’t want some idiot wrecking his gear. Fair enough. But after some smooth-talking (and maybe a little bribery), he agreed to let me take one of the single-engine beasts out for ten laps, max.

That was all I needed.

I climbed in, buckled the five-point harness, and gave Dennis and Brian a thumbs-up. The owner fired it up, and the thing screamed to life—so loud it made my ears ring and my teeth vibrate. He waved me onto the track once it cleared, and I eased out of the pit like a pro.

From Tame to Feral in Eight Laps

I hit the gas—just like I had in the slower carts—and nearly spun out. This thing wasn’t just faster. It was feral. But oh man, could it corner. With each lap, my confidence grew—and so did my throttle foot.

By lap eight, I was flying.

Each corner came faster. My confidence got louder. My brain started whispering bad ideas and my foot kept saying, “Sounds good to me.”

Dennis and Brian were hanging over the fence like wild animals, hollering and pumping their fists like I was about to break a world record—or myself.

This kart wasn’t just fast—it was angry. Every twitch of the wheel had bite. Every rev rattled something inside me. And I couldn’t stop grinning. I was sweating like crazy, gritting my teeth, and loving every second of it.

Last Lap: Permission to Self-Destruct

Lap nine.

I leaned deeper into the turns, holding the line a little tighter, keeping the throttle down just a little longer. The engine screamed louder than the rest of the karts combined, and I started yelling just to hear myself over it.

Then the owner stepped out and raised a single finger: last lap.

That was it.

Permission. Provocation. Pandora’s box.

I stomped the gas like I was trying to leave orbit.

Turn one—tight. Clean.

Turn two—wide but stable.

Backstretch—straight and screaming.

I was going faster than I had all day. Everything was vibrating. My knuckles were white. My mouth was wide open. My brain was behind the curve, and my pulse was out ahead of me, waving a checkered flag I hadn’t earned yet.

Turn Three: Lift-Off

Then came Turn Three.

And it came too fast.

I cranked the wheel. Leaned hard. Tried to hug the inside line without lifting off the throttle. That’s when I saw it.

One of the old safety tires lining the track had popped loose—just one—but it was sticking out farther than the rest. Just a few inches.

That’s all it took.

My front right tire clipped it.

Just like that, I went airborne—gravity be damned.

Sky.

Pavement.

Sky.

Pavement.

Sky.

Pavement.

The kart and I rolled at least a half-dozen times. I lost count somewhere between my third bruise and my fifth regret. Metal screamed. Rubber burned. My helmet slammed the ground, again and again, and somewhere in the chaos I heard myself laughing—because of course I was.

When it finally stopped, I was upright—somehow—straddling the twisted wreck like a rodeo champ who’d outlasted the bull by accident.

Wreckage and Roaring Laughter

The five-point harness was toast. My shoulders looked like they’d been peeled with a cheese grater. My arms were shaking. My flip-flops were gone. And then I looked at my helmet.

It had a brand-new haircut.

A flattop.

Courtesy of 60 miles an hour, a rogue tire, and pure stupidity.

That’s when the track owner started marching toward me. He wasn’t smiling.

Great, I thought. I just survived a high-speed crash, and now he’s going to kill me.

But before he reached me, I heard it—Dennis and Brian, dying.

Not literally.

But they were on the ground, howling. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Just rolling and pointing and gasping like I’d just launched a firework into my own forehead.

I was the punchline of my own stunt show.

No footage. No trophy. Just skid marks, a dumb grin, and the dumbest helmet haircut in Missouri.

Stuck on Repeat

And the worst part? I had to drive us home.

Thirty hot, sticky, shirtless miles in a Valiant with no air conditioning and two future Beavis-and-Butthead prototypes replaying the crash like it was Game 7 of the World Series.

But I’d do it again.

Because some lessons only stick when you leave a little skin on the track.

And some stories? They don’t get written.

They get launched.

We didn’t always know what we were chasing back then—speed, laughs, each other—but we knew how to chase it full throttle, no brakes, wind in our teeth.

And somehow, in the flying and flipping and fallout, we found something bigger than a finish line. We found momentum.

Even when we wrecked. Even when the wheels came off. Even when the road disappeared beneath us. We kept moving forward.

And when the smoke cleared and the engines cooled, we didn’t stop.

We just turned the page.

Tell Me About Your Wildest Ride

Ever launched a lawnmower? Flipped a go-kart? Took a turn too fast and lived to laugh about it? I want to hear your full-throttle follies. Share your best crash-and-burn memory at facebook.com/RealChatRat.

Bonus points if it includes gravel rash, airborne footwear, or a helmet with a new “hairstyle.”