Sing. Sing your note,
That sonorous, twin-cam tune that makes all of my kind—
That makes all of our hearts beat that much harder.
Let me fling you around.
Show me that dance that you showed Ayrton at Suzuka,
That only your once-bauxite monocoque could do.
Let me experience that time when everything was free.
When everything gifted to us by Soichiro rode on wishbones—
That time before Imola, which once you wore, put to rest our Becco.
You, humble, excuseless wonder,
Shamed those never truly perfected at Fiorano,
Those that your creator called dinosaurs
And which were awestruck by your heritage and glamour.
Your pop-up face, your loose hug . . .
O! how you willingly respond to all that I do to you . . .
All reminiscent of an analogue time,
When EPS and other nonsense were eschewed—
All for purity’s and simplicity’s sake, which for 15 glorious years
You unapologetically maintained.
I need to experience that time that I could never experience,
But that so many others like me loved,
When the Rising Sun endowed upon the world
Integras and Legends, Supras and Celicas, Skylines and Zeds.
Even your name—
Marked by Japanese hyperbole and American promise—
NSX, they chant, when you were that one they aspired to—
Those too-fast, too-furious ones,
Who I could have been if not for fate,
And for the cruel hand of chance that birthed me 18 years too late.
I would this were an analogue era,
One gone but which will never be forgotten,
One marked by the golden age of Yashima.
And that is why I need you, my aluminium marvel:
You are my life’s goal—
You are the zenith of a time
That I could never experience;
You are all that I want.
And that is why, among fellow petrolheads,
But especially in my mind,
No three letters hold more gravitas than yours.
You are the best of all of your kind
That we appreciated too little
During a much more analogue time.