On An Island - The Ultimate Motorsports Legend Fights Its Way Back To Worldwide Establishment

A blowhorn from the past. A travel through ages, sanctioning bodies and generations. The nostalgic and cathartic remembrance of heroic figures in the midnight hour illuminated by fireworks of celebration.

In brief, the Targa Florio is back as a world championship event... in WRC IRC.

Iguazú, a fall - in memory of #DanWheldon

When someone leaves the room, a void's created. Some voids are temporary, some voids are permanent. And there are some voids that are painful. This is yet another fall of a great one.

Gustavo Santaolalla - Iguazu by leila m

Fingers are pointed somewhere, trying to find someone to blame. It may be driver XY, it may be Las Vegas Speedway, it may be IndyCar or it may be consumer culture in general.

"This shouldn't happen."

It will happen again. Sooner or later.

Other people give up hoping that the inevitable shouldn't occur. Some of them sign up for a possible death, knowing or not wanting to think about the possible outcome.

That's how life goes.

Eventually, every drop of water will fall the same place. Smaller or big ones alike.

Rest in Peace, Dan! You were a vitalizing drop of water..

Working Class Hero

So this is it... where I am now. The working class man in England. You'd might be thinking my motoring interests do not reach beyond the boundaries of cars that are good enough for commuting only and you'd be right. In fact, I'd fall for a car that's reliable, takes me from A to B, that is a workhorse, a proper car in other words - for me, the working class man.
When you're enclosed in a space along with a bunch of Polish and Brazilian people among millions of eggs and a production line, you do not think about cars. Jaguars do not drift thgough your imagination sideways, nor Veyrons run flat out close to half of the speed of sound. You only think of a pint of beer to put you to rest and the scent of fresh air as you leave the premises of the factory. You do not care about the dent on the car's door, nor the dust on the floor carpet.
You want one thing only. To get your will established, to get to the next workplace and enjoy the ride while you're at it.
Your mind picks up a different approach about the whole sensation of driving, no matter what your car is. The B-road becomes a road course, the roundabout the Karussell, the indifferent humming of the l4 engine is replaced by heavy metal music on your laughable stereo, crystallizing a grin on your face as if you were commanding a V8.
With a left-hand drive car driving on the left, the proximity of the trees combined with the mild velocity you pass them transforms reality to warp speed.
You're wearing a different licence plate of a country anyone's hardly heard of, getting looks at the red light as if you were a madman tearing up your car to pieces just to put yourself to the wrong seat, blasting into the undisturbed, civilized world with all your shabbiness and still make things work.
You used your car to get here and stay for good, only to defy the rules of commodity that is represented by proper, sub-five-year cars in the streets.
The Escort.
The one with American origin, given birth in England, tossed to Germany, shipped to Hungary and now being returned to the place where it was concieved in the first place.
The underdog.
That's me in the traffic.
That's me at the red light.
That's me in the car park by the warehouse.
That's me when not paying enough attention at one point and almost causing an accident.
That's me through A4.
That's us, me and my car - the working class and the hero.

Light Years Away

What do you do when you have run out of funds, hope of a better future and patience? You set your car's nose England-bound.

It all started over two years ago when talks started between my wife and I that we sould join all those people who in wish to grab fortune's better end set themselves to Western and Northern Europe. There were initiatives taken and withdrawn when finally tensions within our broader family and lack of funds lead to concrete decisions and conclusions at the end of last year and the whole procedure of moving started taking shape.

The setting looked like so: me, my wife, two dogs and all that one could fill in a Ford Escort. Printed Google Maps directions, over three tanks of fuel and 1,200 miles to cover from Kaposvar, Hungary to Keynsham, UK.

An introduction to #NASCAR