I'm not making much noise. Really low. Low enough that every rock that hits the 

undercarriage seems like it hits my own. My size 13 Puma-clad feet are wildly attempting to 

find a method to press the densely packed pedals with my legs spread out at an unusual angle.

A whistle over my left shoulder alerts me to how much air the mid-mounted V6 engine 

takes in and ignites in order to move me forward as I speed. 

It is as delightful to dip a spoon into a perfectly ripe crème brulee as this intake note is delectable.