It's snowing. The sky sweating fat, lazy snowflakes that give the impression that they can't really be bothered to fall, the horizon blurred the colour of regret. The Dolomites in late February; majestic, romantic, and if you don't like the weather, just wait a bit. It looked happily imposing just an hour ago, but now the weather gods have got all grumpy and drawn a veil across the view. Admittedly, it wouldn't be so bad if the ill-equipped chase car hadn't slithered off, snapped a snowchain and proved itself incapable, but that's where we are. We forgot to have breakfast, gloom is going viral, and everyone is getting lightly annoyed and hangry. Except me. I'm confused.
Some of the things make sense. I'm in a Ferrari, with a recognisable Ferrari steering wheel festooned with the usual sticky out bits. There's a big capacity V12 trying to inhale the mountain and making Ferrari noises, and the rear wheels seem to castor around a central pivot when you apply too much throttle on hairpin exit. Too much throttle on hairpin exit is fun. The big central rev-counter is sunshine yellow, and the needle keeps bounding merrily to one o'clock before jerking backwards as the big paddles do the usual; a snappy keychange while that engine keeps blaring Super Unleaded's greatest hits at full volume. All is as it should be.
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