Agnes, a woman known more for her prize-winning petunias than her driving skills, decided to enter the local go-kart race. Her go-kart, affectionately named “The Thistle,” was painted a vibrant lavender, complete with floral decals. Everyone else had sleek, racing-striped machines.
Her grandson, Harold, a nervous, bespectacled boy of ten, was her reluctant co-pilot. He adjusted his oversized helmet, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. “Grandma, are you sure about this?” he squeaked.
Agnes patted his knee with a gloved hand. “Nonsense, Harold! We’ll have a grand time! Besides, I’ve been practicing… in the garden.” This did little to reassure Harold, who remembered the incident involving the rose bushes and the garden gnome.
The race started with a deafening roar. Agnes revved The Thistle, which sputtered and coughed before reluctantly moving forward. They were immediately last.
“Floor it, Grandma!” Harold yelled, clinging to the roll bar.
Agnes squinted at the track. “Let’s go Harold,” she said. Uh oh! This was her catchphrase right before she did something wildly unpredictable, like using the potato cannon to scare away squirrels.
Suddenly, Agnes slammed her foot on… something. It wasn’t the accelerator. It was the release for the emergency brake. The Thistle lurched to a halt, right in the middle of the track, as the other go-karts swerved around them in a blur of color.
Harold buried his face in his hands.
A race official rushed over, waving frantically. “Madam! You can’t just stop here!”
Agnes, unfazed, smiled sweetly. “Oh, I know. Harold, dear, would you be a lamb and fetch my purse? I seem to have dropped my knitting.”
