Desert Storm.

As the sun sets over the rocky red sands, the dust begins to settle on another winter evening on the Arabian peninsula. A calm silence descends. Except it doesn’t.

From deep within the desert dunes, something begins to stir. An awaking. Among the sand and stone, a black, cascading river of black, rich like the crude oil running deep below, glides through the dust- a black python, slithering mesmerizingly along, contrasting, yet complementing the sand encompassing it. The Track.
Within, the low, throaty rumble of inline sixes and v8s, the chirping of spooling turbos. And the squealing. the high-pitched, ear-piercing pleading. Rubber scraping tarmac. Burning, begging, bawling. An orchestra of madness- adrenaline-fueled chaos. All in the pursuit of that elusive slide- the longest-held, most cheered, the curtain of smoke. The fabled Drift. The clutch kick, the powerslide. The Tokyo Drift. The Tafheet.
Bumpers dented, suspensions collapsed. rims shard. Lights smashed. But still. Still. the mischievous smiles, the boyish grins. the disregard for all things logical. it still prevails. All. Just for that elation. A feeling of perfect control, whilst all hell seems to break loose. focused, yet almost disconnected. The absence of grip but the control of it. the disregard of common sense, yet the comprehension of the sensation- the man and machine. surrounded by hundreds, yet isolated to one. Nothing. Nothing comes close.