There are moments in your life where you feel that you have to do what your body ask you to do. That was my case a few weeks ago, decided to jump onto that flight to Liverpool to try out on my own flesh what was that dirt tracking thing about. The main idea was practicing for a couple of days on a private track up north UK, and then going doing towards London to the Rye House track, to practice once more on a bigger one , and finally race with the novel ones on Sunday.
The problem was that I not only tried it out on my flesh, but in my bones, so I ended up with a broken foot before Rye House. What I finally did was dragging myself on crutches to the Rye House race, just to see the real-skidding-pro-ones-motherfuckers.
What I found there was a wild horde coming for hell ready to turn left faster than anyone, no matter what, who is in front and not looking back. Kids and not so kids ready to fight to eat dust the less, riding on impossible positions all of them followed by a horrifyc red cloud of infernal dirt that hardly let you breathe. A spectacle worthy of a Coliseum, like authentics gladiators.
Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant!!.