I drove a go-kart once. When I was 10. On the usually empty road that ran in front of my cousins’ house in farm country near Hanford.

I remember two things: How close I was to the ground and how fun it was to drive a real motor vehicle, and not just some putt-putt machine at Disneyland’s Autopia.

Several decades later, I drove a go-kart again. Today, at a sports park in an Abu Dhabi suburb.

My two takeaways are quite different.

–Driving fast is a young man’s game.

–Firesuits are incredibly hot. Not hot-sexy but hot-sweaty.

Eleven members of The National’s sports staff gathered at the sports park about 11 a.m. for Part 1 of a “farewell/Christmas party”.

Turns out, several of us had the same “entertainer” coupons, expiring at the end of the month, that offered us half-off driving at the complex.

And it was a fairly serious place.

I figured I’d show up in jeans and tennis shoes and step on the pedal, like I did in Hanford, all those year ago.

Instead, we each created files that generated forms in which we signed away our right to sue the track in any way, shape or form … and then we were handed nearly complete fire suits. A balaclava to cover most of the head, a one-piece garment with a zipper down the front of the torso that allowed Racer X to step in, stick arms into sleeves, zip it up, put on gloves and grab a F1-style helmet.

It seemed over the top: What are the odds of a go-kart bursting into flames? But it also conferred some solemnity on the occasion. “Hmm. Dangerous sport. Need to respect it.”

I was one of the last to suit up, so I missed most of the session in the “briefing room”. Small matters like the layout of the track, and observing flags. I peered once at the map of the winding “road-race” track, and immediately forgot what it looked like, and headed outside.

Back to the suit. It was a very mild morning, by Abu Dhabi standards. Maybe 80 degrees. A bit humid. And already I was sweating, inside my suit and helmet.

We were assigned to particular cars, numbered, and I wondered if the staff knew “this one is faster than that one” and distributed them on the basis of “first impression with customer”.

All the cars appeared to be the same, however. Low, wide, six-inch wheels protected by a low bar encircling the car (no open-wheel “touching” risk). With one pedal for the gas and one for the brake. And none of that annoying “gear-shifting”.

Oh, and the cars had 270cc, two-stroke engines, which are bigger than those in some cars I’ve rented. Allegedly, with top speeds of 100 kph — or about 60 mph.

The event was well-staffed. At least three guys were out there, first firing up our vehicles via pull-cord, then taking places inside the track to make sure we didn’t crash. Et cetera.

I was a little slow on several levels.

Soon as the car was running? That was your sign to take off. No waiting. While waiting for the light bulb to go on, I lost probably half a lap to the guys up front. (Oh, and all 11 of us were on the track at the same time.)

I then drove like an old person. A bit faster than I normally would, but in no way reckless or crazy. Which meant I was passed. A lot. Lapped a couple of times by 2-3 guys.

I also had no idea what the track looked like, and it had some gradient in it. Some up and down. Plus, one lap was more than a half mile, with probably a dozen turns, and I was constantly surprised by what was ahead. Like a goldfish in a bowl.

When I didn’t have someone right in front of me, who I could watch getting ready for a turn, I was all over the track. At one point, I came to a dead stop, unsure if I was supposed to go left, right or straight. That doesn’t do much for your lap time.

Eventually, I got a bit better. Got on the gas on the semi-long straight at the start line. Began braking later, into turns, as I gained confidence in the system.

I even passed someone. Twice. Same guy both times, and at the same place on the track — a sweeping right turn, going downhill a bit, where I was able to power inside.

Yes, passing someone on a track is fun.

Oh, and no mirrors. No way to tell when I was about to be passed — until I saw them, peripherally, blowing past me.

How was everyone faster?

They must have braked later, and trusted their cars to keep from spinning as they went through turns. I was driving like a commuter — I thought squealing tires meant I was going too fast. Some of the young guys … they embraced squealing tires and half-skids. A part of racing.

We went for 15 minutes, at a half-price of 65 dirhams, or about $16. It seemed like a pretty good value, though I was more than ready to stop, because the G-forces of hard turns and a stiff steering system actually fatigued me … and I almost immediately felt motion sickness (don’t eat cereal before racing). I was more than ready to park.

The bad part of this was … the track produces printouts of every car’s performance. How fast they took each lap, for instance, and ranked us by fastest lap. They also posted the results on an overhead monitor, for everyone to see. Thank goodness I wasn’t last.

The guy with the fastest lap is our Formula One writer, which I found only proper. The next five or six slots went to guys around 30, and the last two … went to me and one of the other “old” guys (plus-50) in the race. He was so shaky, in fact, that I didn’t even know he was behind me; he never got close enough to notice.

So, my respect for drivers who do this professionally has gone up. For one, it sorta beat me up — and that was for 15 minutes at a top speed of maybe 60 mph. Then the firesuit thing; it’s hot, and the helmet limits your vision. And wrestling a serious car through a dozen turns at 200 mph, on road course? It’s physical punishment.

And, too, I realized that the thrill of motoring at what you perceive to be the edge of chaos? Pretty much gone when you are old enough to join AARP.