Kickdown

Among unfamiliar faces, except for one or two, he was stranded. Feeling the friction underneath, his body was slightly thrown right to left and left to right. Accelerating in a straight was always a thrill. Looking to the side, he figured they were doing only around 160km/h, but it felt faster. Much faster. But not as fast as he would have liked.

The engine soaring, he changed into 4th gear feeling the suspension tighten and the tires kick, gripping the road by digging away on the asphalt. An inch or two infront of the turbo now. As the engine symphonised, the nose was as if lifting. Just over 9k rpm, into 5th gear, the Ferrari dived and rised again within a fraction of a second. The turbo gained the lead and he could just see its wing. Owned like a motherfucker. The transition to 6th gear was smooth as a baby's butt, he felt as if the car was being pushed from the back; but that wasn't enough for him to catch with the turbo which was by now a whole 2 cars length away.

Defying physics by using it against itself, they were all airborne. His first time at doing this 'return after the return', and he wasn't liking it one bit.

Five hours and thirty minutes later, he was thinking of that race as if it were a return home. Jolly good times, you feel you're on top of the world. Only to be bitch-slapped back into reality with the massive plane tires' jolt; or the fact that you're doing over 280km/h already, with the end of the road racing towards you and not vice versa.

Life. It's just what it is, innit?