
REPOSE
You are an antlion. Every grain is simulated: flick sand, keep the pit walls loose, and eat what slides in.
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You are an antlion. Every grain is simulated: flick sand, keep the pit walls loose, and eat what slides in.

Sort freight cars over a gravity hump with one retarder. Land each car under 4.5 mph on its listed track, and keep them apart.

Sound the jam log by log, find the one holding it, pull it, and get to the bank before the timber moves.

Pull the pin at the crest, line the switches, squeeze the retarder. Every car rolls differently.

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

Pump the swing like a playground swing. Thirteen ton of iron, three condemned streets — and one listed pub you must not scratch.

Your engine is the Sun. Trim eight hectares of mirror against gravity, ride flare squalls, and race two rivals to a ring around the Moon.

You never aim at the basket. Aim into a line and let spin, wind and fade bend the disc home. Six holes above the Atlantic.

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

One lap, three judges, two laws of the walk — and both feet on the ground whenever anyone's looking.

The oil is the opponent. Skid the front boards, hook the dry backend — and the line that struck last frame is already burning away.

A gale, a wreck on the bar, a rope you must throw over her rigging. The line drags your shot down — and the sea is already breaking her up.

Four columns of water and no hit marker. Read the splashes, walk the salvo on, and chase their fire with your helm.

Centrifugal force is the only rolling pin on stage. The wider it spins, the thinner it hangs — and the ticket always wants an inch more.

You are torque-free for two and a half seconds. Tuck to spin, open to stop — and leap when the sea is coming, not when it looks deep.

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.

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