You see, I've been walking/interval jogging nearly five miles, five days a week in an effort to add some lightness, and though I'm still more closely resemble a fully laden Range Rover than a Lotus Seven, I have lost the equivalent weight of a Honda Civic battery in under two weeks. I'm still eating some pretty extraordinarily unhealthy things once in a while, too, so all in all I'm pretty happy, despite being too tired and sore to do anything at all.
This past Saturday, though, equipped with 800 mg of Ibu and a whole lot of black coffee, I somehow found myself in the LS400 pointed towards Irvine. After meeting up with my buddy Bowl-Rice and his immaculate Oettinger A4, then stopping again to pick up my dad, we ended up arriving pretty late around 7:30.
We'd only been there for a few minutes when I heard something really wicked sounding start and settle into an idle lumpier than the sock full of batteries that I've become accustomed to feeling like I've been beaten with. It was obviously a Wankel - "probably Mad Mike's bridgeported 13B-powered Mango Corolla", I thought. Getting a little closer and seeing the 200 or so captivated men and their annoyed looking female companions (with fingers in ears) surrounding the source of the noise I became very excited - maybe it was some kind of mad triple rotor Cosmo or batshit insane RX-7 drift car?
It was a freaking 787.
Please pardon the poor composition - I had to wait for the crowd to clear to snap these shots, but the situation was still far from conducive to full-frame photography. The first shot is taken from a still of a cell phone shot video, hence the awful resolution and lighting. Speaking of that video, here it is in its full, unedited
glory amateurishness. The brapping begets redlining at about 2:10.
So, that's one dream attained. The sound cannot be conveyed in video - every staccato pop from the exhaust was felt in the chest like a compression wave when standing near large-bore fireworks exploding, or heavy bass at a small venue concert with very large speakers. The shrill, trebly rev peaks that come across as flat and one-note on film are actually comprised of seemingly dozens of layers of harmonized effervescence - like a distant and weak radio broadcast of the Vienna Boy's Choir repeatedly hitting a crescendo through a thick fog of static noise, amplified through god's own hifi.
I will never forget it.