You can hear the growling from miles away…a large animal is approaching rapidly, filling the air, filling your own lungs with fear. It grows louder and louder, and then you realize.

It’s engines, not animals. At least not those kind of animals…and not that kind of jungle.


Their metal skin is so seamlessly congealed on top of their ferocious powertrain that the mechanical properties of this machine merge with the driver whose helmeted brain is simply another component of this burst of energy.

Yet watching them swoop and snake and turn and glide around the track, the chain-link fence like a thick undergrowth concealing then revealing their shimmering bodies, to feel the roar of them accelerating and braking, chasing, chasing, endlessly pursuring one another, these precision race cars seem more like savage beasts on the hunt than anything else.

In the shadows of towers and grandstands and skyscrapers like the densely tangled overgrowth of equatorial forests, some pursuers become prey in an instant. A false move around an embankment, a hesitation on the straightaway, a moment’s poor decision or a failure of courage and their world disappears in a burst of flame and smoke.


It’s a good thing these beasts are kept within their cages, for there is no escaping them in the wide open.

Oh, yes, there are crowds of people and rivers of Coke-a-Cola and gallons of beer and fistfuls of hotdogs and buckets of french fries and the astounding poundage of Americans everywhere. But they are hardly worth mentioning.

After all, every hunt must have its spectators. Every hunt must have its kill.




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