Poetry In Motion

I wonder what 8,250 RPM looks like in the hand-built 5.2L V8 — nicknamed Voodoo for its dark magic, menacing and intoxicating allure.

I know what it feels like, sounds like. The heart-pounding, adrenaline-rush of a roaring beast unleashed.

Wicked as a banshee in heat.

That quivering, giddy feeling rushes through your veins as she hustles you into the forbidden, uninhabited regions of triple-digit MPH.

But if we could see inside, at the vitals of this ferocious, naturally aspirated, savage hoodoo heathen, what would her 8,250 RPM look like?

Injectors spitting volcanic toxin, like the angry lashing tongue of a venomous serpent.

The explosive energy and hellish brilliance of internal combustion up close and demonically frightful.

Its crazy flat-plane crankshaft revving at bedazzling revolutions, its pistons pounding with punishing force, its dual cams rocking their resiling valves.

Is there a sharp definition to this dinosaur feasting mechanical monster churning eighty-two-fifty to the naked eye? Or would it appear as a spellbinding blur on the precipitous verge of disintegration, bracing to fly apart?


How these mechanical marvels hold together is an engineered feat.


Feature image from Ford Authority

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