The long blunt needle of speed nudges deeper into the upper reaches of the dial, gently caressing the soft redness where the engine stops murmuring and starts to purr and moan, growling with heightened desire. Eyes narrow as the driver feels the urgent throb building behind him, waiting for the howl and scream, the explosive trust of force propelling him into orbit.
Time slows as the heat rises, any second now and it will all be released in one huge detonation of noise and speed waiting for great gobs of torque to come hard and fast through the drive shaft to the wheels, which will rend and claw at the tarmac leaving their sticky residue in long thick lines.
The heartbeat quickens, sweat begins to prickle the skin of the driver, hot life giving fluid is pumped by machine. A rising crescendo of throbbing vibration and violent noise as first one then another light is sparks into life, the heart beats wait and then suddenly the lights are gone The cars are launched up the road in their haste to depart the scene before they are asked to pay for their ungentle manly manhandling of the pristine layer of tarmac.
Everywhere there is noise and movement. Flashing machines bark and snap left and right fighting to be freed from the grip of gravity and momentum. Twisting and turning driver and car wrestle each other for control, sweat stinging eyes, temperatures rising hot sticky rubber wearing thin with the strain of keeping everything planted on the edge of control, of adhesion and the short trip to the dark undergrowth and hard, hard wall. Quick precise fingers caress the gentle curves of the circuits, teasing the car to ever greater heights of desire to go faster and faster, building all the time.
Man and machine writhing together, faster and faster the cars pulsating around and around the track until finally the matador stands before the crowd and waves the flag in the face of the rampaging bulls and stallions, the crowd releases its breath in a wave of shouted exultation.
Then suddenly the champagne is being sprayed hard and fast high into the air and over the gently cooling bodies of the cars below. Fountains and fountains of sweet sticky fizz, eyes screwed shut against the jets of ice cold liquid. The media scrum a frenzy of flashlights blazing to capture the moments, the open eyed moment of glory as the victor, fist clenched, finger hard and pointing to the watching throng, demands their adulation and recognition.
I think Vettel will win.