Dawn is more smashed than broken by the time we come over the crest and into the valley. Ahead of us lies another stretch of road, one that climbs like a Holmby Hills parvenu to the distant ridge in a sawtooth oscillation of metronomic vacillation, between hairpin bends that bitch-slap it from zig to zag and back to zig. And the first is getting closer, rushing toward the Lambo’s windshield like we’re seeing it both in slow motion and fast forward at the same time. READ MORE ››
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