Riding the Ravening Beast
A riposte to a friend’s article claiming high powered cars and their special tires are a waste of money on rough roads.
Reducing high powered cars to tire flexibility is like distilling love to pheromones, a sense of touch or the pituitary gland. There is a point to it, but it can never capture the thrill, the excitement, the joyful ecstasy. That blasts through all obstacles with a throaty roar.
Since reading the less than exciting discourse on tire walls, I tried looking on my silver monster with analytical eyes. Failure was utterly complete. Cars have nothing to do with brand badges. Most are transport, others just raw power.
Seeking tire wall insights, I dawdled along bumpy roads, dallied behind tractors towing trailers of produce and footled behind tardy locals. Not for long. The lust overcame me. My heart raced. My hands grasped the wheel. With the newfound sports button, I forced the pedal into the floor.
The kick in the back, the intimidating rage of the engine, the surge of adrenaline came back in an instant. Oncoming traffic. Press harder. Jerk in, in front of six cars at the last moment as he swerves in fear. Guy on the phone meanders about the road and nearly ditches himself, as from nowhere the Beast thunders past, flashing lights and blaring horn.
A new lesson, speed bumps and potholes are only obstacles at under 80 Kph. At 120, they add to flight and smooth passage. To hell with the tire walls. They can be replaced.
On the narrow part of the main highway, traffic dawdles behind a tanker. 120, 140, 160,180, 195. Some idiot on the phone wobbles into the Beast’s path, then nearly spins out of control. Cut in quick before the oncoming truck hits. The Mack swerves. We bellow bye, with turbo screaming and maniacal laughter.
Speeding along a country lane, a dog leaps at us, kids run out into the road. The ceramic disc brakes stop us on a screeching dime. Who says the Beast can’t be tamed? Trust the Beast. If the world fails you, all-around airbags might cushion the plunge from the precipice. If not, what a way to go, not with a whimper but in a tumbling ball of fire and crunching metal.
Pure fantasy of course.