We’ve all been there: one minute you’re kicking back, sipping Dom Perignon from the navel of a “relaxation specialist,” wondering if her fee can be counted as a business expense on your taxes, and the next you’re wearing a black hood in the back of a clapped-out Cadillac Coupe DeVille.
When you awake to the smell of cheap cologne, body odor and crushed aspirations, you’re being dragged into a time-worn trailer, parked in a place where no one can hear you scream. Next, there’s the contract, and you set aside your fear long enough to spit on it as the ultimate act of defiance.
And then your captors break out the binder full of women. Sure, some of the photos are composed in Photoshop (at least you hope they are, swearing silently that you’ll never mix aquavit, grappa and slivovitz again), but enough are legitimate to convince you that signing on the dotted line, any dotted line, beats the alternative.
For those who think racing cars professionally is all glamour and fun, let this video be a reminder to you that motorsports has a seedy underbelly, even at its highest levels. As the saying goes, keep your friends close, but keep your sponsors closer.