Broken down, feeling naked, leaving me unfulfilled. Promising compromise, championing mediocrity. Time and time again, what you said ain't what you mean. Even if all my bones are broken, I will drag myself back from the edge to kill the king.
The discussion over the new sound of F1 is still looming, although it hasn't been a week since the continental circus left Melbourne. There's no reason to think, though, that people will not befriend the new experience, evidently something irreversibly disappeared from The Greatest Show On Earth.
Hint: it's not the engines' fault, but do read on.
F1 could possibly go through its biggest crisis since the near-split of the series five years ago. Fingers are being pointed at the new engine rules coming into force from this year on but - unfortunately - underperforming powerplants at the reliability department are merely a symptom of an inherited disease rather than the cause of a sickness.
Every gearhead loves the thought of living close to a racetrack. Not quite as close to be bothered about the noise, just a comfortable distance away to enjoy a weekend joyride from time to time. And there are street courses.
Street courses are of course just links of public roads serving as a temporary racetrack. There are some very famous ones, like in Monaco, Macau, Long Beach, Singapore, Surfer's Paradise, etc., there are pretty awful ones, and there are plenty lesser known or totally forgotten ones.
I live in a small town, featuring a large ex-military airbase nearby that is used for drag racing, drifting and gymkhana events once a year. I had believed this was the single closest racing facility near or far until I stumbled upon a Facebook account posting images of my hometown from the past among which there were ome showing motorcycles starting off, racing through the town centre in the mid-60's:
You paid your advance to the official national dealer. You even slipped extra bills in there to get you a bit more forward on the waiting list and to make sure you are getting the make, type and colour of car you asked for. All you have to do now is to wait for five years.
Let me put this forward: I was born and raised in a dictatorship in my early years of childhood. I type this in as a reminder upon reading today's news that Soviet Union mk2 has come ever closer to manifestation. But before the story could get a darker twist, let us get on a more idle level of pondering and plunge ourselves into a bit more pleasing topic: cars. Communist car, that is.
I remember clearly as day standing outside no. 77 at the edge of the crowd, holding my mother's hand as a six year-old, looking at a police motorcycle and the German shepherd dog sitting next to some giant-looking police officers. I had no idea at the time but I was part of history happening at large. It was October, 23rd and we were listening to speeches at the very first free commemoration of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, outside Imre Nagy's birthplace, one of the key figures - and martyr - of the revolt, marking the occasion dropping the affix "People's" from the front of "Republic of Hungary".
Although I have had vague memories of preceding times, the physical evidences of past history still surrounded us as a memento of times, and to an extent they still do - most importantly in the minds of people.
One of those evidences I grew an extensive affection to in general were cars. Cars that were represented by about ten regular makes and about fifteen types altogether, serving as the only consumer choices ranging territorially from the middle of today's Germany to the Pacific Ocean. Lada, Moskvitch, Skoda, Trabant, Wartburg, Polski, Yugo, Dacia and some oddball and rare makes and types that were either available to government officials only or types that no one ever bothered to buy, they were so bad - even by contemporary standards.
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