They exist in a world beyond ours. Where man and machine become one. 60 years since the odyssey had started, and the age of the racing machine had begun. Decades fallowed of emotions pushed to limites, in the pursuit of the acclaimed number one. But it takes on the blink of the eye for the perfect drive to become undone. In the beginning their fame was only whispered by those who stole a glimpse of the chosen. But now their fame is embraced by millions as they watch the screens every day of the sun. In life there is nothing beyond them. Their spirits will endure till kingdom come. Their feats remain on the lips of their followers, as they whisper: This, is, Formula1.
I've been trying to think of a succinct way of expressing what I think of your attempt at poetry on the subject of F1, but all I can do is say is, "What the #$%#?"
super fragile ultra high tech vroomvroom cars running around in a single file line for two hours stright This, is, Formula1.