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In Phil's review of Forza Horizon 4 , he's still smitten with the excellent, adaptable vehicle handling: "The racing remains peerless.
It's a perfect blend of forgiving arcade handling with an obsessive attention to detail that ensures each car feels just different enough.
It's not aiming to be a perfect simulation, but the weight, speed and torque of each vehicle give it a personality beyond class and category.
With significantly better performance on lesser hardware than Horizon 3, more intuitive and social multiplayer features, and an ever-changing map that shifts to a new season every week, Forza Horizon 4 manages to improve on a near perfect arcade racing game.
With its regular online racing leagues and meticulous car and track modelling, iRacing is as close to real racing as you can get on the PC.
That also means iRacing is something you need to work up to. It has no meaningful single-player component and, with its subscription fees and live tournament scheduling, it requires significant investment.
Oh, and a force feedback wheel is quite literally required here - that's not us saying the gamepad support is poor. The game just won't let you race unless you have a wheel.
But for a certain class of sim racing fan, there is nothing that compares. The very best iRacing players often compete in real motorsport too, and make a career out of eSports sim racing.
And having first released now over a decade ago in , it's consistently stayed astride with the latest simulators each year.
Quite an achievement. You might look at it as an RPG in which you happen to be a racing driver. As for polish, forget about it. What this license gives its successor is an inviting championship structure with different vehicle categories and highly scalable endurance racing across treasured circuits like Paul Ricard, Spa Francorchamps and Circuit de Catalunya.
Almost a decade after the release of Trackmania 2, Ubisoft Nadeo debuted its semi-reboot of series with Trackmania The new game features some significant graphical upgrades, but the real treat is the addition of daily featured tracks, new track pieces like ice, and improved checkpointing.
Most importantly, it's a fresh start for Trackmania detached from Nadeo's strange Maniaplanet platform.
Leclerc handed three-place grid drop for Abu Dhabi for causing lap one collision Sakhir Grand Prix Perez "dreaming" but not done with F1 after maiden win Sakhir Grand Prix Sakhir Grand Prix Schumacher survives Sakhir showdown to take F2 title Formula 2 Ricciardo reveals outcome of Grosjean F1 replay talks Romain Grosjean Russell pace showed why "machine-driven" F1 needs to change - Sainz 08 december 4 comments.
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Driver Constructors. GP fans. Sure, the process of getting to the Olympics and of racing my bike for a living is going to be much harder now that my team decayed faster than the half-life of an Ununoctium atom.
But didn't I once say: nothing like a little hardship to make you stronger. Last I checked I wasn't dead. One night, when my legs were twitching after a particular grueling 6-hour ride up two mountain passes, I crawled in bed to fall asleep and began to dream a very odd dream.
In my dream I saw myself racing in the USA as a professional track cyclist. I traveled from velodrome to velodrome through the summer The USA has 24 velodromes.
Didya know that? Then, after a hard summer of racing I geared up in the autumn for the winter World Cup season, getting those points critical for the Olympics There are riders who call themselves, "Pro-Tour riders.
The spectators will come. Fixie culture is taking over metropolises faster than a hipster can chug a can of Pabst.
House approves defense bill despite Trump veto threat. America's K teachers are increasingly weary. I'm writing a persuasive essay.
Policy: Horse racing should be reformed. Economy -? Or other ways it is harmful besides to horses. Update 2: Good god people, learn to read.
Answer Save. Finley Lv 7. If there was no money in it, people wouldn't force horses to race while pumped full of drugs to keep them "sound" Horse meat goes overseas and is a delicacy in restaurants in France, etc It's regulated.
It's not. That's why it still exists. The only ones that suffer are the horses. People thrive. Danger is contextual.
If you think black and white, you will live a boring and desperate life. Rant over. For those of you haven't ridden in this area, get yer ass out there, because these roads are endlessly filled with friendliness.
Since I wanted to avoid cars, getting away from nerve-racking H which isn't actually that bad for bicyclist, but, still, fuck cars and venturing onto fire roads was my main agenda.
All I knew about NF was that it was a fire road. My lust for adventure had me assuming it would be a treacherous gravel road leading into wild lands.
Turns out, it was perfectly paved, and used to be the old Blewett Pass highway. Not wanting to take any risk, I strapped on my hatchet lest I encounter any violent bears or unicorns.
Here I am cresting ol' Blewett Pass and about to stop to put on my helmet for the steep descent, like a good role model.
Shirtless, the sun soaked my tan skin. The crisp air restored forces inside me forgotten in the city. Never once did I encounter any combustion engines.
Old Blewett Pass is my greatest discovery of late, the best road for a cyclists I have encountered since training in Big Bear Mountains prior to the Redlands Classic last March.
Can't wait for my next commute up and down this spectacular road. Forest fires in the Eagle Creek area clogged the air with a hazy grayness of smoke.
I was well ahead of schedule, yet could feel the stress of red-lights and intersections as people rushed unnecessarily through the late afternoon.
After stocking up on bacon, avocados, and raisons at the grocery store, I was antsy to get to camp. I bypassed downtown Leavenworth a trashy mockery of Bavarian architecture , by taking East Leavenworth Road.
I was back in familiar territory. For the past ten years, the Wilderness surrounding Leavenworth served as a playground for me and all my wild outdoorsy friends.
Countless adventures I've had in the jagged slabs of rocks piled into mountains peaks and ridges. As I pedaled along I noticed a large field off to my left where three or four helicopters slept.
I presumed this patch of private property had been turned into an impromptu airfield to man these forest fire fighting helicopters. I stopped to stare at the glittering red of these magnificent machines.
The sun was quickly setting, so I stepped on the pedals. Around the bend where the road turned due West, just before the road dumped me into Icicle Road, I noticed a spattering of colors.
The array of shimmering fabric was a temporary tent camp for troops of Forest Fire Fighters recruited from all over the region to fight the local fires.
Setting up camp could wait. I rolled up and waved to a stocky fellow with strong arms and a trimmed beard.
I gave him a big manly hand shake. His name was Lance, a veteran forest fighter of twenty years. Ever since I was a child, I've had a thing for fire fighters.
My mother and father were once both fire fighters. They actually met in the fire department when they volunteered there as teenagers. Two of my Uncles are currently city fire fighters in the Seattle ares.
My third Uncle, who died from cancer a few years ago, had been both a Ranger and a forest fire fighter. At one point in my life I had given forest fire fighting serious thought.
When you start out, you are a Hot-shot, which is the first line of defense, a crew of badass mountainy men who are hauled to the front line of the fire in army-like off-road vehicles.
They unload and hike straight to the heat and dig trenches and clear undergrowth with pulaskis and shovels over hours of grueling work and tireless muscles to prevent fires from spreading.
If you want to take your adrenaline lifestyle up a notch, then you graduate to being a Heli-rappeller, who are essentially Hot-shots who rappel out of Helicopters to access fires too remote to truck or hike into.
Then, there are the legendary Smoke-jumpers, the Navy Seals of forest fighting who parachute out of airplanes to access the most difficult terrain that even helicopters can't get close too.
Ultimately, I chose a different path in life, yet this doesn't undermine my deep respect for the rare personalities who pursue this line of work.
A hearty talk with Lance erased any longing I may have had for human contact from my lonely hours on the bike. We talked for a good hour before I waved my goodbyes and pushed onward for the last five miles of my journey.
There the same boulders and trees I recognized like faces at a dinner party stood as patient friends awaiting my eventual return.
Against my better judgement, I stripped off all my clothes and plunged my grime covered naked body into the knife sharp cold of the River.
After the initial shock sets in, the frigid waters turn into a pleasurable burn tensing all the weariness out of my weary-happy legs. So, I grabbed my headlamp and hatchet and hiked up the trails.
They were beautiful and held valiantly strong. My sweat equity prevailed, yet again Yes, you have the full moon to thank for this blog post My only thought was: coffee.
A few miles down yonder road is another favorite cafe, O'Grady's at the Sleeping Lady lodge. There, just like two years ago, I would spend every morning sipping strong coffee, answering emails, keeping up with a responsible life, and brainstorming crazy ideas for the future.
The real work wouldn't happen until later this Autumn after my race season officially ended stay tuned. I planned on having plenty of free time to roam the cliff-sides, clamber up trees, and hop along the river-bed rocks for many playful hours guided by a warm sun and fitful clouds spraying occasional specks of refreshing rain.
The type of weather where all I wore was my bare feet, no shirt I really don't like wearing shirts , and an old ratty pair of cut-off jeans.
My solitude came to a welcome halt when Andy and his parents, Scott and Jenny, joined me for a weekend spent grilling dinners under the faint stars, fishing in the heat of the day, exploring local mountain bike trails on my road bike , and bonding the way life-long friends do.
I was wasting precious daylight. There were roads to explore and here I was staring at an iphone an iphone5 because I ball hard like that procrastinating my daily goals.
An hour later than I wanted to leave the cafe, I finally started heading back to camp. Then, another distraction appeared. They were super friendly, and I savor meeting locals and their local knowledge, so I hung out and chatted.
Way behind schedule, but not stressing since my schedule was: ride my bike on gravel , I was on my way back up the Icicle.
A mile away from my turn off to the camp, a white SUV slows down and pulls over. I pay it no mind. Probably a group of rock-climbers out for the day.
I pedal on and noticed a weird feeling in my stomach, a recognition of unrecognized energy. I look back to the SUV. The occupants throw the doors open and out pops my giant 6'8" Uncle Paul, and my Aunt Shari full of big beaming booming smiles and hugs.
An adventurous couple, they were also out exploring back country roads. Synchronicity occurs more often when you open yourself to possibilities. Andy and his family had left, leaving me back to the comfort of my lone wolf ways.
On the morning of my last full day before heading back to Seattle, I sat back at O'Grady's cafe guzzling coffee and scouring maps to find some true Wilderness roads to roam.
I sketched out a basic route, then muttered aloud, to hell with it , and decided I would just go explore as deep as I could go and when I had gone too far I would simply backtrack and follow my way out of the mountains.
Armed with two water bottles and three giant cookies, I hopped on my bike and cruised up the Chumstick highway, took a right on Eagle Creek road and pedaled up and up the climbing road, pedaling past miles and miles of burnt hillsides, the smoldering scars of the recent forest fires that had been quelled by rain showers in the night.
Eventually, the paved road ended and turned to gravel and climbed steeper until I was stomping out of the saddle in my 36x28 hammering my pedals at 30rpm, my entire body in rigid focus, teetering on the verge of not-moving.
Any careless movement would result in a loss of traction which would cause me to unclip and topple over.
I had no idea how long this insane road would climb up for, but I could see the trees were thinning and I seemed to be nearing the top.
In the distance I heard a faint and strange rumble. Moments later, an old rusted blue pick-up truck loaded with cords of freshly chainsawed rolls of firewood bumbled to a halt.
Two friendly old men stared at me in disbelief. This was the sign I was looking for. My aimless exploration now had a distinct goal.
A few hours later, covered in a thick layer of dusty sweat, I arrived at the historically beautiful Sugarloaf fire lookout.
A few minutes after my arrival, clouds swirled down low and unleashed a frigid rain that only added to the exhilaration I felt inside the wild lands of my spirit.
I was greeted by the kind smile of Ranger Jim the same name of my late Uncle Jim, Ranger Jim, who had died after living a full life of questioning and searching.
Uncle Jim, you are here and I know this. Mad respect to you and your rebellious ways. You had guts. Ranger Jim and his grandson, Spencer, ushered me out of the rain and into the fire lookout.
Stunned, I sat drop-jawed. Here I was, in a fire lookout. I had always imagined what they must be like with their wood stoves and wind battered wood beams.
And here, by sheer synchronicity, I sat with a degree view of a Wilderness my soul may one day die in. It took me over five hours to ascend the 30miles to get here.
The way down was a different story. My years of handling a road bike for a living culminated in a calculated reckless descent back down the gravel fire roads, hitting 40mph at times, drifting through corners like I was dancing on a grease-lighting dance floor.
Shimmy and shake and whoop-whoop I laughed and screamed and boogied down never once second guessing the speeds my skinny tires spun.