It's a nippy December afternoon in the outskirts of Silverstone, UK, and I'm about to jump into my hunter green Jag XK-150 roadster. I've strapped on a driving cap, tied up my driving shoes, and snapped my goggles about my head. I give the motor a good plug, make a quick Please Start Prayer, and surprisingly, the 210-bhp SE engine roars into life. I gently push the clutch down, push the stick into first, hear a healthy "thunk", and my glorious little British car zooms forward into the sunny English countryside. I take the sweet turns off the main motorway, and decide on a curvaceous winder up towards a nearby hill. My pristine Jaguar takes the curves as gleefully as I do. We pass a young chap on the side of the road, bending over into the hood of his old, overheated Morgan jalopy, a seasoned-motorist wannabe. As we near the top of the hill, I can see from a vista the Silverstone circuit, the most beautiful circuit in all of motor racing. From the top, I can see a---ZZZIT! (vinyl record scratch)

Sorry....I was dreaming. Excuse me.