The car was acting up all day. The team and I had put in long hours over the course of the weekend. Pushing for the final stage of the “Evento de Precisão.” My chief mechanic had worked for 36 hours straight. He earned his nickname “The Surgeon”. Laptops were connected to every facet of the vehicle. We were determined to get our timing sorted; a sticky clutch being the bane of my existence.
We drove a flawless season. Out of all the cars I’ve slapped “Jacobs” onto, the WRX reigned king. Her subtle yet ferocious bite into the corners, the barrage of roars radiating from her belly, the smell of the tyres, the dirt, the rush – please, someone stop me. Her eloquent blue and gold that only got better with age. After all these years, when I get the countdown to launch – I still get excited.
Like moving a patient from intensive care to stable, we calmly removed our computers systems, put on the tyres, and lowered her to the floor.
She fires like a dream. An inferno bellows from her exhaust – she’s angry, I can feel it. She needs to feed. The dust calls her.
Get that champagne ready: From A to B in 13 minutes flat.
A hand is placed in front of my windscreen, fingers spread eagle.
“5… 4… 3…”