18 June, 2011

11 June, 2011


if it was up solely to me i would name our first born ayrton.
how i loved the man, let me count the ways.
not only was he staggeringly sexy, charismatic, intense, talented, not-of-this world. he was proud. and petulant. simply put, i remember swathes of my semi-unhappy adolescence crouched in hardwick, cambridge watching this man race. i was never interested in formula one before nor have i been interested since. he elevated it to an art form and his rivalry with alain proust is up there with the bjorg/McEnroe dance of foes.

as i teared up on air force two en route to zambia to the preoccupied bemusement of the hostess ("are you ok?") i thought to myself, well when did the 90s and my youth feel so dated. i felt mildly prehistoric in remembering recent history, so fresh in my mind, given the retrospective treatment. ayrton will always be 34. incidentally my age.