Watch the cars on the Monza track, close-cropped - and it could be any other Formula 1 venue. Red and white stripey kerbs, green grasscrete just beyond, rubbered-in black line on dark grey asphalt, a white stripe down the middle of the tyre, black carbon wishbones glinting in the sun, brash livery, violent direction change, bouncing over kerbs as downforce fights the car's urge to take off, with the dampers refereeing.
But peel back for a wider-eye view, far enough so you can see the hedges that still line much of the track behind the barriers, further back again so you see the disused old stone steps for grandstands long ago deemed too dangerously close to the track, a bit further again so you see the beautiful mature trees, further back yet so you see the ancient stone walls that surround the place and you look upon the gently crumbling banking.
And you then see that Monza is just a narrow ribbon of 2007 imposed upon a 1922 scene, the venue of some sort of tear in space/time. At some level a bronzed little man with the heart of a lion is still walking up to his Alfa on the grid, waving to the adoring pre-war crowds. A green Lotus 49 is still going like the wind, its driver intent on pulling back all that time lost to the stop, unaware yet that there's not enough fuel in his tank.
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