16 May 2006
Living with petrol in your blood
There is no denying the obvious.
I'm a "petrol-blood".
I've been brought into the world with a passion for cars.
There is something about these machines of skillful engineering that captured my imagination since a child.
Its sounds.
Its vibes.
The way it moves.
The way it exictes the senses.
The way it gets a thousand kilos of mass moving fast and around corners
Put simply ... its like beautiful artworks on wheels .... or a perfect symphony of engineering.
And like art, its almost impossible for me to explain my passion to non-petrol-heads. Its like explaining art to shallow minded folk.
I am completely oblivious to gorgeous supermodels in skimpy swimsuits brushing past me but flex my neck at the slightest hint of Ferrari Red coming down the motorway.
I can easily remember the cylinder firing sequence of a 1989 BMW E30 320i but never remember when my country reached independence (not that it would matter anyway).
I have strict taste when it comes to car designs and modifications but I dress like a person who hasnt' peeked outside his bomb shelter since 1947.
Its not easy living with petrol in your blood.
Friends either think you're crazy or have "different" sexual prefferences.
A steady conversation is an impossibility when you're near a roadway.
Find a female who understands your passion is impossible.
Find a female who could live with your passion is even more impossible. (Jeremy Clarkson, you're one lucky son-of-a-b*, you know that?)
Now before you start making assumptions, let me emphasize:
I'm a petrol-blood.
Not an andrenaline-junkie.
Not a status-desperado.
I love cars. Their engineering and their beauty as a sculpture in motion and as a machine.
I'm not a pathetic ah-beng-blond-hair-dyed-Jap-boy-Takumi-wannabe-pathetic-AE-86-worshiper-street-racing-lemming.
I'm not a stupid ride-in-chauffeur-driven-expensive-limo-down-Sunset-Boulevard-wanting-camera-flashes-and-screaming-girls-loser.
The andrenaline-junkie would watch japanese drift videos and dreams of how much attention he could get.
The status-desperado would find the car with the best status symbol and dreams of how much attention he could get.
A petrol-blood would treat the machine as if it were a living being. He learns how it works and how it responds. He treats it like he would treat his wife: Learn where her limits are and how she wants to reach it. He never thinks of how much attention he could get, but how much attention he could give.
The junkie would love long straight stretches of road for him to reach top speeds and get the rush from seeing how high he can push his speedometer.
The desperado would love busy high class restaurants for him to pull up in and hoping for women to notice.
A petrol-blood would love an empty twisting road, just him and the car. Man and machine working in perfect symbiosis, learning each other's limits and to push it further.
Should "petrol-blood" be listed as a disability, insanity, addiction or passion. I'll let you decide. For now, I heed the call of the internal combustion.
I'm a "petrol-blood".
I've been brought into the world with a passion for cars.
There is something about these machines of skillful engineering that captured my imagination since a child.
Its sounds.
Its vibes.
The way it moves.
The way it exictes the senses.
The way it gets a thousand kilos of mass moving fast and around corners
Put simply ... its like beautiful artworks on wheels .... or a perfect symphony of engineering.
And like art, its almost impossible for me to explain my passion to non-petrol-heads. Its like explaining art to shallow minded folk.
I am completely oblivious to gorgeous supermodels in skimpy swimsuits brushing past me but flex my neck at the slightest hint of Ferrari Red coming down the motorway.
I can easily remember the cylinder firing sequence of a 1989 BMW E30 320i but never remember when my country reached independence (not that it would matter anyway).
I have strict taste when it comes to car designs and modifications but I dress like a person who hasnt' peeked outside his bomb shelter since 1947.
Its not easy living with petrol in your blood.
Friends either think you're crazy or have "different" sexual prefferences.
A steady conversation is an impossibility when you're near a roadway.
Find a female who understands your passion is impossible.
Find a female who could live with your passion is even more impossible. (Jeremy Clarkson, you're one lucky son-of-a-b*, you know that?)
Now before you start making assumptions, let me emphasize:
I'm a petrol-blood.
Not an andrenaline-junkie.
Not a status-desperado.
I love cars. Their engineering and their beauty as a sculpture in motion and as a machine.
I'm not a pathetic ah-beng-blond-hair-dyed-Jap-boy-Takumi-wannabe-pathetic-AE-86-worshiper-street-racing-lemming.
I'm not a stupid ride-in-chauffeur-driven-expensive-limo-down-Sunset-Boulevard-wanting-camera-flashes-and-screaming-girls-loser.
The andrenaline-junkie would watch japanese drift videos and dreams of how much attention he could get.
The status-desperado would find the car with the best status symbol and dreams of how much attention he could get.
A petrol-blood would treat the machine as if it were a living being. He learns how it works and how it responds. He treats it like he would treat his wife: Learn where her limits are and how she wants to reach it. He never thinks of how much attention he could get, but how much attention he could give.
The junkie would love long straight stretches of road for him to reach top speeds and get the rush from seeing how high he can push his speedometer.
The desperado would love busy high class restaurants for him to pull up in and hoping for women to notice.
A petrol-blood would love an empty twisting road, just him and the car. Man and machine working in perfect symbiosis, learning each other's limits and to push it further.
Should "petrol-blood" be listed as a disability, insanity, addiction or passion. I'll let you decide. For now, I heed the call of the internal combustion.
