Driving over 300 miles per hour is like convincing a hurricane to give you a piggyback ride while you try to drink a latte. The world stops behaving like “scenery” and starts behaving like a smeared oil painting someone sneezed on—trees become green streaks, road signs flash past so fast they might as well be subliminal messages, and your face feels like it’s trying to migrate to the back of your skull.
Your car, meanwhile, is having a loud and existential conversation with physics. Every bolt is screaming “WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?!” while the tires grip the pavement with the desperate enthusiasm of a cat clinging to a bathtub edge. Even the air itself is offended, punching the vehicle with invisible fists of drag. Blink once, and you’ve traveled a football field; blink twice, and you’ve crossed a county line. At that speed, “oops” isn’t just a mistake—it’s an autobiography.