The McLaren supercar is as close as you'll ever come to an asphalt-bound fighter jet. I'm screaming down a racetrack straightaway so quickly that I'd swear my silver car actually has after-burners.
I lift off the gas, downshift a gear and kite into a tight U-shaped curve, brushing the brakes only once. A warning chimes in my brain, telling me I'm going to crash into a wall or go into a terrible spin. Too much speed, too complicated a turn.
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