The noise fills the void left by the off-season. It's muffled slightly by the rainwater, doesn't carry its usual piercing quality. The first car to take to the track in the new season is harrying its way around, a picture only imagined for the last four months.
Still you can only hear it, but within a few seconds you'll see it. Not on tv but real and raw, a bright-painted carbon missile riding rude through an overcast background, a cocooned vortex where reality is suspended, scything through that reality at 170mph and sealing it up again as it passes.
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