I headed north out of Atlanta for a couple of hours, deep into rural Georgia, heading towards Tennessee. The roads here are of a certain kind: sufficiently fast and flowing for their endless curves to be taken simply by applying a little pressure to one or other side of the wheel. It barely moves at all.
But danger lies this way. These roads may be fast, but they are not open: they are lined by the kind of trees you suspect would make a concrete outhouse seem quite forgiving by comparison, should an unscheduled interaction occur. Today it is also wet. So very, very wet. Water hoses from graphite skies. The roads drain well, despite seemingly lacking that pronounced crown you often find in Britain, but there is so much liquid leaching out of the hills you might come across a small torrent almost anywhere, simply as it makes its way to somewhere else.
Here a car you might consider highly entertaining in almost any other time and place becomes at best a bore, at worst a liability. I cannot tell you how much I’d not like to be driving my Caterham today. Today is not for hooning around, leaning on the brakes until you hear the tyres sing, poking the back out simply because you can. Today requires a different kind of driving.
