“There’s a point at 7,000 rpm, where everything fades. The machine becomes weightless. Just disappears. All that’s left is a body, moving through space and time.”
- Ford v. Ferrari (2019)
Lowda.
At 7k rmp, in second gear on a 250cc mill, doing some 70 kmph, when the rev-limiter
is crying its tits off, you’re effectively doing an Italian tune-up-pro-max on
the go like a bloody moron. And when the brake pads are 70% shot, “like a
bloody fuckin moron”.
Definitely
not safe. Especially on one of the “few” goddamn, pothole-free roads in the
bloody city of Bangalore (thanks daddy Kempe Gowda).
There
comes a point in every man’s life when he chooses between protecting his sanity
or letting it all go and embracing the chaos of life. When he stops making sense
of what’s happening around him and instead contribute to the entropy.
Anarchist’s
cookbook ftw!
Maybe
this is how mid-life crisis looks like. Or meant to look like.
A
desire to break free from the shackles of… well, the unintended, the inconsequential,
the untimely demise of one’s sanity.
“Om
Shanti. RIP my Manashanti.”
-
Me,
circa 2015
Why
are you still reading this drivel? What’s wrong with you? I stopped writing
this a long ago. Now it’s just a unconscious free-flow of my sub-conscious
stream of thought that’s running wild and naked.
Do
you even know what an Italian tune-up is?
Comments
Post a Comment