So there is this thing that occurs shortly after a 1972 Porsche 917/10 fires up approximately three feet from your face. Your manly parts curl up and withdraw into your lower esophagus, and your toes shrink a little, and you sit there simply trying to come to grips with the ungodly noise. It’s thick and crackly and unpredictable, only there’s this driving, basso rhythm to it, as if a thousand bowling balls were trying to destroy each other inside an oil drum. Only it sounds deeper than that. Far deeper.
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