On Friday morning we leave the environs of Belgium and chart a course southeast towards Spa-Francorchamps, the autosport enthusiast's shrine to Michael Schumacher, where he was given his first chance to compete and quickly launched a long career of domination in the sport. One Grand Prix event is more or less designated to one country per year, and for that country, when that event is in town, it has all the logistical and consumeristic fervor of an American Super Bowl, except without the half-time show. There are people, come from far and wide, to somehow be a witness to the projectiles which zoom by them at 200 mph. And the noise, oh the beautiful noise- not like a rock yourself to sleep at night beautiful, but a slivery drone of jurassic hornets zooming in powerful circles, a cacaphony of turbine engines propelling these four-wheeled missiles, capsule attached to extended struts connected to soft tires whose decomposition leaves balls of peeled off rubber on the track.
As long as the F-1's are racing, you can not escape the drones - but if you are lucky enough to secure a vantage point, you will understand why you didn't just stay home to watch this on tv. When you stand looking over a wall as these vehicles come full speed at 200 mph to within 10 yards of you - you are blown back, and then your auditory senses are assaulted by the sonic barrage of the engines as they rev all the efficiency of an 800 hph engine - they are essentially jets on wheels.
Tip: When you go to a formula-one event, be sure to wear earplugs.
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