And the first is getting closer, rushing toward the Lambo's windshield like we're seeing it both in slow motion and fast forward at the same time.
Right foot pinned to the floor. Throttle wide open—yawning, gaping, screaming for justice. The Lamborghini's engine roars, both aptly and tritely, like an enraged bull. A big, angry bull with a banderilla deep in each shoulder and a suspicion that you've been dating its mother. Yet our pace is undiminished, the hairpin closing in, fat lines of rubber leading to it and through it and toward the flimsy, battered barrier that lies beyond.
Up above, the sun toys with the mountain peaks, licking them lovingly to life, turning them—metaphorically if not quite literally—into gigantic pink Popsicles. But down here we're in the shadow of…
