Picture it: the car is idling, waiting. You’re at the wheel, just dying for the moment the track marshall flags you onto the skidpad. The moment you get the sign, you get to let all hell break loose for as long as you dare go. Burn ’em to the cords, throw the car around all you want. And you want, alright. You don’t dare try this outside of the motorplex…chances are good that the cops will be called, your car will be impounded and will more than likely be squished into a little metal pancake for your few fleeting moments of angry, smoke-filled bliss.
The signal is given. Oh, sweet merciful, thank you, Lord, it’s time to shine! You brake-torque the beast, get the rears spinning, and then…
*pop*. Then silence.
You’ve made it approximately ten feet. You didn’t even make it to the actual skidpad. You are on the entrance road in a dead street machine, vital fluids leaking out, the track marshall trying to both not laugh and cry at what just happened. Equating what just happened to a premature end elsewhere is inevitable, and the same feelings of frustration and disappointment are applicable here too.
Time to go have a beer, mate. Or six.
6 beer? this is in australia, the land that several years ago limited motorsports spectators to a maximum of 24 beer at a race, and people were upset about it.