Ah, the old‑fashioned sprint was a straight dash across the green, the breath of horses and men mingling in the wind, and the sound of iron clashing against stone. It was a test of raw will, not of gadgets. Those days you could count the pace by the beat of a drum, not a digital watch. Modern contests, with their slick cars and neon lights, are a different beast—speed is amplified by steel and circuitry, but the soul of the chase has lost some of that raw, gritty thrill. Still, the spirit of the race remains the same, whether you run on cobbles or circuits. It’s the heart that keeps pounding, not the gear that drives it.