It’s not just quiet, it’s deathly solemn. In the distant surrounds, leafless trees sway gently amidst subtle winds, and though the immediate path retains few obstacles, not all is completely silent.
Every once in a while, the peace is disturbed by the clang of dropped spanners and machine gun ratcheting wheelguns. With only a solitary car circling, the calm is only occasionally broken.
Come 10.15 am, more runners join in and the noise becomes even more intense, as the odd roar grows to an explosive crescendo of power in a matter of moments, yet the sonic punishment doesn’t last too long.
Red flag. Someone’s binned it and soon the roar of engines descends into a whimper. A cut of power and soon silence swallows the pitlane.
In these clean and open garages, there are hopes and desires. For several young things, this is a temporary stop off on the way to greater things. For others it will be the bump where aspiring racing careers grind to a halt.