For those with an appetite for holidaying on four wheels, Scotland is hard to beat. The most northern country of the United Kingdom is home to long mountain-lined roads, sweeping valleys skirting around mirror-still lochs, and winding passes that test the mettle of even the hardiest petrolhead. The diversity of its landscapes, and the unreliability of its weather, makes it one of the most dramatic looking places anywhere in the world, and perfect for a road trip.

There are many ways you can tackle it, but one of the more popular in recent years is the North Coast 500. A 516 mile route that laps around the very northern tip of the country, the NC500 takes in all that the Highlands has to offer, beginning at Inverness and passing through Ullapool and Durness before John o’ Groats, the most northern part of the country, then circling back down through Wick, Dingwall, the Muir of Ord and finishing where it started.

Attempting the route in any car, or motorcycle as many do, is a spectacular way of getting your road trip kicks. I was even luckier then, to drive it in not one, but two, of the latest Ferraris. The first of my wheels is the 296 GTS, Ferrari’s ‘entry-level’ sports car, which for the first time in some while comes with six cylinders rather than the usual eight. The last Ferrari to do so was the Dino of the 1960s, so many Ferrari faithful who have become accustomed to the marque’s signature V8s felt they might be getting short changed. Getting behind the wheel of a 296 immediately eliminates any doubt over its credentials.

Firstly, the 3.0-litre twin-turbo V6 produces 654 hp, with its hybrid electric motor boosting total overall power to 819hp. This not only makes it exceptionally quick, but places it in close proximity to Ferrari’s current racing projects, both in Formula One, which have used hybrid V6 engines since 2014, and in WEC, which Ferrari has just won again with its V6 powered 499P. It also sounds the part, with an intoxicating roar that is improved by the GTS’ folding roof. It is also surely one of the better looking Ferraris of recent years. In forgoing some of the more aggressive angles of its predecessor the F8 and other Ferraris of the last decade, the 296 taps into a more elegant look and feel. It is unmistakably a Ferrari, but, finished in Grigio Alloy over a beige leather interior as my car is, it’s both understated and refined.

Behind the wheel, it’s surprisingly easy to drive. It pulls away on the Cameron House Hotel’s drive in electric mode, a novel treat in a Ferrari. It can go for 25km in pure EV mode, meaning you can silently glide through small towns when you might not want to draw too much attention. But ascending up the A82 towards Ben Nevis, it would be rude not to wake the powerful V6. A quick flick of the Manettino switch ignites the engine on the go, in the same way the 499P endurance car bursts into life when leaving the pit lane.

It is not the sound or even the pace of the 296 that impresses most, but the handling. It turns in sharply and predictably, responding to the smallest of inputs and inspiring confidence as you push it. There is a slight hint of body roll, but the car stays remarkably flat through the narrow, winding corners of this part of Scotland. The car has a dry weight of 1540kg, but it tricks you into thinking it’s smaller and lighter than it actually is. Coming out of each corner you only need to breathe on the throttle to enter warp speed, propelling you down the road to the next turn. My 296 gets its respite pulling into the gates of The Torridon, one of Scotland’s finest hotels, located on the banks of the Loch Torridon and on the westerly stretch of the NC500.

My car the next day is a very different beast. The 12Cilindri is Ferrari’s latest grand tourer, and one that in a world of smaller capacity engines and ever few cylinders, should be celebrated for the fact it even exists. Indeed, the 12Cilindri features double the cylinders of the 296, and with none of the turbochargers. This naturally aspirated 6.5-litre pure-breed was built in homage to the V12, the engine which founder Enzo Ferrari believed should be the marque’s only choice. ‘I don’t sell cars; I sell engines’, he once said. ‘The cars I throw in for free since something has to hold the engines in.’

With a starting price of £339,245 (and in this spec, £517,847), that ethos makes the 12Cilindri’s block an expensive prospect. But fire it up and it’s all worth it. The engine is a slightly modified version of the V12 that appeared in the 812 Competizione, producing 830 hp and red lining at a shrieking 9500 rpm. It sounds slightly more muted due to the extensive work the Ferrari engineers had to undertake to help it pass ever increasing emissions regulations, but the result is no less dramatic. Floor it and the raucous intake noise fills the cabin in what is surely one of the most intoxicating experiences behind a steering wheel. The large carbon fibre paddles and F1-inspired shift lights integrated on the wheel make each gear change an event, further squeezing every ounce of serotonin from your body.

If there is one problem with the 12Cilindri it’s that it might be too fast. While you can happily drive it sensibly for hundreds of miles at a time, allowing its comfortably damped suspension to soak up the tarmac ahead, the excitement of its engine soon becomes overwhelming, and you find yourself wanting to eek out every last rpm as you chase the redline. This makes Scotland’s roads feel tiny, as each corner comes at you thick and fast while the mountains blur either side. To really appreciate the landscape, and the car, regular stops are needed. On this part of the NC500, this is no bad thing. The car park next to the Kylesku Bridge is as good a place as any. A popular stop on the NC500, it’s a sweeping, brutal concrete design that crosses the Loch a’ Chàirn Bhàin. It’s a picturesque backdrop for the 12Cilindri, with its own long, brutal lines that reference the 365 GTB ‘Daytona’. Will it be the last V12 as Ferrari looks to unveil its first electric car? That remains to be seen. For now, it’s onward, further north; there are more roads to discover, and more rpm to be extracted.

This article first appeared in The Rake.

It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. The fog thickens as we ascend further up the San Bernardino mountain pass in the Swiss Alps. Rain intensifies from a light spit to a thunderous clatter as the road winds towards the dense clouds. Visibility worsens with every bend, and now, any progress is made largely by guesswork. Car lights suddenly appear from the white, rushing towards us and allowing little time to think. The road markings have long gone, and we only know we’re entering a corner when halfway through it. We’re three days into the Great Malle Mountain Rally and I’m wondering if I can go on.

I’m one of 75 riders taking part in this new annual motorcycle rally, which is the largest ever attempted in the Alps. It was dreamt up by Malle London, a company that, when it’s not organising such adventure-travel excursions, produces robust, practical luggage and hard-wearing jackets designed for stylish motorcycling. Created off the back of Malle’s annual UK ride from Land’s End in England to John o’ Groats in Scotland, this motoring foray is the first time the outfit has tackled continental Europe, and the challenge is bigger than ever before. The route takes in 1,500 miles in six days and goes through Austria, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Italy, France and, finally, Monaco, where riders finish by taking a dip in the Mediterranean.

That last part seems like an impossible luxury at the moment, as I now attempt to descend the pass in the pouring rain and with limited range of vision. Reaching a high-point of 6,778 feet in elevation, the 20-mile serpentine route is one of the most beautiful in Europe, taking in mountain lakes, castle ruins and waterfalls as it dissects the soaring peaks that dominate this part of Switzerland. But in my current convoy of five riders, we see none of that as the dense blanket of fog stubbornly blocks the view. As we make our way down the other side it eventually begins to clear, but the rain holds up.

The week wasn’t always wet. The day prior, I awoke to the sight of orange-tinged mountaintops as the sun rose. This was a welcome sign on the longest day of the rally, with 221 miles through three countries ahead of us. The route would involve traversing the notorious Stelvio Pass, one of the highest driving roads in the world. Topping out at 9,045 feet above sea level, the stretch is a marvel of engineering with its 60 hairpin switchbacks that carve through the mountainside. Yet there is little time to consider the surroundings when hauling a motorcycle to the summit. It’s only when you get there that it’s possible to fully appreciate the technicality and beauty of the twisting tarmac you just navigated.

Compared to others, I had it easy. Malle originally started arranging these rallies for “inappropriate”’ motorcycles, encouraging riders to enter the wildest vintage bobbers, flat trackers, cruisers and cafe racers, all in the spirit of old-school adventure. This year saw incredibly cool but rather impractical machines enter, like a late 1970s Honda CBX, a Kawasaki ZRX1200R turned custom by Debolex Engineering and a Harley Davidson Breakout—a drag-style chopper better suited to Route 66. My ride is a Royal Enfield Interceptor 650, which is among the most practical models that could have been selected.

First introduced in 2018, the Interceptor 650 is based on a classic Enfield design of the same name that was originally made from 1960 through 1970. Its 650 cc parallel-twin motor stands out amongst the smaller single-cylinder power plants that the India-based marque is well known for. And while still modest compared to the increasingly powerful competition, its output is more than you ever realistically need for the road.

Lightweight and easy to maneuver at slow speeds, the Interceptor instantly instils confidence, which comes in handy on the many tight, 90-degree hairpins I encounter over the week. When the road opens up, the bike comes into its own; its 47 bhp, burbling twin propelling me out of corners with a surprising pace. Indeed, keep the revs high and the Interceptor will hang onto the coattails of much more powerful sport bikes. My particular example comes with a red-and-gold chrome fuel tank to match its gleaming engine and upswept exhausts, tapping further into the bike’s 1960s heritage.

None of this, of course, matters on the last day of the rally, after I’ve conquered the Stelvio, the Dolomites, the Furka and the Col de l’Iseran pass, the highest and perhaps most remarkable paved road in the entire Alps. I can no longer pull in the clutch, my backside feels like it will be permanently sore and my arms are locked into a perpetual double fist bump. The rally pushes you to your limit, redefining what you previously thought possible on a motorbike. With that comes an enormous sense of achievement. It’s the motoring equivalent of running a marathon every day, with all the physical and mental strains that come with it; but then there’s the satisfaction and endorphin rush, too.

At the end of this day of fog, rain and hairpins, I sit at the top of the camp in Chaeserstatt, which is at an altitude of 5,800 feet. Overlooking an endless horizon of mountains, I’m halfway between crying and uncontrollable excitement, my arms and legs tingling with adrenaline. It’s a feeling humans have been chasing for centuries, propelling them to attempt ludicrous things in the name of exploration.

A version of this article first appeared in Robb Report.

Las Vegas is a strange place. Its central, tourist heart is at once sprawling and compact, and it assaults the senses both in the daytime and after dark. It is a welcome site when you first see it on the I-15’s horizon, towers sprouting up in the haze of the Nevada heat. Get closer and the buildings multiply and suddenly you’re in a maze of concrete and traffic and many signs. Signs everywhere, advertising casinos, hotels, wedding chapels and fast food. At night these take on a seedier edge. One van drives up and down the Strip exclaiming ‘escorts, direct to you!’ on its oversized advertising hoarding. Las Vegas, it seems, is not a place one visits for history, which is a shame as the city has a very interesting one.

In my search for the Vegas of old I am staying on the Strip’s newest, and largest hotel, the Fontainebleau. It’s a 729 ft monolith, making it Vegas’ tallest tower. There are 3,644 rooms, 36 restaurants and bars, and a 173,000 sq ft casino. It opened in December 2023, and it feels brand new and with an attention to detail that’s lost on similarly huge hotels. It’s located a little further down the Strip, away from little Paris and New York, which instantly gives it a more relaxing feel. If you are positioned on the tower’s south side you get a view of the action from the comfort of your room.

There wasn’t always as much to look at in Las Vegas. The modern settlement came to be in 1905, and in 1911 it formed part of Clark County, becoming the county seat. Prior to that, Native Americans lived in the Las Vegas valley as early as 10,000 years ago. The area was annexed to the United States in 1855, resulting in the widespread displacement of tribes including the Las Vegas Paiute Tribe.

The city didn’t really become the Vegas we know today until the 1930s. In ’31, construction of the Hoover Dam, then known as the Boulder Dam, began. With it thousands of young male manual workers came to town, which is when the casinos, bars and theatres popped up. Prohibition didn’t end until 1933, but that didn’t stop a number of stores offering illegal liquor sales before then. In January of ’31, the Prohibition Bureau undertook its longest ever series of raids, with twenty-three agents from Los Angeles uncovering nine Las Vegas speakeasies in an undercover operation.

Only a few months later in May ’31, the first hotel-casino resort was unveiled. The Meadows Club, opened by Frank and Louis Cornero, who were brothers of bootlegger Tony Cornero, was located on Fremont Street. It kickstarted a series of similar resorts, and the template for the Vegas hotel was set. It wasn’t long before the mafia got involved.

The mob were the key to Vegas’ success, financing much of it throughout the ‘40s and ‘50s. The first mob-run hotel was the Flamingo, one of a number of hotels that were built on the Strip, moving Las Vegas’ centre away from Fremont Street. Billy Wilkerson, founder of The Hollywood Reporter originally came up with the idea, purchasing the land in 1945. But his mistake was the business partners he chose, one of whom was Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegel.

According to the Mob Museum in Las Vegas: “As Ben Siegel became more involved with the Flamingo construction, he sought to diminish Billy Wikerson’s role in the project. Ultimately, Siegel forced Wilkerson out. In March 1947, Siegel signed an agreement to buy out Wilkerson for $600,000. Siegel paid Wilkerson half the money in April, with the other half due in August.” Siegel had his own problems though, and was believed to be embezzling money from the casino. His mob associates found out, murdered him in June, and Meyer Lansky took over. Wilkerson never got the rest of his money.

Today, the Flamingo, and the majority of Vegas, looks nothing like it did back then. The final part of the original Flamingo building was demolished in 1993 to make way for a huge high-res tower. Las Vegas, like many cities, has constantly reinvented itself, with new structures, ventures and ideas popping up every year. The Sphere is one such recent addition, and the re-arrival of Formula One has spurred a new interest in the city.

There are snippets of history to be found. Take a drive down Fremont Street east and go back in time to the Vegas of old. This was where the majority of the resorts were located throughout the ‘30s before the Strip became a thing in the ‘40s. A far cry from the huge developments a mile down the road, the street is full of old motel signs, smaller casinos and the occasional sign for ‘strippers’. It’s interesting to see the difference in the buildings’ scale, as well as the original motor hotels and colourful signage.

There are at least a couple of places trying to preserve Vegas’ history, too. The aforementioned Mob Museum on the nearby Stewart Avenue is an excellent telling of the mafia connection, as well as a general history on the city. It houses a pearl-gripped .38 Smith & Wesson belonging to Al Capone, and original ‘figural’ slot machines from the Pioneer Club, which closed in 1995. The Neon Museum too has collected a vast number of original signs from old casinos, displaying them in the backyard of the restored 1961 La Concha Motel. The museum’s mission has been to protect and restore these original neon signs, all of which have their own artistic and cultural significance.

As for a place to stay, the Fontainebleau is a truly impressive operation. The building’s vastness can be slightly overwhelming, but the attentiveness of the staff instantly makes you feel at home. The rooms favour a clean, minimal decor, and the spa is perfect for a relaxing day, but the restaurants were the big standout. Chyna club offers its own take on Chinese fine dining, while Don’s Prime delivers some of the best steak you’ll find anywhere. Both restaurants are technically just off the casino floor, but you forget this as soon as you enter, which is a testament to the interior design, lighting and knowledgeable staff.

The Fontainebleau, like Las Vegas, is an escape from reality. It’s why people have flocked to this desert oasis over the decades, throughout its varying shapeshifting forms. This is surely what drew those Hoover Dam workers to the city nearly a hundred years ago, and it remains true today.

This article first appeared in The Rake magazine.

Every September, a beach on the south coast of Wales is transformed. A seven mile stretch, Pendine Sands becomes a drag strip, overwhelmed by burbling V8s and a community intent on breaking records. Once the home of speed in the 1920s, it’s where Sir Malcolm Campbell tested Blue Bird, becoming the first man to break the 150mph barrier in 1925. Land speed record attempts moved to the Bonneville Salt Flats for its larger size, but Pendine will always be associated with those early years of speed.

Today, the Vintage Hot Rod Association runs the annual September races in the spirit of days gone-by. Only pre-1949 hot rods are allowed to enter, with competitors flying in from all around the world to do so. Speeds regularly hit in excess of 130mph, which is a sight to see on this otherwise serene patch of Welsh coast. On a visit in 2024, I met a passionate community of enthusiasts who were open to being photographed in between runs. This is what I saw.

Front engined, rear wheel drive. It’s a recipe that has served Aston Martin for decades. The brand has become synonymous with generously sized, powerful GT cars; the kind you could jump in, fire up, leather holdalls filling the rear boot, and jaunt across the continent in effortless style. The DB5 was a case in point when it launched in 1963, so much so that it became 007’s steed of choice, after the filmic Bond swapped out the literary Bond’s favoured Bentley 4½ Litre. Later DBs continued the lineage, getting ever more powerful and capable, up to the most recent DB12, a potent twin-turbo V8 designed for crossing entire countries in one hit.

The Valhalla is different. It is for the first time in a series production Aston Martin, mid-engined. It’s four wheel drive and doesn’t have a long bonnet or indeed, any room for luggage. It has a Q Branch style rear wing that ascends out of its rear flank, F1-style aero fins and 1,064hp. It is nothing like the GTs that Aston has made its name with. And it might be the most exciting car the brand has ever made.

It’s also the most technologically advanced. A state-of-the-art hybrid with a 4.0-litre twin-turbo V8, it shares plenty with Fernando Alonso’s daily driver. Yes, the Valhalla has been developed in close collaboration with Aston Martin’s Formula 1 team, specifically on the driving dynamics, aero and the use of carbon fibre, which is everywhere. The company said much was learned when working with F1 design legend Adrian Newey on the Valkyrie project, and plenty has been re-applied here. There’s the ability to generate the same amount of downforce, a huge 600kg from 149mph to the 217mph top speed. This is thanks to the Valhalla’s active aerodynamics, which can also subtly reduce the angle of the giant rear wing to ‘bleed’ extra downforce as the speed increases, keeping consistent balance at all times. It works in partnership with a concealed front wing underneath the car, which funnels air through the ground effect channels on the floor.

There’s the new bespoke carbon fibre tub engineered by Aston Martin Performance Technologies, which works on the F1 car’s own carbon monocoque. This helps keep weight down to 1,655kg, while also providing incredible stiffness and strength. Elsewhere, two electric motors on the front wheels give torque fill and torque vectoring, as well as regenerative braking, an EV-only drive mode and reverse gear. Then there’s the way it looks, combining the smooth lines and signature grille synonymous with Aston Martin, with the more aggressive motorsport-inspired details including the roof air intake and side pods.

It might look like a Le Mans Hypercar, but the Valhalla doesn’t want to kill you. Pull away silently in electric mode and it’s a car you can immediately and confidently drive around town. It feels very similar to any other new car, albeit lower and more precise. If you are one of the lucky 999 owners, this means you can silently float through small towns and cities, with no obnoxious V8 annoying the neighbours.

Fire up the twin-turbocharged V8 and you’ll notice it sounds different to other Astons. The Valhalla’s engine has a flat-plane crank, giving it a more mechanical, raw and quicker revving engine note. While not as characterful as a Vantage or DB12, it comes with its own appeal. Accelerate hard through the gears and the relentless soundtrack is more akin to an endurance racer. Lift off and the whooshes and whirs of the turbos fill the cabin. It’s an intoxicating experience, the engine spurring you on and wanting to be pushed further. On the road, 1,064 hp is more than you’d ever need. But the power is somehow accessible and easy to manage. This is helped by the size and weight of the car. Unlike many new cars it doesn’t feel too big or heavy. There is a balance between the power, the exceptional braking and the cornering.

This is best explored on track. While not designed as a track car, the Valhalla will be right at home at any circuit in the world. This is thanks to its power but also its remarkable active aero. Put the car into ‘Race’ mode and the rear wing extends up and out of the bodywork, with which it otherwise sits flush. Like F1 cars of the past decade, it has DRS where the wing lets air through for maximum velocity. But it also works as an air brake, flipping up under hard braking, working with the front wing to help slow the car down. This helps keep it planted through high speed corners, adding further grip to the already sticky bespoke Michelin tyres.

It’s the handling that might be the Valhalla’s greatest strength. It has a satisfying, pointy front end - if you miss the apex of a corner, lift off slightly and the car finds an extra degree of turn-in, instantly correcting your misjudgement. Then, accelerate hard out of the corner and it finds the traction, the power delivery brutal but remarkably linear. All of this adds up to create a car which instantly gives you confidence. Jump in and within two laps you feel like you can extract maximum performance, pushing both the car’s, and your own, limit.

Whether you’re really getting the most of the Valhalla or not doesn’t really matter. It makes you feel special, whether gliding through town or linking apexes at the Circuit Navarra. For £850,000, you would hope this is the case, but even then it’s a winner. Its nearest rival the Ferrari F80 costs £3.1 million, making it somewhat of a bargain in comparison. Aston Martin may not have hit the mark for its F1 2026 program. But with its road cars, it has never looked better.

This article first appeared in GQ magazine.

You don’t have to like motorcycles to appreciate the creations of Max Hazan. Part engineer, part artist, the Long Island native makes machines that look at once striking and otherworldly. He does this in an unassuming workshop two floors up in a ‘50s former sweatshop in Los Angeles’ Fashion District, an area more known for its wholesale merchants than its bespoke motorcycles. Hazan heats, bends, shapes, welds and forges each piece of metal, from individual cogs to handlebars and swooping fuel tanks.

He always starts with the engine, the only piece not created from scratch. Usually favouring a vintage block, he might go for a thumping old Royal Enfield single-cylinder, or a Vincent twin from the midcentury. These are often so old that he has to rebuild them entirely, sometimes adding a turbo or supercharger for a more contemporary boost. With the engine as the focal point, the rest of the bike takes shape around it, and the results can be spectacular: previous builds include a BSA 500 complete with ‘30s-style rear fender (sold for $115,000), and a 300bhp land-speed record bike called Saltshaker ($95,000).

Hazan recently broke the motorcycle internet again, building a custom bike around the most unlikely of engines: a 3.5-litre, 375hp V8 taken from a Ferrari F355. It looks, and sounds, insane, attesting to his engineering skills and ingenuity.

The above is an extract from an article that first appeared in the Financial Times.

I’ve never been happier to see tarmac. The grey ribbon of road ahead of me flashes through the lush green of the Vietnam landscape. It comes at the perfect moment. I have just fallen from my motorbike, the back end sliding out mid-corner on a dusty gravel mountain pass in Hà Gian, so to be back on a real, proper road is a relief.

I have ridden 300 miles through picturesque tea plantations, boarded a boat on Thác Bà Lake and traversed the single-lan tracks of Hoàng Su Phì. Three days into a 12-day, 1,000 mile guided motorbike adventure through north Vietnam, I am already taken by this beautiful country, its people and its food.

The trip, organised by Vintage Rides, begins in the capital Hanoi. Where the air is saturated with petrol and garlic - the two-stroke scooter engines in a constant battle with the sizzling pans on the sides of the street. To cross the road is an achievement in itself, a dizzying feat of calculated steps, the scooters and cars dancing around in their quest for space. Join on your own scooter or motorbike and you’ll never question the traffic in London or Los Angeles again.

But life slows down after we leave the city. An hour’s ride north of Hanoi finds the deep countryside where farmers grow rice or tobacco. The paddies open out, country lanes narrow and spectacular karst rock formations appear.

This is an extract from an article that first appeared in the Financial Times.

It’s 6am and there’s already a queue. The sun is just peeking above the horizon, squinting its first light of the day. Cruising down Bonneville Speedway Road there are a number of vehicles waiting to turn left at the tarmac’s end. It is this sharp turn where you enter the speedway itself, a sprawling nine mile run of perfectly flat salt. It is Bonneville Speed Week, and in just under an hour the first vehicles will power off the start line.

Motorcycles overtake the trucks, RVs and hot rods queuing, and are the first ones to make it on the salt. Once it’s our turn, we indicate over, drive past the famous Speedway sign and head towards where the action is happening. The paddock is a hive of activity. At Speed Week, the mornings are a popular time for running. Before the sun gets its strength there is a cold, crispness to the air that suits the engines spluttering to life. As you’re not allowed to camp on the Speedway overnight, people frantically drive in to get set up as early as possible. Pre-war motorcycles are kick started to life, revving impossibly loud for their relatively small engine sizes. The record breaking streamliners are towed in towards the start line, while last minute tweaks and fixes see the mechanics put to work early.

All of this as the sun slowly comes up, bathing the otherwise empty white landscape in an orange glow. The shadows are long and cold, furthering the sense of drama of this most unusual of morning commutes. Spectators look on, enjoying their morning coffee. The Marshalls are at their posts, ready to go. The competitors are geared up, ready for the first run of the day. Like the landscape surrounding it, it makes for an otherworldly scene, unlike anything else in motorsport.

This is my first time at Bonneville. In some ways it feels like stepping back in time. For a start there are no big brands present. There are no headline sponsors or manufacturers with tents plugging their latest cars. The lack of commerciality alone makes it unique. The only hint of external branding is Sunoco, whose large tanker provides all the fuel for the week. Fancy breakfast or lunch? The choice is a burger or hot dog from the excellent, and only, food stand. Speed Week has been purposely kept this way, free from corporate greed. “We don’t want it”, Bonneville regular Phil Tolley tells me. “Money ruins it”.

Many people here are Speed Week regulars. There’s Judy Sights, one of the volunteers who keeps the whole operation ticking. She used to race, first entering in 1998 with her turbocharged Mazda Miata. At 87, she’s now happy to watch from the comfort of the air conditioned organiser’s truck. There’s a wide mix of people taking part, including big name record holders to smaller independents, who built their creations in their backyards. The vehicles are varied too, from fully custom, six-cylinder motorcycles to hundred-year-old Harleys; and highly tuned road cars to 500mph+ streamliners. Watching one go full power down the nine mile straight is a singular sight.

Some do so with simple set ups. A couple of red fold up camping chairs, a large parasol and a coolbox to store the necessary refreshments. Others have the comfort of a large RV, a retractable sun shade and their own BBQ. I have a press pass, so I’m in the thick of it at the start line, able to get up close with the machinery in all its forms. With my ‘press’ vest I’m able to walk out beyond the start, doing so at a 45 degree angle to give me time to react should a launch go wrong. I go out just far enough and realise I’m the last person each competitor will see ahead of them for the next nine miles. They accelerate fast and hard and afterwards there’s just the eerie stillness of the salt flats left before the next engine rumbles to life, ready to test the mettle of its driver.

If you’re lucky enough to visit Bonneville at any time of year, you won’t be disappointed. The sparseness is addictive. Huge pastel blue skies, bright white salt for miles and mountain backdrops. It’s a combination only bettered by a V8 soundtrack and a hot rod blurring into the heat haze on the distant horizon.

There’s something about a long stretch of road laid out before you. It’s all the clichés. Freedom, possibility, exploration. What’s up ahead? Maybe it’s a better view, or a roadside burger joint. Maybe there’s nothing. Maybe you want the road to never end. Driving a car can be therapeutic. Riding a motorcycle even more so. Doing either on a good road is hard to beat. It stirs emotion. If the light is right, it can be cinematic, like you’re in control of your own miniature narrative that plays out as the wheels keep rolling. It’s escapism at its best, and why we keep coming back for more.