Trackday one

So why Trackdayspecial. No particular reason, other than I recently spent a day stood on the side of a track watching various forms of exotica blip past in the distance. It didn’t rain, which was good. The day lasted forever, which wasn’t.

I need to confess at this point I have an aversion to question marks, a bit like a phobia of buttons. Can you get through the day without seeing a button. It's the same with question marks.

The question I asked myself stood at the side of the track was why am I here. A three hundred quid birthday present for someone I love. (Yes, I’m lying, it was one fifty nine and we were only there for three hours. It felt longer. The point remains valid.)

What point. Standing at the side of a track for three hours so the person who’s present it was could get exactly nine minutes of track time. Someone was getting rich and it wasn’t me.

For the record they drove a Ferrari F430 and a Porsche 911 Carrera 2. Three laps in each. Just enough to know how the other one percent lives, get the first inkling of an addiction, eat ice cream on the way home. Wonderful stuff ice cream, if it had been freely available in the nineteenth century there never would have been a working class movement. It’s a metaphor for the middle class. Ask the guy that leases the Ferrari that someone drives for three and a half minutes.

So why did I get the present in the first place. It’s a dream. Not my dream. In my dream the fat lady crosses the road and gets run over by a white transit van just as she opens her mouth to sing. Thunk. What was that.