The thunderbolt-like strike of the ignition embracing the high-strung pistons of the Exotic Engine was itching at my mind like trying to kick a very bad habit. There's no doubt. I'm addicted to speed. And the smell of VP race gas is just an ugly taunt at my inner core. I was tempted to lay into the throttle with trailer in tow as we blasted by the World's Tallest Thermometer that stands aside the Bun Boy of Baker. But we're not going that route. We've gotta play this one smooth as silk like a slick film of Lucas Oil. Think fast. Look ahead. The California Highway Patrol is awaits from just around the bend, peering at the impulse to pass out yet another speeding ticket. His head snaps to attention. His eyes lock on and head pans from inside cruiser parked inside the median. We we move pass on parade, in complete control and well within the legal limit of speed. That's right, officer. We're Speed Technologies and are laying low on the throttle util race day arrives. Then try and catch us.
I almost hate the anticipation of loading the trailer. You've gotta stick with me here. Understand where I'm coming from.
It's the need for speed. It's the drive to be set back deep into the seat and launched far over the roar of excitement that has the crowd upright above the grandstands. The throttle is authoritative. Its presence executes the command voice of an angry emperor. It's an affliction. Take reigns of the wheel.
It's the scent of freshly molded fusion of rubber and Kevlar. The gummy hush of Goodyear Tires and their nipples grabbing at the aluminum deck, as the 800-plus horses, crawl discretely into position by way of the near-silent hum of an electric winch. It's almost like the red carpet but on diamond plate aluminum. Yet, this fast little lady wouldn't have nothing to do with such astute affairs.
She's a racer. She's vicious, a screamer, a weapon of fierce rage and a rebuke of silence and everything placid. She chews up unsavory terrain and spits dirt. She's not graceful in such a way. But you ought to see the poetry of her aloft from a hundred-foot jump, landing like a feather as she slides sharply into a hairpin turn. Gotta love them Fox Racing Shox. Because she's been made as eloquent a lady as any.
And as she's tugged along the stretch of highway, hidden from view of the blistering sunlight abound, I arrive at the notion that this stage of the mission is like the silence before the storm, void of action. These thoughts are a mere day dream that is about to unfold into reality.
I've just got to get beyond the open expanse time and this asphalt stretch amid the mighty Mojave Desert. It's desolation has got me seeing things that aren't there. There is no point in looking back. This is just the way it is as we embrace a way of life in the dirt.
Onward to Las Vegas Motor Speedway for the Lucas Oil Off Road Racing Series season opener.
