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It’s a hot August day, and you’re sitting on the metal bleachers inside a packed arena. In front of you sit two souped-up tractors with large sleds attached to the back, waiting in anticipation for a ...

Then you smell the fumes, diesel for sure, but also a cocktail of methanol, aviation gas, perhaps a little E85, and plenty of red dust. And, finally, the action: the organised mayhem, an intertwining ...