A Trip Down Passo Dello Stelvio

It was almost seven. Cold. I had my hoodie jacket on, somehow still not enough to keep what's left of last night's storm out. There goes the final drag of my cigarette. As I exhale, I see the smoke gush out of my lungs into the air. The smoke does look more beautiful in the morning. To my right the sun tries to penetrate thick cloud and fog.

As moments passed, temperature around me started to rise. My car, orange with a silver stripe running from head to tail. Lights put on low, the Y-shaped LEDs making presence known. The engine lets out a muffled low rumble, almost shaking the ground beneath. Fog slowly thickening from condensation, falling lower and lower into the bottom of the valley. More is revealed. Black tarmac slithering down miles after miles of endless zigs and zags. Straight after hairpin after straight after hairpin, into eternity. I take in a deep breath. The smell of fresh and crisp northern Italy, home to the bull beside me. Eager to ram down the slopes. Hold on. The time will come. 

I got in, pulled the door down. Safety belts. Engine temperature. All check. Wait. The trip has to be taken with windows down, so down you go. Both of yous. I tapped the fuel pedal, and a roar echoes through the mountainside into the fog below. I tapped it again, and the roar lifted the hair on my hands. I think it's time, I told the bull. Right hand on the cold steel stick. No DSGs. Real men shift sticks and slam on heavy, manly, clutches. 

I engaged Gear 1 and immediately floored the gas. In the console, the red tC light flashed for a moment then disappeared. Then Gear 2, steel locking onto steel. The brute power of the car had me stuck helpless onto the seat. Gear 3, and I'm already well over a hundred and forty. Gear 4. First turn. Clutch, toe on brake, heel on gas, heel off gas, Gear 2, clutch off, brakes off, right turn. Screeches were heard as rubber struggles to keep a hold on the wet road. tC flashed, and stopped. As the turn ended, I took the car to fifth in less than two seconds.

Straight. Hairpin. Straight. Hairpin. The engine's roar escalated to scream. Scream to roar and roar to scream again. Gear ups and gear downs. Accelerate, brake, screech, spin, accelerate, brake, screech, spin. Over and over again and again. No radio. No need for radio. An orchestra plays behind me, bouncing off every cliff  and ravine and tree and rock and sand and soil and grass and whatever else they've got up there which I was too busy to notice.

At the entrance of every hairpin I slammed onto the brakes. Carbon ceramics worked hard with Traction Control to prevent slippage pumped out by the five hundred horsed V10. They had to. The pride and glory of the tag depends on it. Rear-wheel-drive occasionally caused spins, which is almost immediately overcome. With the driving skills of a bed-ridden shrimp, I time and time again thanked god for the creation of ABS, tC, EBD, BTW, CMI, FML, FTW and what-nots. 

After about three million hairpins, I finally came to a straight. The sun had already unveiled most parts of the valley now. I saw a breakfast restaurant ahead, and decided it's time to call it a day. I got out of the car, took a deep breath. Ahhh. The smell of burnt rubber and tarmac. I looked up at the road where I came, could still hear the screams and screeches. Most magnificent. 

 One glorious road and one glorious bull. Today, they met and they exchanged views. One of form and function and rules and consequences. The other of brutality and rebellion and freedom and Ultimacy. Today they met and they exchanged views. That smell. That awesome beautiful smell. Burnt rubber and smoked water rising from tarmac. That awesome beautiful smell. Good morning.

I took the last drag off my cigarette before killing it into the ashtray. Eminem playing behind, my dog sleeping on my blanket. 1.30 AM. I close the Top Gear magazine and tucked it somewhere between The Ghost and Abarat. Time to sleep.