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The helicopter is the easy part. The 900 kilos swinging thirty metres beneath it has plans of its own.
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The helicopter is the easy part. The 900 kilos swinging thirty metres beneath it has plans of its own.

Burn forward to climb, burn backward to fall — then catch the junk before it shreds the last four satellites in the sky.

Win on the tree, lose in the smoke. Top Fuel is four seconds long and not one of them forgives a flat foot.

No engine, no fuel gauge — the mountain is the motor. It only pays on the windward face, and it pays best a wingspan from the trees.

The judges pay nothing for grip and triple at the lead car's door. Stay sideways, stay close, and don't touch — much.

The fast state and the fatal one are the same state — three tonnes riding half a propeller, and the throttle is also the pitch.

A plane the sky won't keep. Below half a wingspan the sea doubles your wing — climb out of the cushion and it takes everything back.

Full throttle flips you. Backing off buries you. The way up is sideways — one ski edge across the rock band.

The outfit can't lean. The only ballast aboard is your 70 kg passenger — and every left-hander tries to throw the chair in the air.

You top out at 3.5 m/s. The river runs six. The four red gates are upstream — and the only way back up is the water behind the rocks.

There's no steering. Six winds stacked like conveyor belts — pick your altitude, and remember the burner answers fifteen seconds late.

Four motors, 100% each — throttle and steering split what's left. Corner greedy and the mixer feeds your throttle to the turn.

No brakes, no grip, rudders that only bite under power. Hit the water flying — below hump speed your own bow wave owns you.

There is no flip button. The wheels are flywheels — throttle noses you up, brake slams you down. Now backflip 4½ tonnes.

Seven kilometres of downgrade and one tank of brakes. Spend the heat wrong and the mountain does the driving.

No lap times — the score is feet of gravel used. Read the sock, wait for the gust, hang it on the prop, and kiss the chalk line.

Two passes through the measured kilometre. The record is the average. Your first run's wake is still out there, waiting for the second.

Gravity does the driving — your hands can only slow it down. Now take a 270° loop at 4.5g with them nearly still.

One gear. No brakes. Four laps of shale. The only way to slow down is sideways.

Every point comes from flying close to the thing that kills you — and none of it is yours until the canopy opens.

The repo men left you two flippers and a drain. Buy the table back one bumper at a time — and remember, the tilt bob never sleeps.

Your headlights reach forty metres. The pace notes reach the finish. When the call says flat over the crest, it means flat.

Sheet in and the boat builds its own wind. Ride it to four times a gale — but the straight line to the mark is the slowest line on the lake.

You never move the mould. You paint hunger onto the agar and it flows there — stretch a vein too thin and the plate saws you in half.