JOKING ASIDE NOW LETS BE SERIOUS.   The light turns green, the dirt starts to fly, A speedway rider with a gleam in his eye. He’s got no brakes and a frame made of grit, Just a heavy steel shoe and a "don't care" bit.     He slides through the corner at a forty-degree bend, Praying the fence isn't his newest best friend. The bike’s screaming loud, the crowd’s in a daze, While he’s lost in a thick, methanol-scented haze. He finishes the heat, all covered in muck, And says to his mechanic, "Well, that was some luck! I didn't hit anyone, I stayed on the track, Now help me find where I left my lower back."

The one before the calm 

Nicknamed Spunky. He’s the guy who won the amateur cummers and rapist championship back in the 80s

What storm?

Let’s say 2ish shall we

What tunnel are we looking down